knightsdeath - Tumblr blog

[knightsdeath]

@florafate​.

𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐜𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐚  𝐜𝐚𝐧  𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲  𝐠𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞.  of  course,  not  wanting  to  help  her  out  with  buying  a  few  flowers.  "  oh  well,  plenty  more  fish  in  the  sea  then  ~!  who  knows  ..  maybe  someday  you’ll  buy  a  flower  from  me.  ”  she  would  reiterate.

so  petty,  she  thinks  with  his  pulling  away  rather  evident.  he  really  is  a  funny  one.  how  long  will  he  be  able  to  keep  up  this  act,  she  wonders.  “  well,  yea  ..  people  do  buy  them.  sometimes  lots  of  them  to  take  home.  my  flowers  are  different  —  i  guess  ..  they’re  kinda  special  ?  maybe  because  they  are  grown  in  sacred  places.  that  always  makes  things  a  little  more  special,  right  ?  ”  but  she  knows  not  as  to  why  she  is  able  to  make  flowers  grow  and  would  rather  not  find  out.  why  her  ?  it’s  been  a  question  tucked  away  for  so  long.  “  yeeeep.  that’s  gotta  be  it  —  ”  

he  seems  really  confused,  so  she  will  drop  her  plans  to  pick  up  the  wagon  right  then  and  once  more  approach  him.  “  really.  ”  she  says  with  a  soft  and  rather  inviting  grin.  with  his  experience  in  being  disgusted  with  everything,  she  is  certain  that  this  will  only  make  him  feel  more  fickle;  but  she  will  not  give  up.  no  matter  how  hard  he  tries  to  pull  away.  “  do  you  think  the  ribbons  are  too  much  ?  thought  it  was  a  nice  touch  ..  ”  she  is  ready  for  the  complaints,  expecting  it  with  open  arms.

        this must be a nightmare of some sort ——— though, honestly, his mind can’t possibly be capable of coming up with a character like her. there’s a sense of familiarity in her mannerisms and words, far off as though trying to peer at someone across a wide open field, covered in snow. so : not a nightmare, but something taken out of his immensely long list of SOCIAL CONUNDRUMS HE INHERENTLY DOES NOT ENJOY. not that felix enjoys any social conundrums to begin with.

        ❝ and people delude themselves into thinking that, ❞ it’s less a question and more a flat statement. people are foolish and fickle things, after all / they’ll buy into anything and everything if it gives them a fleeting sense of security. just look at the entirety of the concept of RELIGION. just look at the whole existence of humankind, absurd to the last.

        his jaw sets when she smiles at him and he rolls his eyes up / and to the side / she’s too bright to look at / it’s hard to look at people, besides. ❝ everything is too much, ❞ from the flowers to the ribbons to this woman, herself, and he makes a bitten off, irritated noise as he brushes past her and towards the wagon, reluctance in every step. but he takes the wagon in hand, anyways, nose wrinkling automatically at the overly—strong smell of flowers. ❝ this better not be far. ❞

[knightsdeath]

@accrsed : it is rare to see her unkempt, hair down and ruffled, sticking up at odd angles- but she stands as such in the light of (barely) morning, head tipping forward, eyes fluttering. the birdsong is yet to begin, leaving in its wake blissful silence, punctuated by the quiet yet distinct sounds of movement- his? her own? she cannot be certain. she cannot succumb to sleep either, (couldn't, even if she wished to) standing vigil over their kitchen counter as she is, tea brewing just in front of her- two mugs, as is usual. the scent of jasmine permeates the kitchen, will soon spread further; she spares a brief glance through half-lidded eyes (drooping lower; she's yet to awaken fully at this hour) toward the doorway, though doesn't bother to linger. instead, she simply breathes- in, and out- and murmurs a quiet "good morning" to the even quieter room (and to herself, a gentle reminder- she is here.)

        the world is quiet in the early hours of the morning, when the sun hasn’t quite risen and the sky is dusted in light ——— and silent. so silent he can hear the wind whispering, the quiet beating of his half—ravaged heart, can feel each and every ache of his body seeming to protest at life, itself / and too bad, because there’s still breath in his lungs and a path to walk, even if he cannot see ahead of the twists and turns. it’s simpler, here, at this time, with less chaos and noise pressing in at all sides, where he can stand among the morning dewy mist and go through his stances, his steps, his grips : easy as breathing.

        he gathers the frosted fragments of himself, here, beneath the witness of the sky and the fading stars and the departing moon and the rising sun.

        moments pass / or perhaps hours / or days / or years. archimedes flies high overhead, awaiting the call to return to him, and felix pauses in his stance and tilts his head back and breathes. breathes. blood in his veins and muscle pulling on bone and felix fraldarius pieces himself back together : shard by shard.

        and whistles a sharp note, and returns.

        ( archimedes shouts and continues on / heedless of his master’s cry, and felix doesn’t bother pressing the point ——— he’s always preferred her, anyways, and if determined he’ll ignore felix all day long. )

        the door is ajar and he pushes his way back inside. the smell of jasmine greets him and he unfastens his sword from his belt, hanging it by the door, movements steady and unfaltering and well—learned, all but innate to the creaking of his bones and the early morning quiet that envelops the pair of them with stark absolution. marianne looks like a fragment of morning light : ephemeral and seemingly—fading, yet persistent and present and here. he glances at her briefly, there and gone / not for reassurance that she is there but simply to look at her. no haunting ghost nor lingering spectre, simply her, standing with mugs of jasmine tea.

        felix plucks three oranges from the bowl on the table, balancing two in one hand and holding one in the other, and stands at the counter across from her. silence settles between them / not uncomfortable but a constant companion for the pair of them who’ve forged whole existences out of untouched silence / and he digs his thumb into the skin of an orange. citrus permeates the air as he pulls the skin back methodically, moving in a spiral from the top down, skin and pith falling away.

        everything is quiet, here. simpler. no demands or expectations, simply orange peel falling to the counter. he thinks of balmy summer days, caught in flux with an eternal winter. neither of them are summer children, he thinks, but the flux ( ... ) there they could exist.

        he peels one and then another and she says good morning as he pulls at the top of the third, and he sits with those words and that soft, sleep—worn, morning tone as he peels this final orange. the peel splits and he lets it fall, pries the orange apart from the top with his thumbs, and lines up the oranges between them.

       ❝ morning, ❞ more than a murmur, unavoidably brusque as always, yet still sleep—rough, settled deep in his chest. sunlight begins to creep into the room, stretching its way sleepily across the floor. birdsong begins. he can hear the quiet meow of the cat and the far off shrieks of archimedes and he reaches for a mug of tea / she reaches for the peeled orange slices. everything is simpler, here : without expectation nor call nor cause. a clock ticking on, the world shifting around them, and he thinks of the violence of a blade in his hand and the heft of an orange and his palm itches ——— the sun is rising and with it comes noise, different from nighttime noise, demanding and frenetic and lingering. birdsong like war—song, vivid enough to incite bloodshed.

        he looks to her / catches her eye / and takes a sip of tea.

        i am here. we are here.

[knightsdeath]

gainsborro​.

oh,  how  nice  !  he  isn’t  even  putting  up  a  fight.  𝐡𝐞  𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲  𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬  𝐡𝐞𝐫,  already  !  “  ahh  yes  !  ”  the  flower  girl,  beams.  she  is  almost  bouncing  with  enthusiasm  at  the  mention  further  of  a  flower  wagon.  “  my  flower  wagon  is  really  important  ..  you  know,  i  really  care  about  flowers  —  and  flowers  make  people  smile.  a  lot  of  people  around  here  seem  to  really  appreciate  it,  even  though  they  aren’t  like  ..  a  luxury  item  or  anything.  back  home,  my  flowers  are.  ”  she  is  turning  to  walk  backwards  and  face  him,  grinning  for  a  moment  before  resorting  to  just  a  simple  smile.  “  so,  basically  —  i  guess  you  can  kinda  call  me  a  𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠  𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫  𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭.  i  travel  all  around  with  hopes  to  bring  smiles.  it  ..  kinda  stems  from  a  silly  little  hobby  to  something  more.  ”  

it  is  then  that  she  realized  how  rude  she  was  being.  no  introduction  ?  oh  my  !  a  slight  gasp  erupts  from  her  lips,  “  i’m  sorry  !  sometimes  i  get  a  little  distracted.  aerith  —  by  the  way.  i  promise  that  by  the  end  of  the  day,  you’ll  wanna  buy  all  my  flowers  !  guaranteed  !  ”  a  thumbs  up  is  given  before  her  hand  clasp  together.  exiting  the  church  has  her  to  turn  around  again  and  face  ahead.  the  light  shines  upon  them.  so  bright.  she  is  holding  a  hand  above  her  eyes  briefly.  “  alright  ~!  ”  she  says  in  a  boisterous  tone,  approaching  the  other  and  grabbing  his  hand  without  further  ado  to  rush  onward.  “  this  way  !  ”  she  says,  leading  him  to  a  small  flower  wagon  full  of  vibrant  blooms  and  a  few  ribbons  on  it’s  exterior.  

        flowers? he finds himself confounded by the thought alone. do people really want something as frivolous as flowers that they’re willing to purchase them with legitimate currency? when there are flowers to be found in nature if you would just walk around? though, he supposes, it’s rather difficult to locate them and it could arguably be a COMMODITY. but there are better things to spend money on, isn’t there? supplies and food and weapons and supplies. he couldn’t imagine being so flippant with coin ——— but then, he’s been told he’s PRACTICAL TO A FAULT, and anti—dreamer, judgmental and cold and dismissive.

        but ( ... ) flowers? ❝ and people... buy them? ❞ disbelief evident as ever.

        he tucks the name aerith away in his mind / bound to be forgotten but not quite / settled into the fringes of his awareness, ❝ i won’t want to buy any, ❞ he says automatically, because it’s the truth, but then his hand is being grabbed and his hackles start to raise ——— TOUCH FROM SOMEONE UNKNOWN IS NEAR ALWAYS UNAPPRECIATED, but he’s being dragged after her, a thoroughly irate expression on his face. when they stop he pulls his hand sharply from her grasp, teeth gritting as he looks over her / at the damn wagon / and it’s ribbons. ❝ really? ❞ this woman couldn’t possibly be real.

[knightsdeath]

@yeshens​ : “is fighting all you have any interest in doing?” he doesn’t mean to sound abrasive, truly, but — isn’t it the truth? in their brief acquaintance, ferdinand has not seen felix do anything with the same sort of fervor as he possesses when sparring. he’s determined to find something, nonetheless. “come now, surely there are other things in life that have caught your interest! tea, for example, in its many variations and depths—” ferdinand doesn’t have to wait for felix to respond with his characteristic dismissal before dismissing it himself, his mind barely able to conjure up the image of felix drinking tea amidst a garden of flowers. (even if it is a humorous image that he files away for later consideration.) “— hm, no, i did not think so. something more exciting, perhaps...? i recall there being a fireworks show scheduled in town for the new years — that is, tonight — would you accompany me to view it? i promise not to bother you — for, shall we say, a month? — should you agree.”

        ❝   no,   ❞   is his immediate answer, though ferdinand evidently thinks it’s all good and well to continue prattling on, and felix finds himself rolling his eyes, tilting his head back, gazing at the sky above. fighting isn’t all he has interest in doing ——— there are a number of other things, but they are all secondary, tertiary, et cetera to fighting. he wishes to improve himself and better himself such that he will be a scourge upon the battlefield and, thus, prevent unnecessary losses, to become strong enough to / well. it’s neither here nor there. to TRULY IMPROVE UPON YOURSELF time, dedication, and effort must be put towards it. and, if felix has taken that to an extreme, then who does that possibly impact? who can that feasibly harm? he hardly knows how to do anything without the full force of his efforts ( and how considerable that is when taken into account, how powerful the sheer force of his determination ) and training falls underneath that category / and maybe even taken beyond.

        so why does ferdinand von aegir care so damn much about what he does in his free time? as if felix has free time to spare.

        the proposal of TEA is enough to make felix’s eyebrow raise in disbelief, and he watches as ferdinand all but physically dismisses the idea as preposterous, which it very well is. felix can barely stand meals in the presence of other people, let alone tea time which comes with the expectation of even more conversation. and fireworks? the suggestion seems so very random that felix simply stares at a point just over ferdinand’s shoulder for a moment / before the other key part of that sentence occurs to him : NEW YEARS. he hadn’t even known, time makes fools of them all, wary and unaware and passing eternally.

        ( here, a faded half—ruined memory : a gloved hand clasped in another’s, warm furs cloaking him, the voice of his dear brother humming in his ear, the laughter of darling mother ringing, the merriment of dread father carrying. and for the boy? the boy with a whole heart, un—frostbitten and tender like a mother’s kiss on your forehead? he looks to the night sky, eyes wide and luminous beneath the bursting of lights and he thinks / pretty, pretty like ——— )

        his jaw works and half of him, or more perhaps, compulsively wants to deny the request. winter’s chill rests on his tongue and his gaze flits over ferdinand’s face for a moment, there and gone again. the offer is genuine, borderline earnest, and it sits strangely in his chest. intrusive and unwelcome and unwieldy.   ❝   fine. i’ll go,   ❞   like drawing icicles from his chest, reluctant but still yet giving, a slight wrinkle to his nose, as if the proceedings are repulsive when he, himself, is saying yes.   ❝   if you don’t talk when we spar. and don’t bother me,   ❞   always have to make your terms crystal clear, huh, fraldarius?

        one night won’t kill him. though he may attack ferdinand, depending.

[knightsdeath]

heartsruin​.

sylvain understood plenty / a brilliant man who loved nothing more than to play the fool. there was little that managed to make it’s way past him, spending too much time simply watching the world play out. even as a child, sylvain would dissect his surroundings; the way dimitri would trail after edelgard, even as children / the way miklan would poison their food and destroy their bond and would watch sylvain with unfiltered hatred in his eyes / the way felix would reach out to latch onto his hand and never let him go, not ever even consider the idea of letting sylvain go ( except he did, once. twice. countless times in their academy days but no, that’s not fair. sylvain had let go first, hadn’t he? but even so, here they are. )

sylvain was a smart man and sylvain was an awful man / he sees the way felix’s jaw clenches at his plea and that’s all it took for him to know he’d win this round. there’s not a hint of recognition on his features though, staying as wounded as needed to until felix finally —— bent. it was low and it was dirty but felix was more stubborn than anything else ( nobody clung to life more than felix and yet, sylvain was fearful than most )  and sylvain knew this was the only strategy that allows for victory. a genuinely smile blossoms as relief floods the body and at least for tonight, felix would rest. tomorrow would be another fight to battle but today? sylvain can rest easily knowing felix would be fine. he was a man of his word, and in this sylvain had no doubt. 

❛  thank you.  ❜ and this was genuine too, a response from a heart that has been stripped bare and peeled back until the muscle was red and raw and bleeding ( just for felix / only for felix — ) he moves back only to make better accommodations for felix; a fluff of the pillow, a fix of the blankets, a caress of the cheek. you are human, my love. that is the unfortunate truth. ❛  are you hungry? i’ve told the nurses i’ll be the one in charge of taking care of you, so don’t feel shy about making selfish demands.  ❜ and this is how sylvain settles back into their normal — with a playful string of words and a childish smile / this is how sylvain shows that everything will be okay.

        felix has been manipulated and he knows it ——— sylvain is highly intelligent and aware of people, the way they function, the ways in which they work. how to make them do exactly what he wants : it’s one of sylvain’s talents, and felix knows objectively he is the easiest to manipulate among them all. he has been called predictable outside of battle often enough that he knows there is a shade of truth to it. and there is no one who knows him even half as well as sylvain does / not even a fration thereof. sylvain knows him, the core of him, the very heart of him, the jagged edges and the permafrost walls, every last piece and shard that creates the essential SELF. he has taken time to learn beyond what was innate and what laid beneath and it was baring the very heart of himself, the half—eaten heart, tender like a bruise, tender like sylvain’s mouth against his throat, teeth pressing in.

        what is most frustrating? being manipulated or allowing himself to be manipulated? to know that sylvain is felix’s GREATEST WEAKNESS and they both know it well, and sylvain is willing to use this against him, ruthless and heart—full. this is out of love, he thinks / he knows / he is confident in his read of sylvain but sometimes he is as unreadable as the vast majority of the world. loving cruelty shifts and simply genuine love remains and felix thinks that were it anyone else he would feel unsettled by this / off balance by this / on edge by this change.

        but this is sylvain.

        he makes a quiet, irritated noise ( not unlike a tch ) at the thank you and wants to make a comment about how the genuineness of it made him nauseous, but instead he leans into the hand brushing against his face, feeling worn and half—ashamed of himself and raw. i could eat the world raw, i could eat you whole. ❝ they’re allowing you to care for patients? times truly are desperate, ❞ he aims for derisive but his voice is thin and he feels wan, still trying to shed the irritation clinging to his skin like a too tight cloak fasted around his neck, cutting in. ❝ just ——— come here, ❞ he reaches out / snags onto the hem of sylvain’s sleeve / mouth thinned and set / not quite looking at him but / always always always asking him to stay, stay, don’t leave me, stop leaving me. felix thinks of himself in the days after dear darling dead brother’s death wishing desperately for sylvain ( and ingrid and di ——— stop ) and shattering inside, steadily. how revolting.

[knightsdeath]

gainsborro​.

“  𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥,  𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐱  !  it’s  nice  to  meet  you.  guess  sometimes  i  can  get  a  little  carried  away.  ”  her  hands  come  to  finally  settle  in  front  of  her,  leaning  towards  him  rather  playfully.  personal  space  seemingly  nonexistent  to  aerith.  she  will  examine  him,  briefly  before  leaning  away  and  tapping  at  her  chin.“  hmm  ..  maybe  you  smile  in  secret.  i’m  sure  there  is  something  that  makes  you  happy  that  you  haven’t  ..  quite  ..  told  me  yet.  i  mean,  we  did  after  all  j̲u̲s̲t̲  ̲m̲e̲e̲t̲.̲  do  you  mind  helping  me  with  something  ?  ”  she  is  already  leading  the  way.  “  i  bet  you  are  eager  to  help  a  girl  in  need,  since  ..  well  ..  you  aren’t  grumpy  and  all  !  right  ?  ”  now  how  could  he  possibly  say  no  ?  she’s  certain  she  has  C̲R̲A̲C̲K̲E̲D̲  ̲T̲H̲E̲  ̲C̲O̲D̲E̲.̲

the  more  he  protests,  the  more  she  will  find  more  reason  to  not  give  up  on  the  made  up  ideals  of  their  relationship.  something  about  him  reminds  her  of  home.  “  i’ll  do  all  the  talking,  you  don’t  have  to  worry  about  a  thing  !  i  do  have  a  pretty  large  flower  wagon  outside  of  the  church  ..  and  just  to  be  honest,  it’s  a  reaallll  hassle  to  push  all  by  myself.  not  that  i  can’t  do  it  and  all,  but  ..  ”

        she leans towards / he leans away ——— more of an unconscious movement than anything, but people being in his personal space tends to make him ( ... ) uncomfortable is, perhaps, the best word for it. his nose wrinkles at her wondering, so brazenly and irritatingly, that surely he smiles in private. HE SMILES, just not often, because what use is there in smiling lest there’s a reason to smile? and even then ——— ❝ and you are? ❞ if he sounds rude, it’s because he intends to be. she starts to walk away and he deeply, seriously considering turning and walking in the opposite direction. considers it, and begins to turn away, but pauses for half of a second. just long enough that he sighs, feeling caught.

        there’s no eagerness to help a so—called girl in need, but a finite and concrete goal is something to fill his time with, if nothing else.

        ❝ fine, because i have time i’ll help you, ❞ it feels like letting her win, which sours against the back of his tongue, but surely that’s an irrational feeling. surely. winning and losing combat is absolute and concrete. winning and losing CONVERSATIONS is entirely up to interpretation ( bold, coming from someone who so frequently loses them. it’s almost like the lack of charm leaves him at a disadvantage. ) ❝ ... a flower wagon? ❞ he repeats, because the idea frankly sounds preposterous.

[knightsdeath]

yeshens​.

he stares. “i did not mean to imply there would be no observation involved,” ferdinand points out. “but see, while we may control only ourselves, i have the better view of your movement, and vice versa.” was talking to felix always so much like pulling teeth? ferdinand is aware that he himself isn’t the easiest person to talk to, either, with the way his mind snags on minor details and gets lost in the technicalities of things, but where ferdinand sought understanding first, felix had already defaulted to aggression.

unfortunately for ferdinand, felix’s aggression is a thing of beauty. he watches as the swordsman takes his place, the easy way with which he handles his sword — no, he can’t allow himself to get distracted now. ferdinand raises his lance, taking a battle stance in preparation for felix’s assault.

but he can’t resist one last quip. “it simply seems more conducive if i pointed out any flaws in your form, rather than wait for you to discover it yourself.”

        aggression is simply a facet of the whole. it is not feigned nor falsified, it is simply a default for him, both learned and innate. he has made himself unassailable, and always has been, irregardless of childhood, being brought so easily to tears, a boy long dead and gone. ( ? ) though there are times when he speaks that it seems to echo in his mind, becoming warped and unraveled and deeper and different and similar to ——— ferdinand and the others who wish to speak to him and to draw him into inane conversations, as if playing a game or trying to discover what lies deeper, are simply wasting their time, as far as felix is concerned.

        and still they try. or, well, ferdinand tries : most people with common sense give up after some time, and he wonders if it’s a bizarre quirk of the empire.

        HE  ROLLS HIS EYES, settling into his customary stance, shoulders loose and feet light.   ❝   do what you want, as long as you fight back,   ❞   begrudgingly he can admit, entirely to himself, that there’s some point in delivering criticism to each other, but ferdinand said it himself : felix would have discovered it eventually. he discards the thought with a small jerk of his head, lifts his blade, and within one breath and the next darts forward / aggressive as always.

[knightsdeath]

blaimed​.

          if no better explanation can be offered, the simple fact is that watching felix in his comfort place is mesmerizing. he has recreated swordsmanship in an art form of his own, perfected it right down to every angle of his blade, and trusts his own body so completely. dedication is evident in the precision of his movements, in the stability and focus of his gaze. even as the years pass felix remains as vigilant as ever, and dimitri will not soon cease to admire his efforts.

and yet, there is always something expectedly unexpected about the scathing countenance with which felix regards him.

          “ no… my shoulder has been getting stiff again, and no one is better than you to work it out. ”

          and the truth he does speak, with more earnestness than timidity in the full reach of his voice. despite his request to spar, dimitri carries neither sword nor lance - let alone armor. he appears before felix with the bare minimum — the closest to his truest self, his truest heart. cotton shirt hangs loosely from his broad shoulders, but still tucked neatly into black trousers. golden hair is tied back into an unruly half-ponytail, and he carries two towels in his right hand.

          “ that is … if it’s amenable to you. ”

        there is something unsettled, misplaced. a beast wearing a man’s skin / a man wearing a beast’s mane : is there any difference? yes and no. yes and no, and somewhere in between lies a breaking point. BOAR KING stands there, furs shed claws shed fangs shed monster lingering, ever lurking, torn down to what appears to be the most benign and fragile fragments of the self. a lie, of course : there is no part of dimitri blaiddyd which is fragile nor mild, there is only brutal strength and destruction set into his skin ——— IT’S ALL FELIX CAN SEE.

        no wide—eyed boy, no easy laughter, no innocent light in that remaining eye. only ghosts and corpses and devastation resting heavy on his shoulders. sickening.

        revolting, the earnestness with which he speaks with the mouth of a man and perhaps there are still fangs in that mouth, many layered and seeking to maim. ❝ you’re bothering me for that? ❞ disdain resonates in his tone, frigid, trapped in the heart of a blizzard bright as day, where no light may penetrate. the blade in his hand shifts / and he considers turning away without another word / but in the end if dimitri is a fool, requesting asinine things and watching from afar and un—layered and beast snarling in his chest and troublesome—troubling, felix is a fool as well.

        ❝ fine, ❞ mono—syllabic and still cutting / callous / cruel. their eyes do not meet ( he doesn’t dare look to dimitri directly ) but offers no denial, no back turned, simply irritation, baring its teeth.

[knightsdeath]

yeshens​.

he had, in fact, been there to talk. there was conversation to be found in most anything, and was it not a form of joy to have company you could confide in? ferdinand had always optimistically held on to that belief, but — perhaps it wasn’t the case for everyone, and felix in particular, or so it seemed. ferdinand closes his mouth on command.

and then opens it again in indignance at falling into a trap felix had likely not even laid intentionally. huffing a little under his breath, ferdinand picks his weapon up and steps onto the training ground. if this was what it takes… “we could spar and talk, after. how else are we supposed to improve, if not by exchanging opinions?”

        ugh ——— it would figure that things cannot be so simple or straightforward. people always wanted to complicate things with words and conversation when things get lots in translation, when it’s a waste of breath, a waste of time. it’s almost not even worth it to train with ferdinand, but felix can’t deny his skill with a lance, and to become the best you must always continuously challenge yourself.   ❝   by observing,   ❞   said at length, irritation dripping from every syllable.

        he twists his sword easily in his hand, graceful and arcing as he turns, begins to walk to the other side of the training ground, sunlight glinting off metal and settling across the grounds.   ❝   you have eyes, last i checked,   ❞   learning is most efficient when you simply do it, after all. for felix, at the very least, and he’s always had little patience for the meticulous minutiae of explanations. it’s difficult, when your instructors demand you meet their eyes.

[knightsdeath]

gainsborro​.

𝐬𝐡𝐞  𝐢𝐬  𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲  𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝,  but  only  for  a  moment  will  she  maintain  shock.  she  finds  herself  giggling  seconds  later  at  such  a  response.  “  wow,  sure  are  a  tough  one,  huh  ?  do  you  always  act  like  this  ?  hmm  ..  bet  you  don’t  even  know  how  to  smile,  do  you  ?  ”  she  wants  to  help.  even  if  he  doesn’t  want  her  to.  even  if  he  continues  to  make  it  clear  that  her  advances  are  already  unwanted  and  they  have  only  just  begun  talking,  it  only  helps  her  feel  more  desire  to  stick  around.  

“  anything  can  have  some  power  to  it.  you  just  gotta  believe  in  it.  i  don’t  know  ..  maybe  i  am  actually  pretty  weird  like  you  say.  not  all  of  us  can  be  normal  after  all  ..  besides,  normal  is  boring.  ”  though,  once  upon  a  time,  that  was  all  she  desired.  to  be  normal.  her  hands  tie  behind  her,  she  is  swinging  a  little  back  and  forth  playfully.  her  smile  is  dazzling,  warmth  never  leaving  her  features.  “  so  ..  what’s  your  name  then  ?  you  ..  remind  me  a  lot  of  someone  i  know  !  he’s  really  grumpy  too.  ”

        ❝ i’m not ——— grumpy, ❞ he sounds immensely, and appropriately, affronted, as if he hasn’t been told that he’s GRUMPY before. which, he has. many, many times, in fact. in varying ways under varying circumstances. so what if he doesn’t care to mince his words nor be anywhere near amiable? a waste of time is what it is, consistently and never—endingly so, and the fact that this woman is being so ridiculous and saying he doesn’t even know how to smile and remarking that normality is boring ( figures, from someone so far from normal ——— though felix isn’t normal, either ) all with that SMILE ON HER FACE.

        his gaze tracks upwards, along the walls and to the vaulted ceilings of the cathedral, and his mouth thins, considering. what use is there in knowing his name? he should have just kept walking the moment she had spoken to him, rather than linger and waste time. ❝ felix, ❞ he says after a prolonged pause, arms crossing over his chest, feeling uncomfortably watched. this cheerful woman, these silently humming walls, and so on.

[knightsdeath]

        ❝ ——— if you’re here to talk, don’t bother, ❞ thoroughly unfriendly and utterly cutting. how in the world can he manage it? well : through absolute bitterness and a generalized resentment at the world, of course !! also, simply not caring about the minutiae of social interaction. all of it is irritating, when instead there are simpler ways to interact with people, and far more efficient ways of learning of them. ❝ spar with me or leave me alone. ❞

@yeshens​​, for ferdinand !!

[knightsdeath]

tomoge​.

felix is kind, in his own way.   [   if one may call it kindness.  she’s never quite too sure.  it should be called so,  she reasons: kindness.  something simple.  something meaningful.  clear to her.  she’s decided to call it so.   ]   he’s kind in ways that very few humans she’s come across on her travels are:  conscientious,  and mindful,  and  —  whether it be out of pointed intent or pure disinterest  —  accepting of her.  she’s no more human than the demons that cross their path to be slain  —  made even more obvious now that she’s stopped pretending to be one to fit in  —  but he’s never minded,  it seems.  there’s a kindness in that.  to her,  at least.

she falls into step at his side,  considering his words.  she’s a professor no longer,  not since her father died,  but kindness is to be repaid,  and the ashen demon pays her dues.  whatever they may be.   “   you need to be prepared to kill me,   ”   she begins,  as easy as a   ‘   how do you do?   ’   spoken at a crossroads between two neighboring doorsteps.   “   …  during our spars,  my intent is always to kill,  because the alternative means my life.  that’s how i learned to battle  —  with survival at the forefront  —  and it’s the only way i know.   ”   she’d been hired to train them as knights,  so keeping silent had been the best option,  for her father’s sake,  but that hasn’t mattered in  ⸻  years,  isn’t it?  her smile turns teasing.   

“   of course  —  ultimately  —  the aim is to not kill,  but that takes skill,  too.   ”

        pragmatism is common—ground. how they view the world may be different but at the core of it is realism, accepting the facts as they lie, not seeking out optimism nor falling into patterns of pessimism ——— in regards to battle, if nothing else. and it’s this that fostered felix’s respect for byleth, for her methods and her skill with the blade. certainly there had been a spark, something to capture his attention with the way that she held herself and how she moved in battle, but simple SHOWMANSHIP is hardly enough to keep his attention for long. it goes beyond that, further than that, and into something as simple yet tangled yet convoluted as this : she takes him as he is, at face—value, demanding nothing more or nothing less, seeing him as himself, with no ghosts nor corpses to weigh him down.

        she doesn’t judge him for his mannerisms nor brusque manner / and it feels JUVENILE to even acknowledge that as something meaningful to him / so he buries it beneath snow and frost where it will be preserved and silent.

        ❝   spoken like a true mercenary,   ❞   and there : a faint smile on his face, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. this is the approach he likes best. what use is training if there is no threat? how is skill meant to be honed and strength increased in the absence of adrenaline pumping through his body?   ❝   trust me : i give our battles my all,   ❞   the absolute and unyielding truth / when doesn’t felix speak the truth, even at the expense of others? / a revealing of this truth, too : that he could not kill her in this form. one day, perhaps. one day, certainly.

        it’s not as though he’ll stop until he achieves that goal. felix doesn’t know how.   ❝   showing off now, are you? it takes the height of skill and control not to kill your enemy ——— and you’ve avoided killing me all this time.   ❞

[knightsdeath]

gainsborro​.

“  𝐢𝐬  𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭  𝐬𝐨  ?  ”  the  girl  approaches,  tilting  her  head  a  bit  and  pausing  briefly  to  offer  him  a  sweet  smile.  “  do  you  know  how  ?  ”  she  would  finally  ask,  retiring  to  grab  her  basket  of  floras  not  far  away  on  a  bench.  once  more,  she  would  approach.  “  it’s  really  easy  ..  and  ..  it  might  make  you  feel  better  ?  even  if  you  know  ..  you  could  also  hate  it  or  something.  i  mean,  i  know  a  couple  people  who  don’t  like  praying.  i  kinda  do  it  because  ..  this  place  has  a  power  to  it  ?  does  ..  that  make  sense  or  do  i  look  crazy  ?  hehe.  ”

        ❝ you look crazy, ❞ cold as permafrost, aren’t you? a sudden blast of wint—ry air, frigid and unpleasant. a flat tone and an impassive gaze, not even bothering to so much as look at her again. his skin settles uncomfortably against his musculature, his bones ——— NO IT IS NOT KIND / NO HE IS NOT KIND, and there’s no point in acting at politeness. ❝ how does a place have power? unless it’s magical, ❞ he doesn’t think this church is magical, gaze following a fracture, and another, and another. perhaps he’s wrong. he doesn’t care either way. ❝ and who doesn’t know how to pray? ❞ he knows / he knows / he knows. once upon a time he had prayed and how long ago was that? eons ago. ages ago. lifetimes ago. this woman is odd and too—curious and ( ... ) earnest isn’t the right word for it. annoying is.

[knightsdeath]

tomoge​.

she used to find the act of waking a peaceful endeavor,  once.  once,  when sothis would rise to greet her in her dreams  —  telling her stories plucked from time and listening to her own tales of a childhood she only ever seemed to recall with any permanent clarity when distanced from the living  —  she awoke peacefully.  never painlessly  /  never languidly,  but that hardly mattered so long as it came tranquilly.  and it did.  once.

she crosses past the gates of the monastery some hours after sunrise to find him already waiting.  he never asks where she disappears off to before the day even breaks  —  none of them do,  afraid perhaps,  or cautious at least  —  and,  for now,  she finds she prefers it that way.   “   is everyone still asleep?   ”   she offers before greeting,  a subdued smile on her lips.   “   hello,  felix.  give me a few minutes to clean the blood off my blade first and i’ll be at your disposal.  go ahead.  lead the way.   ”  

        it’s easier, in the morning light of dawn stretching into daylight breaking over the sky. sleep still haunts him, or tries to, never quite succeeding ( if only because he’s become evermore adept with fleeing from its presence, and shouldn’t it bother him deeply that he runs away? you would assume it does, but here’s the trick of it : felix has been running away for lifetimes, and doesn’t know how to stop ) and everything seems simpler in this light, or perhaps it’s just that it’s clearer. mind clear / clearing / clarifying. seeking and seeking and never quite finding, but she finds him, or he finds her. one or the other.

         ❝   asleep or eating breakfast,   ❞   said as a scoff, as if it’s preposterous for people to be sleeping or eating in the morning when it’s most ideal for training, when sunlight doesn’t slant directly over the training yard, when shadows still stretch cool and gentle. he glances at her blade, blood on my blade, and feels no compulsion to ask nor inquire. what byleth does on her own time is hers, and if she doesn’t feel like sharing he has no intention of asking. sometimes things are as simple as that.   ❝   perhaps today will be the day i manage a win against you. that flourish of yours... i still have trouble predicting it.   ❞

[knightsdeath]

gainsborro​.

𝐬𝐡𝐞  𝐢𝐬  𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠  𝐮𝐩  𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲,  realization  occurring  that  she  was  not  alone  within  the  church.  this  church,  so  beautiful  and  very  much  like  her  own  back  home  has  her  quick  to  find  sanctuary  within  it.  still,  she  did  not  expect  another’s  presence  so  early.  

“  oh,  surprised  me  there  —  are  you  here  to  pray  too  ?  ”

@knightsdeath​

        ❝ ——— no, ❞ a curt and sharp and too fast response. it’s the truth ( to pray is a laughable thought, now ) delivered barbed and not unlike an attack and therefore far too harsh for the situation at hand. his frown threatens to deepen for a moment as he, quite decidedly, doesn’t bother to look at her and instead looks at one particular stone, cracked down the middle.

        ❝ just... passing through. ❞

[knightsdeath]

#𝑲𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯 ——— a highly selective felix fraldarius of fire emblem : three houses writing blog. hi, my name is mimi ( she / they, 26, queer, viet—american ) and i sometimes go by meems. this blog is heavily headcanon based, 18+, and mutuals only. low activity / slow responses. felix is a little bitch and i, regrettably, love him.

established jul 31st, 2019

other blogs : kaeya alberich, naminé, multi—muse.

google doc / aes side blog.

[knightsdeath]

@heartsruin : ❛ felix, ❜ the name was far too loud despite it whispered between tight spaces and hungry kisses, spoken more like a groan than anything else. sylvain can’t even be sure the other heard him, with the both being too engrossed in —— ah, other activities to be too aware of their surroundings. ❛ you’re getting loud, love. ❜ sylvain points out the obvious as if he wasn’t actively responsible for it / a hand on the back of felix’s head to allow for easier attacks on the skin of his neck. he leaves a trail of kisses up the lovebites left until he’s licking at felix’s mouth, grin never faltering as he whispers against his lips. ❛ we’re going to get caught if you keep making those cute little sounds. unless you — ❜ his hand moves forward / forward until he’s cupping felix’s cheek / forward until sylvain’s thumb can press against his lower lip and force open the access to his mouth. ❛ — want other people to see you like this? ❜

        ——— damn this wretched man. damn him and his stupid voice and idiotic hands and the absurd breadth of his shoulders and the foolish way he’s learned the expanse of felix’s body and committed it to single—minded memory to be able to pull out at any given moment. it’s aggravating, the deft way that sylvain can take over a kiss as if demanding that felix surrender / when they both know he fights until the very end, even when it appears that he’s long since lost. the way his hands feel on his hips / his shoulders shift beneath felix’s grasp / how their hips slot together.

        though if we were to dole out blame, felix would have to damn himself, as well / but he’s already DAMNED besides, so what does it matter if he encourages every last moment of this? sylvain isn’t the only insatiable one.

        he was just the first one to mention, oh so casually, that FOOLING AROUND IN THE CHURCH was a fun pastime of his when they were in school and. well. that wouldn’t do.

        so no, this isn’t entirely sylvain’s fault ( felix was the one who had stared at him blankly for several moments before saying six fouty—five and promptly walking away at, oh, was it midday? ) but in the here and now, felix will entirely shove the blame onto sylvain’s stupid, idiotic shoulders that he’s purposefully flexing to get a rise out of felix, the grin against his skin aggravating, the thigh between his legs not NEARLY AGGRAVATING ENOUGH.

        yes : he’s been making small, irritated ( strange way to spell pleasured, hmm? ) noises / letting his tongue slip / struggling to keep hold of his last vestiges of control.

        ❝ shut up, ❞ an incredibly eloquent response to the matter at hand, clearly. his patience is a tenuous thing on the best of days, most people with common sense dare not trifle with it, but since when has sylvain ever had an ounce of common sense? not sylvain, who doesn’t have an ounce of self—preservation, who wanders into a blizzard with little more than a cloak and a roguish smirk, who found a weakness in felix’s walls ( that just so happened to be sylvain himself ) and pried his fingers into the gap and tore them apart, leaving nothing but JUST FELIX BEHIND / just how he wanted him / just how he had always wanted him. no, sylvain loves testing felix’s patience, in the most mundane of everyday things and in matters classically left behind closed doors.

        this time, in a mostly hidden nook in the ruined church.

        felix’s tilts his head back to make ample room for sylvain’s wandering mouth ( not obliging no matter what sylvain says, but it’s not as though he doesn’t get pleasure out of this ) and rolls his hips forward in a sharp, hard motion / primarily to increase the friction against himself but secondarily to disrupt sylvain’s rhythm ——— entirely deserved, though felix can feel the ties of his trousers become even looser. fucking sylvain, not even unlacing his trousers properly, the lout. still : he lets out a small gasp, just loud enough to echo briefly, and sylvain’s teeth set into a sensitive part of felix’s neck. the fool is marking him and felix is all the more of a fool for ENJOYING IT, fingers digging into sylvain’s shoulder blades, head jerking so that his chin bumps against sylvain’s head, and he sets his teeth into his neck in retaliation.

        stupid, ridiculous sylvain, who always says things to get under felix’s skin / to get a rise out of him / to make him WANT TO FIGHT BACK, to bare his teeth and shove and push and pull / A MASOCHIST TO THE LAST / but also : a steady stripping. of armor, of cloth, of layers of war until felix lays bare and vulnerable and fragile beneath his hands, those hands that felix knows so well, a thumb pressing against his bare hip bone, clothes shoved just far enough out of the way ——— a man lost to war, brought back home. again, and again, and again.

        no one is quite as adept at tearing him apart as sylvain is / and he does it so well / so carefully / so tenderly : with a vulgar smile and filthy words and loving hands, so brazen in what’s meant to be a house of worship. thoughts, seiros? too heretical? his mind isn’t quite a haze but he’s rattled by pleasure / irritation / love. quite a strange and potent concoction. rattled and held fast against the stone of a temple of worship, and isn’t it strange and isn’t it humorous that this is their own brand of worship?

        ( the truth is this : felix doesn’t want to be taken apart / but he does / he does / he does / by these hands he knows so well by this man he knows so well by this shitty vulgar smile and those awful filthy words and his horrifyingly loving hands. there is no one else he would trust with this, there is no one else he would trust with himself, there is simply NO ONE ELSE FOR FELIX. sometimes, sometimes, he wants to be taken apart piece by piece and put back together, to know and feel down to the absolute core of his frozen, barbed heart that sylvain loves him / that this is what sylvain’s love feels like / that he is his and that is an absolute truth in this world alongside war and pain and death and life. to be known by him in a way that no one else, no uncaring god, can be privy to.  )

        felix meets sylvain’s eyes as lips touch his own / as words touch his lips. there is intent in his eyes and tease in his voice and naturally felix doesn’t get a chance to argue before fingers brush against his jaw and his mouth is parted and a calloused thumb rests abruptly against his tongue, perfunctorily, as if claiming OWNERSHIP. the gall of it / the profanity spilling from his mouth : surely it’s enough to enrage anyone yet it’s the simplicity of the movement, the straightforward possession ——— felix burns beneath sylvain’s touch.

        he glares, mutinous in spite of arousal and the red flush of his face and the way that he surges against the solidity of sylvain’s body ( too obvious, you fool ), and sets his teeth into sylvain’s thumb hard enough to leave indents / though not hard enough to draw blood. but, well. felix isn’t skilled in seduction, but he knows sylvain as well as sylvain knows him. and the way to get the upper hand against an opponent is to disarm them.

        a bite and a caress, tongue dragging along his thumb as he leans forward as much as sylvain allows / and just further still / mouth sealing around the very bae of sylvain’s thumb, the swell of his hand. he bites there, too, before sucking gently, or as gentle as felix can manage, riled up and irritated as he is by this ridiculous display that is wholly sylvain’s fault. he watches as sylvain’s eyes darken and that ridiculous grin threatens to split his face in two / and he presses his thigh firmly against sylvain’s cock.

        ❝ obscene, ❞ felix draws back / says around his finger as though he could embed the words into his skin with teeth alone / muffled and ridiculous and he can feel sylvain’s laugh reverberate through his chest more than hear it. felix yanks his head back as his hands travel lower and lower, narrowly avoiding crashing his head against stone but succeeding in getting sylvain’s thumb out of his mouth, scraping his teeth along his skin as he went. ❝ spewing these disgusting things.. ❞ his palm presses against sylvain and he surges upwards, catching his mouth in a kiss that’s just off center, poorly aimed, and worst of all : he makes a soft noise as sylvain winds his fingers through his hair and pulls.

         ❝ but you’re too selfish to want that... just the threat, ❞ he deftly undoes the laces of sylvain’s trousers and taking his cock out / stroking once, a cursory movement, almost habitual. IT’S THE TRUTH OF IT, for both of them, because both of them are insatiable, both of them are insufferable, both of them are shameless, both of them are filthy heretics, both of them push and prod and goad the other into OBSURD AND OBSCENE THINGS, both of them love enough to tear down the world, both are too selfish by half and sylvain is his as felix is sylvain’s and he kisses him again fully, firmly, briefly before leaning back and falling to his knees.

         well, the nuns had always stressed about prayer.

         felix holds sylvain’s gaze as he takes him into his mouth / and burns / and feels victorious beneath the gasp and the dark, awe struck ( damnably love struck ) look in his brown eyes / and feels ripped open and tender beneath the savagely ravenous grin, the hands that pull his hair taut and guide him down.