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For Ivan, the morning had always been sickeningly repetitive. Very predictable, very comfortable for the royal drunk. Wake up, have a drink. See his bed warmer off, shower, and make another drink. Get dressed, train with his uncle, and treat his injuries with a drink. Shower again, head to breakfast, and quite possibly drink some more. What came after his fourth morning beverage often resulted in a blissful blur. Yet since Zajka’s continued company in the morning, his strict medicinal drinking regimen had been thrown entirely off kilter. Sending Ivan’s usual number doubling by breakfast in an attempt to fend off the prickling migraine behind his brow bone that demanded retribution for the deviation.

The days of looming headaches were relentless, making Ivan more eager to get from the start of the day to the end of it as quickly as possible. Once the first bell rang, the Hyouden prince was off in the opposite direction, cutting through the hallway to the only place he could remain undisturbed. Yet, even his haven could not provide such peaceful luxury, despite the looming promise of his sanctioned season quickly approaching. On this day in particular, the selection of clear Hyouden kavad could hardly hold him over two periods before its dwindle sent the ice giant back from whence he came.

But what joy the red god taketh he could giveth again. It was by pure luck that Ivan rounded the exact corner, at the precise second the singing echo of kitten heels too heavy for their three-foot frame could lure him down a branching hallway. Usually Ivan tried to avoid people, but making that specific rugrat slip had become one of those sickly repetitive things Ivan had grown too fond of in his time at this circus. He stalked down the hall towards them, the power that pooled in his core slipping into his fingers with ease the moment his glowing stare landed on that tight blond bun. A play-by-play of the usual interaction ensued. The thickest sheet of ice coated the floor, kitten heels went from tapping, to sliding and paired effortlessly with the scrambled screams of a brat sliding off down the hallway with an unnatural gust of wind to aid in the speed of it.

Ivan enjoyed the sight so much that he actually laughed. A deep rolling chuckle that felt unnatural thundered from the base of his throat. But it fell from the air as quickly as it filled it, cut short when his head turned back towards the dining hall for what he had come for. Yet in its passing, his eye caught the smallest drop of crimson staining the wall, entirely out of place. Glowing pale orbs snapped back to it but found nothing amiss. Yet Ivan stayed, silence stretching as he inspected the intricate pattern far more than any sane person should have.

With vision blurred beneath the haze of intoxication, a part of him told him to move on with his original plan; the lingering migraine would only strengthen the longer he waited. But something in the way the air curled in the room kept him firmly in place. His hands lifted, pressing against the wallpaper to send a thin coat of frost spider webbing from his blackened fingertips. It curled from the ground and spiraled from his hands in every direction until the unnatural warmth of human skin exposed the fragile outline of a female figure trapped between his arms. A threatening smile curled the corner of his lips, pleased to know his instincts were correct as he pushed the chill hard enough to witness a woman’s exposed flesh pebbling beneath its chill.

“ If you had not been so nosy, I might not have caught onto you.”


OOC:

The natural heat of the painted illusionist's body warmed the tight space Ivan’s looming frame had constructed. His features tightened under the slow, bloody gaze that assessed his form, then softened with recognition and a knowing smile. Even as obscured as she was, Ivan could recognize the molten iron eyes of none other than Farrah, princess of Mars, warming with it. He hadn’t seen her or her kind in some time. Granted, most of what transpired between the two kingdoms was muddled beneath the sweet blur of his ever-constant liquid companion, and a few tight scars, but he hadn’t forgotten her eyes. Nor the family fierceness that lay dormant beneath that wide, toothy smile, or the way it felt as though one was swimming through the bloody river Styx when they were fixed on you. A dangerous family, he thought, but a respectable one.

At her answer, humor reluctantly eased through the usual stoicness of his gaze, entertained by her childlike reasoning. Of course, MiLady’s slippery demise would be enough to blow the cover of the likes of her. That shred of darkness was even pleasing to him to some extent. Stupid was the fugacious afterthought, though, with the nadir of war relieved, such harrowing missteps could be forgiven. His reflexes, on the other hand, found no such ease. She moved, and tension wove through the corded muscle of Ivan’s forearm, narrowly restraining that instinctive urge that drove him to prevent his prey from slipping out of his grasp. But she wasn’t that, was she?

Instead, a leisurely huff curled from Ivan’s nose, his eyes trailing her thin, skittering form. “No Utopia rule states I need reason to torment the overbearing brat.” His tone remained brittle and dry, despite his best efforts to force amusement— at least as far as he was capable— to ease his own inner tension at the budding interaction. Resting a shoulder against the wall when she turned back to pester him further, he shook the obvious non-contents of his painfully empty glass in answer. “I go to refill my stock. Why are you hiding?” It was while the question slipped past his lips that Ivan took note of her rigid form, arms crossed, with the swell of her breasts pushed high— Ah.

A shred of surprise tried to tug at one brow. Was she? No, he was obviously drunk— yet a series of slow, methodical blinks meant to clear his sight only revealed to Ivan that his eyes were not playing tricks on him and there was a severe lack of creases in her clothing, or… a complete lack thereof. Giving into the nerve currently attempting to yank his brow up, Ivan’s gaze warmed, slowly dragged down her stomach, over the arc of her hips to trail down the length of long legs to the perfect pattern painted over her toes and back. It was likely the first time Ivan realized how art could be utilized in war.

Not that it would urge him into returning to his classmates— Not in the slightest— instead, all continence of the endeavor evaporated. Heat coiled along his core, his eyes growing dark, hungry as his chest warmed with the pernicious thoughts of smearing the paint, of ripping away the small thread of fabric to see how warm she felt around him, how well this sister could take him. Would his usual outcome be different this time? Before Ivan could think his hands and body were moving. In closing the small space his suspenders were off, buttons of his top unclasped and in one smooth motion he peeled the cotton fabric away, exposing rippling muscle beneath unapologetically.
What may have been a surprise gentlemanly notion to the female before him was far from cosseting to Ivan.

“ Дурак.” He spoke in a deep, condescending tone as he threw the garment around her shoulders. “A frail body such as yours will catch sickness.” His will in that moment slammed against the space between his eyes in protest, the pressure of a thousand needles burrowing into his skull drawing his fingers to the bridge of nose. Scrubbing his hand down his face, Ivan grumbled out something along the lines of “Never mind, I need a drink.” As his long legs carried him past her before whatever animalistic urge that coiled through him could strike. What point would feeding that need offer him? But A drink? That would fix it. A drink would fix everything.


Translation: Дурак— idiot and/or dumbass