OC Kiss Prompts FMO 2/2

*post- or mid-game, intended to follow the first ending, but it might fit anywhere. Prompts: ‘food’ for Malitiose, and ‘nostalgic’ for Saltire.

Noticing the galore of blue ethereal lights shining through the dense leafage of the pushcha, you prepare yourself for an encounter with a wilder, stomping silently through the bushes so as to not make a sound.

When you emerge into a glade, you realize that there’s no magical beast roaming around, but its bones, used to build a sepulcher. The sun-bleached ivory is the only point of color in the otherwise green landscape. Even the huts that surround the monument are camouflaged with a thick layer of moss and fern.

As you circle the tomb belonging to a leader of an important figure in these parts, the heady aroma of flora moistened with dew is interrupted by a much sweeter scent. In front of a human-sized statue that blocks the sepulcher’s entrance, many woven baskets of fruit and lard pile up. Despite the relatively small size of the settlement, the goddess is submerged in the offerings to her very head.

“Goddess of Mercy,” Saltire explains at your speculative glance, lowering [his/her] head in silent piety. The  entombed must have been a person who committed ‘evil’ deeds, but was beloved enough to be prayed for even in death. Maybe you’ll get to ask about it, if you stay here for the night.

You’re just about to propose that, when you catch Malitiose ears flickering to and fro as [he/she] listens on. “We’re not alone,” the shifter says when you shift towards [him/her]. “There’s... a crowd, far ahead.”

“Locals?”

“Pilgrims. Singing?” Malitiose guesses, puzzling out the clues from splinters of distant conversations. “Either that or someone’s torturing a cat.”

“It’s a harvest festival,” Saltire fills in. “Happens around this season.”

“In the middle of the wilderness?” Malitiose ironizes, scrunching [his/her] brow in concentration. Once [he/she] understands that Saltire isn’t guessing, but informing, the slight sneer clears off [his/her] face, switching with curiosity.

“I don’t think you can hope for a hot bath here,” you snort, guessing Malitiose’s train of thought.

The shifter’s expression falls, as expected. “Food, then,” [he/she] mutters, glancing at the offerings and making Saltire squeak.

“You— You’re not going to steal from a goddess?” the ex-hunter cries out, voice steadily growing higher in pitch. “Right? Malitiose?”

“Why not?” Malitiose looks like [he/she]’s actually considering it, but now that the question is raised, [he/she] peeps at you to gauge your reaction. You keep your face schooled, and without any hint from you, Malitiose falters. “It’s not like she’s going to come down and eat it herself,” [he/she] grumbles. “What a waste.”

“Since when do you care about wasting—”

“It’s a harvest festival, we can just buy something,” you say over Saltire, mollifying them both at once. “We have the coin for it, too.”

You know you should have kept the last sentence to yourself when Malitiose groans, staring daggers at Saltire. “We’d have more, if someone didn’t refuse the payment—”

“It’s not like it cost us to kill that drekavac. Besides, you were the one complaining about the screeching—”

“And I was the one who ripped that revenant’s throat! So what if the innkeeper wanted to give us something for it?”

“It’s the middle of a drought! You saw the place, they could use the coin—”

“And so could we! I told you—”

“So!” you interrupt, clearing your throat loudly so that the echo carries in the sudden silence. “About that meal?”

Malitiose’s ears flatten to the side of [his/her] face in abashment. “I’ll lead the way.”

One of these days, you’re certain Malitiose will bite Saltire’s head off. If not, Saltire will make meat skewers out of Malitiose. Either that, or you’ll die out of a noise-exacerbated migraine. It’s a mystery what will come first, but you’re not betting the last of your coin on burying the hatchet.

For now, the three of you hike around the sepulcher, and along the mossy huts until you reach a large grove, decorated with flowers, beads, and paper garlands that give some color to the monochrome scenery. The pathway is appointed with blue, red, and green ribbons entwining the sessile oaks, but the company is hard to miss with or without guidance.

The crowd of pilgrims and villagers grows the farther you go. The former are recognizable by the simple linen garb with a sign of a thorn crown painted on it, and the latter’s clothes vary in color and material. No one pays any special attention, aside from the owners of the wooden stalls that offer you their wares. On the side, a group of musicians tunes their instruments - it seems the main event is yet to begin. You can only imagine how... booming the sound has to be to sensitive ears like Malitiose’s.

The shifter is holding on well enough, disregarding [his/her] comment about the musicians’ skill - or lack thereof. Both [he/she] and Saltire gaze at the wares with visible anticipation, though for wholly different reasons.

The shifter is nearly salivating at the sight of local minerals so potent with chaos that the air around the stall is crisp with it.

[SALTIRE]

[He/She]’s going to wreak havoc in the sellers’ pockets with or without you here, but [he/she] might as well do it away from Saltire. Before Malitiose can go to town, you decide to split.

Taking the ex-hunter with you, you search for a herbalist stationed a little farther from here. And a little farther still, until Malitiose’s completely shielded from view. Coincidentally, the festival offers little more than plants and snacks, so there’s no need for you to turn back or search long.

Saltire browses the dried plants and poultices like a child in a candy store, letting out barely audible ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’ when [he/she] spots a particularly rare or wanted ingredients. You make sure to ask about their purpose from time to time, just to see Saltire beam and chatter at you with abandon.

“And this one?” You point at a lustrous green liquid stored in a glass container. It seems thick, more like a glaze than a drink. “Venom?”

“Yes! It’s a strong one, too, a drop can corrode through most metals, even bone. We tested it on a...” overtaken by the past, Saltire’s voice mellows, and so does [his/her] exhilaration. “...on a wilder once. It’s good for extracting the essence of light, without the need to retain the skeleton.”

And an essence of light can be used to feed a flame. That’s what keeps the lanterns ever-lit in the Overshadow. It seems it’s not only Saltire who finds the residua of [his/her] past wherever [he/she] goes. A moment of pure understanding passes between you before either of you addresses it.

“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened to us, had we met earlier,” Saltire confesses abruptly, filling the silence that grew too heavy to carry.

[He/She] always does that, whether [he/she]’s aware of it or not. A trait that would be used and abused at court. One that you used in the past yourself.

“Or, if we met as gods willed, but the future was different.” You don’t need to ask what [he/she] means. [He/She] grows quiet for a moment, as [he/she] always does when the fateful battle is regarded. “You would be still a ghost,” [he/she] says, painting the scenario, but not sure how to supplement it.

“And you’d be a dashing hunter sent to stop my evil ways?”

Saltire barks out a laugh, startled but amused by your wording. “I would have fallen for you again. It would be really embarrassing.”

What a romantic notion. Your reality wouldn’t have been half as sweet, you’re sure of it.

“We’d be on two opposite sides.” Technically, the Order is neutral. But a ghost is of little deviation to them from a demon. The difference is academic, at best.

Saltire picks the bottle of the wilder bane, exchanges it for a golden coin, muttering ‘keep the change’ at the grinning apothecary. With [his/her] gaze still on the container, Saltire says, “It’s hard to even imagine with what I— What we have now— But you’d be not unlike this poison to me.”

You, conversely, can picture it quite well. Saltire, with [his/her] innate need to help and wavering loyalty, swaying like a pendulum from duty to love, order to want.

“The thing about poison,” Saltire adds, less wistful now as [his/her] lips stretching in a smile you’d call bitter on another, but know to be shy on the ex-hunter. “It can also be a medicine.”

“If the dosage is right, yes.”

It’s a wonder, indeed. But would [he/she] be able to take you in sip by sip, instead of all at once? [He/She], too, seems to disregard that possibility, chuckling to [him/herself] under [his/her] breath.

“I think I like being ‘medicine’ better,” you decide, endeavoring to end the somber atmosphere on a higher note. “Say, then, hunter. Is your medicine a bitter one?”

Unsurprisingly, Saltire’s eyes widen at the drop in your voice, the change in pitch. [His/He] otiose breath leaves [his/her] ineffective lungs with a whoosh.

“Hm, I’m not sure,” [he/she] jokes back, a little dry. Then, leaning in swiftly, as if waiting too long would rob [him/her] out of the courage, [he/she] connects [his/her] lips to yours. It’s just a brush, cold skin over cold skin, tasting of tea and faintly of ghostberries [he/she] uses in [his/her] balm.

[He/She] draws back, but you use the proximity to fist the fabric of [his/her] shirt to keep [him/her] close as you deepen the kiss, swallowing first the surprised exhalation, then the quiet laugh, going at it until one of the passersby wolf-whistles at you, startling you apart. What a peculiar way to out yourself as a ghost, huh?

“Well?” you prompt, satisfied by the dazed look Saltire is sporting, how long it takes [him/her] to remember your question. “How’s the medicine?”

“Sweet.” Saltire’s logy smile grows wider, and cheekier. “But then again, that was to be expected.”

“Oho? When did you get so smooth?”

“I learn from the worst,” [he/she] says, winking.

“Um, I think you mean the best.”

“I said what I said.”

[MALITIOSE]

You doubt [he/she] means to acquire them in any ethical way, so to prevent another argument from commencing, you drag Malitiose away - from the stall and Saltire - leaving the ex-hunter to browse [his/her] herbs in peace.

Though the things that would distract Malitiose best aren’t those you could engage in out in the open, [he/she] is amenable enough to be guided by the hand, enjoying the physical contact. Shifters are tactile by nature, as you’ve learned, but food is as good a diversion as any, more so during a harvest festival.

Or so you think. Instead of venison, there are only vegetarian meals, and none of which are palatable to ghosts, save for confections. Some of them are mixed with finely minced spices such as cinnamon or chili powder, so, at least in that, you can pick and choose.

“Is this one fine?” you ask, pointing your free hand at your selection of sweets. They are meant to be shared, so it’s only polite to ask for assent. “Mal?”

“Take whichever you want,” Malitiose replies, honestly but rather indifferently. You know that [he/she] is used to the taste of spices more by habit than actual preference - as shifters seem to enjoy specifically the rawness of their meat in all senses of that word - and so it doesn’t surprise you that [he/she] isn’t a fan of sweets either.

Still, [he/she] does accept a bite once your purchase is packed and paid for, shaking [his/her] head when you keep holding the sweet up, just in case [he/she] changes [his/her] mind. After the taste-test, [he/she] looks like [he/she]’d honestly just rather swallow the dry soil, and you wonder about the differences in your palates as you move along the clearing in search of a more secluded spot.

Malitiose’s eyes are firmly fixed on you all the way, and though you’re aware [he/she]’s plotting something, you can’t decipher [his/her] intention until the last bit of sugar melts in your mouth.

“On the other hand,” Malitiose speaks up then, tone not even trying to be innocent. “Do you have some of that left?” [he/he] asks as though [he/she] didn’t just watch you completely devour the confection. “To share?”

Really? “Oh, just go for it,” you sigh, rolling your eyes when Malitiose all but jumps at you to suck the remnants of sugar powder off your lips.

Somewhere between one breath and another, the shifter abandons the farce and licks into your parted mouth for a proper kiss. It’s always a bit too sloppy, too eager, and over too soon when [he/she] inevitably moves on, fangs prickling your skin as [he/she] tilts [his/her] head to nibble at you more comfortably.

When one of the bites crosses the fine line of casual, you grab Malitiose by the jaw, holding [him/her] in place. “Should I get you a muzzle?”

“Do you think it’d be sexy?” Malitiose responds without missing a beat.

“Why don’t we give it a try?”

Seemingly chastised by the treat, Malitiose nuzzles into the palm of your hand, mollifying you into letting [him/her] close again.

It’s tempting fate, really, and you have no one but yourself to blame when after a wave of soft kisses pressed atop and around your abused mouth, Malitiose’s teeth clamp over the edge of your—

“Mal! Why the jaw, for fuck’s sake?!” It’s not that it hurts, Malitiose knows it— Pain and pleasure are mixed as far as ghost’s nerves are concerned, and the middle of a festival is not a place for any sort of coalescing.

“I’m just a dumb dog,” Malitiose pouts, batting [his/her] eyelashes. “What can I do, it’s instincts.”

And that’s coming from a shifter who continuously reminds Saltire that ‘we are not led by atavistic impulses, we’re not demons.’

“There are some differences in the species, you understand.” The tail that has wound itself around your waist tightens to accentuate the point.

“Are there? I haven’t noticed.”

The amused tone and a smile you can’t really stop from surging out, are enough of a welcome for Malitiose to try [his/her] luck again. Woe is you, and your poor lips, too.