meadowlarksabove

[meadowlarksabove]

The mention felt wrong, tasted sour. He had dug up a foul corpse with his words...

...Vermin were better off dead, after all. Yet once they’re killed, one might, as he had, learn that not all things can actually die.

“Percussit ilico animum. Attat! Hoc illud est, hinc illae lacrimae…”

[[Dedicated to @meadowlarksabove ]]

[meadowlarksabove]

The streets around his apartment were mostly empty at this time of night, except for the road which led to the expressway and carried one downtown. Two to three cars passed them as they rolled in that same direction, reflecting their silhouettes through warbling black panes, the lightness of his own expression like a bright watercolor stain smudged across tinted glass.  Barely any windows remained lit at ground level either, as they blared at them in dreary shades, all except the glinting arches overhead, thrumming with colors from a television set or a pc monitor. 

Life carried on beneath the cold carapace of the city, the way scavengers fed and bred off the corpse of a fallen whale. An ecosystem built off the bones of a hushed soul, full, animated, yet horrendously empty in the vacancies between ribs where a heart had once beat. Gravel and pavement laid over fertile soil, roots stripped from the cut and flattened hillsides. All the good, green earth reduced to a metallic sheen. If he breathed deep enough he’d catch the scent of oil, trash, and exhaust smoked out of the backside of a truck in the distance. 

Perhaps that’s why he’d thought of the old park nearby. Sullen and overgrown as it was, as if the plants had learned to leer suspiciously to the sides. But alive in a way a bar wasn’t. It was there he hoped to find a bench that was somewhat partitioned by bushes and trees. From the moment he’d written his number on Paukka’s appointment slip, he felt it was important for them to be alone together– with no one to spoil what they’d say to each other. He didn’t know where this feeling, this need, had come from, and still he’d followed its bidding. Possessed by a sense of knowing that was beyond the scope of all good reason. 

“Ah, but I was hoping you were.” A half tease, quickly dismissed with the lighthearted gesture of a hand. The thought had occurred to him, of course. That those mesmerizing brown eyes and the handsome cut of their face were nothing more than the lure of a deep water fish. That just as they were tall and well built, they could be a danger to a man that, like himself, liked to gamble with his wellbeing. He shot a quick glance over their figure, unable to suppress the subtle signs of approval which had dawned on his face, and just how enchanted he was by features so obviously unused to smiling. 

“Are you saying I made you shy?” He was clearly flattered, even as he tried to bury the lead with a playful grin. Though, the curl of his lips could only hide so much of the flush now borne on his face. “Then, what do you think of me now? Have you gotten used to me?” 

Gabban waved another hand dismissively, so much of his humor had frothed to the surface tonight, and in ways he hadn’t expected. There was a spark to his eyes that was seldom there anymore, dulled by years of working under fluorescent lighting and through hushed phonecalls. All of which had turned the horror of his existence to a banal state of being. A routine, a one-way track, a line drawn across the ground in white chalk. Clock in and clock out… 

“It’s alright to be a little quiet. I get that way when I’m nervous too, that’s why I wrote my number down instead of giving it to you directly. 'Couldn’t find the words at all.” Not when he’d been so lost staring at them in-between their checkup, and making the added effort of not lingering upon their lips any longer than necessary. Somehow, even that bit of pink flesh had felt familiar to him. “I’m really glad you’re here. And it’s strange, really,-- I know we’ve never met before, but I just had this feeling…” 

His voice faltered briefly as he wrestled with what seemed like a raise in insecurity, knowing beforehand that he was about to sound mad.

“...Like I didn’t want you to go.” Gabban averted his eyes for the first time since meeting Paukka, embarrassed by his own confession no matter how innocent it was. Was it strange to want to cling onto a stranger? That it had somehow hurt him to see them close the door of his office? Maybe so.

What did he do in life to be this lucky? Not that he was particularly lucky a lot of times, or at all. If Paukka thought about it excessively he probably would be able to count down the times luck had been on his side on a single hand. More often than not he had wondered if good fortune was even for him to have. He was not used to things going well. Particularly not in his love life. Not in any part of his life, only work related. Climbing the ladder within a short period of time was the only achievement in his life he could be proud of, Yet that too had nothing to do with luck, but hard labor.

So how come he was this lucky now? Finding the man in the picture in such an obscure encounter. And not only that, getting his number without having asked for it. Lucky. Fate? Or something between either. Because not only had he found him and gotten the number. Gabban even did not send him right back to Finland after his late night call. He answered it and indulged him, and was even so eager to see him too. At least had sounded like it. Paukka mulled, watching the many windows of the building he stood to the side of, wondering which apartment would be that of the handsome blond. Had he perhaps used up all of his luck for the rest of his lifetime, finding him...?

The sound of the front door opening pulled his attention and so his head turned enough to look the direction, a little troubled making out the figure whilst the light shone down from above. The fact that the other drew closer and approached a sign for him that it truly was him and the closer he came, he could make out more and more of Gabban. Greeting him with a smile (hardly looked like it but it was. Promise) of his own, the taller was a little perplexed at the fashion in which he was greeted. Froze abruptly, and if it would not still be night and still a little on the colder side, the warmth that suddenly sprouted within his chest would have been enough to paint his face an unflattering red shade.

„Not at all...“, his words dragged, sounding as though he was dreaming, Paukka again questioned how he deserved any of this, what it was he had done, or if perhaps all his sacrifices and losses had finally reached the point of good reason why. Everything that had happened in his life, from trauma to break-up to sinking himself even deeper into work to another promotion. He would not have traveled this far otherwise.

And how worth it all was. Just by seeing the face of the other man before him. So good-looking. Why did he not work as a model? Was it not a waste, hiding himself away behind the title of a doctor? One that most even feared visiting and tried putting off for as long as they could? How was it fair that he was so pretty, that the shape of his face was so perfect, soft and yet sharp, so handsome. Carved from stone with some ancient lover as a muse. And even then they could not reach the result, let alone surpass it. Because this face was not something that could have been made by humans. Or his hair, sun-kissed and golden even in the colder shades of the dark. His eyes, plucked stars of the firmament. No wonder all the others glimmered and glistened, in mourning of their lost twins now walking down here.

I'll walk with you to wherever you want to go. He almost said, but caught himself right before he did. Was he not enough of a creep? He should play it carefully now, cautiously. Not overdo it. But how hard it was, to ignore those feelings growing within his chest, tickling the ends of his nerves, lulling him in their siren song to raise his hands and touch him...

Paukka let both his hands sink back into the pockets of his jackets in silent protest. He would control himself. Still his eyes remained on Gabban, waiting for him to take the first step, then following alongside him as he walked the direction.

            „I know all this... might be a little abrupt. But I'm not some weirdo, I promise.“ He paused. „I know that is exactly what a weirdo would say but... I'm really not—I just. Was too stunned to speak when I first saw you. Didn't know dentists could be so good looking.“

[meadowlarksabove]

The fox wouldn’t look at him then, but Gabban had raised his head upon hearing the woman’s name, arching a brow at what was clearly an admission of guilt. He stared despite himself, having already crossed several lines by making threats upon the matter. All of which he would've followed through with if he’d learned the opposite was true. 

But Vulpes hadn’t given him much of a choice, really. None of the frumentarii could stand to lose their leader. Not with Ulysses’ disappearance and tensions rising all across the border. They were being reckless even considering removing themselves for something that could very well be fixed. What were a few bodies? 

Gabban nodded slowly, and there was a strange sense of pride swelling in his chest. “I see.”

He was quiet for another beat, looking for fairer words until he decided to be honest instead.

“You made the right choice, princeps.”

"Targeting the caravans would be better," he agreed. "The Jackals might be easily bribed to do so." Even the bribe could very likely be recovered from their corpses later. The NCR would be sure to put up a fight against them.

Vulpes couldn't resist a sideways glance at Gabban's last comment. An opinion with bite was rare for him (not so rare for Vulpes). Gabban's usual demeanor felt detached and well-guarded; not a shred of raw emotion slipped through. And maybe there was no emotion even now, but still - Vulpes saw himself for a moment, reflected in the scarred face of his friend.

His friend? His friend, whom he wanted to trust.

"I meant to tell you something. I...never said a word about Vivienne. To Caesar, or anyone else." Blue eyes failed to look up, refocused instead on the supply pack left in one corner of the tent. He pawed through the contents and recovered an almost-empty box of Abraxo.

[meadowlarksabove]

I think we should cherish our writing more. Sometimes when I sit down and write a response, not only is the process precious, but what I read back to myself also makes sense in an intimate way. Anyway, I've got some free time to write tonight ^^

[meadowlarksabove]

“Really? I think you need to make more friends.” 

The word ‘better’ had toppled on his tongue briefly, seconds away from being used before his senses wrenched the bitter thing from his taste buds. Knowing Nick, they might have said something kind– might have offered him crumbs when he deserved to starve. 

Gabban’s smile faltered slightly, both unsure of what to say next and noting a burgeoning sense of discomfort on their features. Should he not have offered his help? Were they embarrassed? 

The synth was a detective, not a soldier, nor a man sworn to some cause– as far as he knew. Where was this bout of ‘hurt pride’ even coming from? 

“How did you come by the supermutants anyway?”

Nick looked about to protest as his friend just... pulled those pliers out of his ass. But his brow furrowed at the look of them, and he squinted for a few moments. "...That's actually pretty good, yeah. In better shape than mine, anyways..."

There was a flicker of discomfort etched into the synth's grizzled face; he tended to handle his physical upkeep himself for a reason.

But... clearly Birdie was a friend, and with a wound like this it would likely help to have an extra set of hands. Embarrassing and vulnerable as it was, the detective tilted his head and grinned awkwardly.

"I, uh... might take you up on that, yeah. And you're welcome-- couldn't imagine anyone else I'd want to give it to more than you."

[meadowlarksabove]

Gabban had seen the outpost only once, and from afar. A sizable encampment built around an old-world ruin, its borders closed by a cold, iron plated fence. If he’d thought it a tough shell to crack back then– it could only have worsened after an attack like Charlie’s. 

Fear had been the Legion’s favored weapon in their battles for the Eastern front, and in most of their campaigns northward as well. Key difference was, the Bear would often respond in kind, better equipped to cope with the horrors of their warfare, turning their intimidation into a hail of bullets instead. Beneath their tufted fur lay a predator as stubborn as any other, and they would rather bare their teeth than betray a sense of terror against a gilded bull. 

“It’s not a bad idea, but I doubt any raiders would agree to threaten them as they are now…Not directly, at least. We could have them poach their supply caravans instead. If we poison and starve them out, there’s a chance the soldiers might abandon their posts all on their own. They’re never as loyal as they pretend to be.” 

A fact he’d learned by the slow prying of his hands. If anyone understood a profligate’s threshold for pure, unmitigated suffering, it was Gabban. And he was just as eager to see them fall as silently as the birds do. 

“Fire would be a nice touch.” Something to purge all of that ranger-filth.

Vulpes unwound his handwraps, letting the dust and sand fall away from each layer of cloth. He listened to Gabban, but also kept alert for any sounds of shuffling or footsteps amid the storm outside. The tent was well-hidden, but there was always a slim chance that someone might stumble upon it, if they were caught in the dust cloud and desperately searching for shelter.

No sign of anyone yet. Vulpes settled in across from Gabban and gave a nod at the mention of the White Gloves. He immediately recalled that night in the Ultra Luxe: their frustrated exchange of words, the familiar smell and sting of concentrated Abraxo, and Gabban's deft hands at work in a bathtub full of gore. Not a pleasant night. Not among the worst, either - largely thanks to his subordinate's help.

He returned to the subject in question. "The station was fortified at a record pace. Always an extra man on watch. They're afraid after what happened to Charlie." The slaughter there had been Cato's work - its impact still fresh in the minds of the NCR.

"We will need to take a different approach. Convince raiders to harass them. Poison the nearest water sources. Once we have them distracted and spread thin, we could send one of our own to set fire to the camp. As they escape the flames, they'll make easy targets for an ambush."

A slow, quiet breath, and then his eyes flitted up to Gabban. "It's barely a plan, as of yet. I would trust your opinion on how to carry it out. Or is there another approach you would have in mind?"

[meadowlarksabove]

He wrapped the tooth back into the cheesecloth with as much care as if it were a rare pearl. (Which it was in a sense.) The crack partitioned behind the other’s lips had slipped in and out of view as they spoke, yet he couldn’t take his eyes off of what must have been a terrible wound. Gabban furrowed his brows, confused as to how Nick wasn’t doubled over with pain. Was this a part of being metal? 

At the mention of pliers, however, his hand quickly reached for the pair stowed in his back pocket and turned it over. “Would this work? Or do you need a smaller one?” 

Out of everything he could have run away with, the ex-legionnaire had come out a dying empire with nothing besides a little statuette and a small set of tools. A waste of time, perhaps, but they were all he’d ever been given to keep as his own. 

“I don’t know much about maintenance sweeps-” Whatever that meant. “But I can help if you’d like.” 

He smiled. “As thanks for possibly the best gift I've ever been given.”

It was definitely a strange gift to give, but Birdie was a strange person to begin with. For a moment Nick felt somewhat embarrassed at just how morbid it was, but... his eyes lit up like a kid at a candy store. The candy was just teeth.

Nick was smiling, although he was trying to keep it to one side of his face. That must've tipped Birdie off, because the next question took Nick by surprise. "It, uh..."

"Well. A little, yes. I'm alright, though. Just need to take some time on my next maintenance sweep to, uh... tighten some screws. Maybe get some adhesive in there..." the synth's tone had lost some confidence, an awkwardness about him. Most people found this part unsettling. Even he found this part unsettling. He reflexively scratched under the back of his hat. "...I'll just need a good mirror. And some, uh... pliers..."

[meadowlarksabove]

Before he could even ask how they’d had a run in with super-mutants exactly, or fret over what should have been a fatal blow, his eyes had stuck to the metal tooth in their hands. Focused, and enthralled by some siren song. A look of unabashed wonder crossed his face as he finally reached and took it into his own palms. 

How strange it was– and how pretty…It's shape wasn't all the way human, but there was no mistaking it for anything else either. A tooth, designed by mortal hands, a simulation of something warm and visceral. Now just cut stone.

And so pretty...

“Does it hurt?” Gabban blinked a few times as if catching himself, veering his sights to the unseemly crack. “Are you actually alright?”

"This is different. I just, uh-- well, long story short..."

"I had a bit of a run-in with some super-mutants on my last case. One of 'em got a pretty good hit in, so, uh..." Nick was fishing in his pockets. And produced a folded slip of cheesecloth, opened up to reveal... the approximation of a tooth, steel and a bit bent. A little grin showed the gap where the tooth had come out, as well as a significant crack along the metal jawbone beneath it.

"Figure you'd enjoy a memento."

[meadowlarksabove]

Most of the messages had read as lights blinking through a vast darkness. Dots across a large and storied map giving signs of life. It was a small reassurance that all of their plans progressed and lurched forward with the efficiency of a tireless army. Yet in which direction, and to what end, he still had his doubts. And would always have them, especially in regards to a mess he’d helped clean but hadn’t been his own. 

After all, Vivienne was surely missed. 

“Yes.” Gabban piled the pages on his lap before taking back his canteen. “No major changes. But that also worries me…” 

Turbulent or still, these waters were dangerous. He much preferred it whenever one of the murky shapes beneath the surface broke through the tension. Instead of this incessant waiting around, as if he were an animal jealously guarding itself while drinking from the river-shore. Gabban already knew what it was like to be savagely bitten, and he wasn’t afraid of the pain. But the quiet made him uneasy. 

He looked at the flap of their tent just then, knowing no one else would breach the storm in time to make it to the outpost, but checking nonetheless. “There aren’t any new developments on the Strip either. Except for some notable tension among the White Gloves.” Obviously. 

“And the ranger station?”

@meadowlarksabove continued from here.

He sighed out, grateful to see Gabban - and no one else - already safe inside. Helmet removed, his hair shaken out, he approached and took the offered water.

"Fine." He regretted the cough that immediately followed. "I was only caught in the worst of it for a minute." And he'd kept the front of his uniform pressed over his nose for as much of it as possible. Taking one sip of water, he glanced at Gabban, gaze drawn to the notes in his hands. Then he closed up the flask and offered it back.

"Thank you. I trust those pages have the information you were waiting for?"

[meadowlarksabove]

The corners of his smile faltered slightly, clearly taken aback. 

“A gift?” Gabban felt sheepish suddenly, unsure of how to process Nick’s generosity and how often it fell on his lap. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You don’t always have to get me things…”

@meadowlarksabove from NICK.

"Hey, Birdie."

"I got a, uh... gift for you."

[meadowlarksabove]

@ratherxintense : The ranger station had been well within sight…for a few minutes. Vulpes had mapped it out from his perch in the rocky hills, noting the coming and going of each walking speck below, the weaknesses inherent in their location, the plausibility of an effective rockfall… He had not paid such careful attention to the growing wall of ash and dust on the horizon, not until it overshadowed the station. Hood up, goggles on, he retreated down the far side of the hill - the silhouette of a lone coyote made visible on the darkening sky for only a moment. Enough time remained to return to Cottonwood Cove, he thought. Five minutes into the hike south, he looked over his shoulder. There was not enough time, after all. The nearest frumentarii outpost would have to do. By the time Vulpes stumbled into the tent, he was layered in dust and dirt, arms and knees half-raw from the storm. Tearing off his goggles, he blinked at his new surroundings. Had Gabban returned from his own assignment yet, or was he still out in the storm?

The tent felt cramped compared to other outposts, wedged and half buried beneath the base of a hill, speckled with dust long before the storm closed over the flap. Gabban had outrun the winds by a half hour, lucky enough to retrieve their messages from the courier (theirs, not a profligate) quicker than he’d anticipated. Dark and barren, no one else had beaten him to the spot, giving him ample time to sit and read at his leisure. 

Still he chose to huddle, reflexively seeking privacy behind a stack of folded cots. The expression on his face as inscrutable as when he faced the prisoners in Caesar’s dungeon. Not a hint of reproach or approval visible in the corners of his lips, but a dull glinting in his eyes denoting he was even conscious. There was nothing for him to feel beyond the beating of his own heart. Which ticked away coldly as he digested and memorized each of the words scribbled in their notes. 

His focus only veered towards Vulpes when they’d adjusted themselves, as if clinging to his last moments of silence. The quiet had been nice while it lasted, fresh, and different to the way he spent most of his days. Yet his princeps’ company was also something he greatly appreciated. A fact made obvious by the lift in his features, less burdened, and even warmed by a touch of– relief? Familiarity? 

Gabban couldn’t be sure. 

Instead, he lifted up his canteen as an offering. 

“How are your lungs?”

[meadowlarksabove]

Oma maa / Land of Hope (2018) | dir. Markku Pölönen

[meadowlarksabove]

The hand pressed to his cheek was rough, but not in its treatment of him, spread across his skin with all the sweetness of a tender honey glaze. It was the mere calloused flesh of a man who had labored all their life, somewhat chafing in its caress, but gentle nonetheless. Joy poured from his expression, openly setting him aglow with the fires kindled in his spirit. He’d caught their softened gaze then, along with the subtle upturn of their lips. Whispers of an even deeper emotion jutting at the root of their being, this handsome flower who was willing to accept him with all of the wear and tear of his body. The thought alone sent waves of electricity up his back, a trail of sparks to mirror the constellations outside. It was then Gabban dared touch more of their front, exploring the firmness of their muscles from over their shirt, lamenting it should still be there to bar his way. Though before he could even suggest taking it off, fingers eager at the hem of their pants, his jaw had been carefully grasped. 

He was drawn to the flush of their lips, and their kiss shook him more than he could have ever anticipated, with his chest red and his eyes fluttering closed– heart thudding wildly against its cage. (They were kissing him, and pulling him closer, both of their silhouettes merging at the outlines. They were kissing him, and kissing him, and the earth sang a flurry of prayers as the tide rolled in.) There were bells chiming at the back of his mind, signalling the arrival of a force as fearsome as it was beautiful, a devastating wave which rocked him off his footing and swirled him to the depths. From whence he’d emerged upon the shores of Her domain, full of a ravenous and all consuming hunger. Nameless, with no recollection of anything beyond the ferocity of his own insatiable desires. 

Venus was there, and his skull was the seat of Her temple. A soft and stifled sound slipped from his mouth in the fleeting seconds between their praises, and another as the scar on his mouth was kissed. He was surprised and elated in equal measure. His were not the worst wounds to be worn in the Legion, but the most shameful to his soul. Wretched marks borne from wretched hands, the taint that’d made him scorn his reflection everywhere he went. For so long he’d shrouded his mirrors as if he were in the midst of mourning, grieving all that’d been taken from him on the borders of Arizona. He wrapped his arms tightly around the other man, desperately digging his fingers onto their back, warding away the chill of those memories with the scalding heat of the present. Perhaps that’s exactly what he’d needed, to have someone tread over the mar without any signs of visible disgust. Always half convinced that it was just as obvious a sign of disgrace to everyone else as it was for him. 

But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Not at this very moment at least. Or was this a taste of an overpowering mercy? Were they choosing to ignore the knife-cut smile of corruption torn through his face? More questions bubbled up to the surface, but they were quickly hushed and slurried by their next kiss. This one somehow more pleasurable than the last. 

Paukka led him further back into the room and already he was yearning for the bed. He’d thought of sitting together at first, winding up closer through the slow and natural course of things. To at least pretend he wasn't the love starved mongrel he was. But he couldn’t shake the vision of the other pressed over the top of him, embracing him fully and keeping him pinned by their weight. Gabban urged them closer to the aged and moth-eaten mattress, luring them with every break and chance for air. 

“Paukka–” He whispered against the corner of their lips, reeling them forward with a step and another pressing of lips, making his thoughts all the more obvious. Until it clearly trickled from his cracked vase of a frame, unable to withstand the pressure of this rattling want, and emotions which extended from him in all directions. “Please, kiss me on the bed.” 

Gabban swallowed thickly, but grinned with the bearing of his heart, leveling their stare with something fragile, even vulnerable. There was no refusing the sways of his Goddess anymore, and no reason to either. But this was something that’d awakened at his core, and he felt it clamor, demand, regardless of him being worthy of this touch or not. He wanted this so badly. He wanted them so badly.

Ah, was he melting? “Please.”

His body still felt heavy. There and not there; the buzz was still there but the sense of feeling lighter had faded with every straining step up the stairs.

Paukka got drunk to relax. Which was what alcohol did to the body, to the mind. Make it feel more relaxed and one more talkative, and less inhibited. His body would start to go numb and all feelings of anxiety went away. Left him, like they had no part of him, no right to make him suffer. He could well take the field of his vision starting to change in a way that was hard to explain. Dopamine and serotonin were released in amounts way beyond what was considered a normal range. His experience of being drunk changed as the disease and the drinking progressed. Drinking a lot was not unpleasant. His mood changed, so did the feeling over his broken body. That pesky old superego no longer kept order. To get drunk could be so euphoric. That feeling of transcendence, of power, freedom, like nothing he had ever felt before. Or maybe — some nights — exactly like he had felt once and missed feeling like again...

Now he stood and watched in silence how the other man entered the room before him, drawn into it, or more so by what was calling him from the other side, as Paukka managed to make out. The moonlight, strangely intrusive, as though keen on meddling into their affair. To watch? To sanctify? Paukka was amused by the thought. By the fact that even if they tried being secretive, a higher power knew better and let them know. Then he felt rattled by the idea of them wanting to partake, because he really did not feel like sharing. No, not him. That one good thing that happened to him after such a long and excruciating drought.

The shine of the moon warned him. Glinting in reflection on the surface of a blade. Paukka did not follow with his eyes where it went, where it came to rest. His focus remained solely on the other man and his outline, and still could not believe his luck even as the buzz faded a little further and made way for understanding and realization to conquer the rest of him. That the intoxication he felt was only half that and half something he thought himself incapable of. A youthful and maybe a little naive want, excitement even. Growing as Gabban turned to look at him again. With the moonlight shining on his back, creating around him a silver-white glow if a silhouette, bathing him in its embrace and emphasizing his ethereal beauty even as he stepped closer, how it was hard to not feel like Paukka was rather in a fever dream and downstairs, lying drunk under the table as he imagined the most abstruse things.

The palm pressing to his chest told him that he was not dreaming. Reminded him that he still stood where he had before opening the door and not having moved an inch since then. His own expression shifted after the wake up call, softened bore the rare appearance of a smile. Warm and welcoming, even if the next words had him raise his brows briefly. How could he be bothered by scars? Would it not be blasphemous if he were. Did his body not carry worse than that and was still accepted without question?

The taller man huffed, shook his head vaguely as a hand reached up to touch the other man in turn. Hovering at first before actually daring to touch, cupping the left side of that handsome face, and instantly Paukka could feel the rush, the heat surge quicker and the want consume him thrice as strongly. How soft his skin was. Despite it all. Despite it all... Despite the blond's hardships and lived calamities. Despite his very own hand being rough and worn, he still could feel how soft this skin was to the touch.

For a moment he stared, intensely. As though in thought, as if having wanted to say something to the question and searching for the befitting words. His lips forming a thin line, it was when he could no longer hold back, when the lust broke his own brittle dam, that all he managed to do before acting on it was a harsh exhale. Then he already leaned in, with a purpose, with intent. The other hand traveled to hold Gabban's face with reverence, as carefully lifted him to look up the same moment he leaned down, and without even asking whether it was alright for him to, succumbed to his desire.

He kissed him. Pressed his lips upon even softer lips with want. With a hint of desperation. It was so hard to hold it together, to keep it under control. For whatever goddamned reason. He just could not take it slow, and already was he stepping closer and pressing up against the other man with his own body, to guide him backwards back and more into the room.

            „You’re stunning—”, he breathed, as he broke the kiss for a second long enough a hand could retreat and search for the wooden door without Paukka so much as looking for it; his hand touching the air a couple of times before catching the door and hectically closing it behind him. Meanwhile his lips had kissed that visible scar sitting at the blond’s upper lip, almost as though wanting to make a point with that gesture. „Beautiful—”, he mumbled. Drunk on the taste of Gabban now, feeling it ignite the last fires and causing all of that heat to gather at his nether region. Quickly the hand returned to hold Gabban’s face and Paukka quickly went in for another proper kiss.

[meadowlarksabove]

The waves on the horizon were often furious, but even in their turbulent rage did he feel the breath of the world, the whipping of a light and freeing exhale which’d envigored his spirit in the past. Gabban closed his eyes and let the tide overtake his thoughts. Saltwater swirls then sank away the darkness of the ‘other room’, made of it another shipwreck in the vast and desolate ocean, and secreted the thing away until a piece of debris must someday be dislodged. He only hoped it would surface once he was dead and buried himself, that no one should trace the mass of coral’d filth all the way to his shores. No manner of fish rot was as wretched as his own shame, or as monstrously grotesque. His hands squeezed the other man’s palms briefly, seeking comfort in the marred and tender flesh, in the touch of roughened skin. To him, these were the beautiful hands of compassion and goodwill. 

It took him a moment to understand what had just been said, as he finally opened his eyes, half incredulous of the immense kindness Paukka offered him. He believed in the moral and good nature of their heart above all things, yet he could never believe himself a worthy recipient of such great generosity. Carefully, he shifted in place, trying to catch the truth in their gaze, perhaps the glint of a jest made, not necessarily at his expense, but in the blur of this moment of closeness. Still, when he looked into those dark eyes, he did not find the emptiness of the night sky, but the hardiness of fertile ground. They were being serious with him. They were being honest. 

“Would you really visit the sea with me?” A smile finally broke through the twilight of his mood, killing the last traces of a nightmare that’d wickedly hooked itself onto his flesh. The past was erased briefly, like footprints left along the sand. For the first time in– months– years– his vision was forcibly drawn forward towards the future, followed by a tickle of giddy anticipation. “Traveling together– I want to. I’m holding you to that!” 

He rested his head on their shoulder again, hiding the flush that was surely blooming and spreading across his face more than anything else. The thought of them crossing the land as equals, side by side, was enough to push him to a stupor. To sit by each other and feel the wind grace their skins. Strange, his heart fluttered like a restless bird, not wrestling with the bars of his ribcage, but floundering with joy. This was something to look forward to, to dream of. A new memory unburdened by grief. Not alone, he was not alone. “I could show you how the waves sweep the sand from under your feet and how the water foams.” And would they sit like this on the shore? He grinned to himself, embarrassed by such a thought, but finding himself just as pulled to it…

“Now I'm curious. If you could travel anywhere you wish, where would you go?”

Without knowing, Paukka had received an answer this evening that he had not been looking for. As he sat there and watched the younger man, how he sat there and was seeking closeness, with barely any light left illuminating the world around them but for that single candle dipping everything in a warm shade in contrast to the many shadows now appearing and waiting at the edges for the last source of light to die off. As he sat there and listened to the blond man unravel something that must have been kept hidden away deeply, secured beneath many layers that one for one was undone, not just telling but sharing the meaning of a heart and how it worked and what it meant. It was then when Paukka realized that Angels too could hurt deeply. That their existence could be weighed down by grief and anguish from the burdens they had witnessed or endured. Paukka realized (or was harshly remembered) that angels too were not saved from being mistreated by his kin. Perhaps even more prone to be taken and pulled apart, made-undone. Chained at their bare ankles and wings plucked feather by feather out of sheer curiosity and wonder over something that was too holy to be touched. But man could not keep his hands to himself. Man wanted and needed and took what he desired, and do with it as he saw fit.

His angel had come to him in an hour of need. Evident by the way he had snuck to sit on the bed with him, reach to hold and touch pieces of him (and how he wanted to hold him back. How the want sung in him its choir). How he had asked him of what must be his home, and was truly revealed to be through his sermon. How he spoke of it in such fond memory. The kind of memory pulled at and strung up to brush away and push out others. Pieces of a past strongly anchored within the mind, strong and sturdy and shelter-offering. Paukka could see his angel suffering this same moment and trying not to lose all of himself by reminiscing the one thing that kept him on his feet. His home.

How he could feel it prick the back of his neck. Travel down his spine and surge through his battered body from there, revitalizing and fueling that, boiling anger at whoever had dared damage something so beautiful and so good. That his hands had not been there to catch and string them up, to bring the justice this land so desperately needed but was not granted at every single corner he decided to look. If only he had been there. If only he had been there, then...

           „The sea is quite a bit away from where you've ended up.“

Or where they both had ended up stuck, rather. There was an ugly feeling in his chest. One that he could name and recognized as guilt. For not having been there. For not having stopped what had happened and still be the one to look for to be weak in front of. There was the urge to reach up and touch face of his savior, but he knew better than to, with a hand now so ugly and unable to properly offer gentle touches.

           „If you want, I'll bring you to it. Least I can do.“

[meadowlarksabove]

The hand which had weaved through their hair then gripped and pulled Paukka closer, urging their mouth to never leave him as it traveled across the skin of his neck and graced him with such exquisite kisses. As if they'd been lost at sea for many months, and had finally come upon cherished, dry land. Gabban’s eyes fluttered closed, overtaken by warmth and waves of such pleasure he knew were but the echoes of a divine force. Felt it in the mettle of his bones. This was fated to be, his heart must have known it the moment he’d first laid eyes on Paukka, winding itself around the other man like an indestructible chord. He couldn’t imagine himself being anywhere else but present in this moment, lying beneath these gentle licks, just as the shore welcomed the lapping of a beloved sea. This was his place, his home, right where he was meant to be. 

Their teeth grazed him briefly, sending a surge of nervous and ticklish energy up his spine. He was more than excited at the prospect, the very idea the other man’s set of ivories should clamp around him like an animal in heat. He’d asked to know him better than anyone else in the world, and that included everything base, instinctive, and untamed. The seconds passed, extended even, becoming endless, but also endlessly pleasurable. Until at last they treated his skin to more of their tender delights, and he let out a gasp in broken anticipation. The corners of his lips tugged slightly, amused by the tease. Gabban rather enjoyed it when Paukka surprised him. Only because he could trust their surprises to be safe, benign, nothing that would hurt him (without his asking to). He wrapped his legs tighter around them. using the sheer strength of his thighs to keep them ensnared. 

Then, all at once and without warning, their jaws sank to the side of his throat. The sound that slipped from him was rough, firmly placed between a moan and a yelp, the fretting of an equally savage predator and borne from the chest. Pleasure broke right through him, and cracked what little remained of his civility from whence hunger had lurked in the shadows. Already he felt, and envisioned, the bruise laid on his body with a kind of frenzied joy, knowing himself marked before it had even a chance to purple. He couldn’t wait to admire it in the mirror afterwards, to feel as though there was something beautiful adorning his image, like a necklace bearing their name. No one had ever been so unabashed with him. Up to that point, Gabban had been unworthy of being held in the bare light of the sun. Ranking and legality had only furthered his obstacles to being seen with a partner without their inherent repulsion of him and without their union being a cause for shame. Yet to be stamped with a bite where all could see– claimed recklessly while he also laid surrendering to that beastly act– made him flush a deep shade of red. 

His body now moved to the sway of their rutting, Paukka having grown just as restless in answering the call of their shared lust. Their hands traveled down his back, then settled on his ass, harshly savoring the feeling as he welcomed their next kiss. That, and their grinding, only summoned the want that beckoned, the want that slobbered like a rabid mongrel. He felt the cool touch of a stain forming over the cloth that covered the tip of his dick and swallowed thickly. That’s when he noticed it. How it finally dawned on him how they were still separated by a fine layer of clothes, and that seemed to Gabban an offense of the highest degree. An insult to both his passion and to the rites of his Goddess. It would not stand, he wouldn’t let it. He was still a creature of teeth, claws and feral desire, so he would tear through anything that stood in his lover’s way.  

Both of the legionnaire’s hands strayed from their vice grip on Paukka’s back, quickly clawing at his own underwear, knowing he wouldn’t grieve the splitting of those wretched seams. The tension and release of the fabric as it ripped, the sound of it coming undone, was enough to pull a breath laden with ecstasy. He should have done it sooner, should have paid more attention, but the feeling of being freed from such a wicked burden quickly veered him from his self-criticism. Now he was naked in every sense, his heart open, his mortal frame exposed to the sight of those dark, enchanting eyes. He’d already felt how that strong body pressed heavy over his own, their muscles tensing as they moved and rubbed against his scarred flesh. But now he was truly pressed flush to them entirely and without reservation. His heart thudded wildly in his chest and he threw the shreds out of sight and out of mind.

There was a pause in his movement, hearing what it was he had come to hear. He halted, froze a little on the spot in visible hesitancy at the demand that was made. Contemplating; there was a twitch of his brows and another shift of his facial expression that came as quickly as it was gone again, the beginning signs of sceptical grimace that was not that but another jumble of emotions to hold him back, attempting to tear him from his stupor and end this before it was too late. To not let himself go, not let himself go free and do as he was so full of wanting to do.

Those few words whispered to him that broke him with such force, cracked him open, that it was a miracle he did not start bleeding, that his ribs did not hang out from his flesh and made way for that beating muscle that poured and poured out liters of red and life, to cover and douse Gabban in, to drench and besmear with beautiful skin (because it still was. It still was. Besides the countless merriments and scars. Despite those old wounds and fresher ones having left their lasting mark. He was so beautiful. Laid bare and pure and not hiding himself behind reserve and clothing). To leave his own mark, blasphemous as it as, and selfish, if he truly was to drench this man in all of his blood, to die out above that saint, that earth-come heaven. Yet as all sinners he was lulled and lured by that forbidden apple, that fruit that would take from him his right to eden. Lying there so beautifully, so tender and dear, so hunger-driving and need-embolding that his breathing resumed to come heavy. Each huff heavy with a want.

The hardness that had momentarily returned to his face was gone again. He could not hold ont it, as he could not his logic and his reason. All was thrown out of the window. Paukka could not deny himself the hunger and the desire, to feel and touch and have, to make feel and give. He could not deny his own bodily reactions further blooming to the responses they were given by that of Gabban, as he could not drown out the animal want to mount, to become one and fill, and be one even through it. In this moment it felt to him as though all his life's purpose was this. To be good for Gabban. To feel him and have him feel bliss. To make waves of pleasure ebb and flow throughout his body. La petite mort. To die together and be made anew. Who would not want that? Who would not want that? Who would not want to give themselves so this saint could shed his skin, try anew? He looked at Gabban and could not stop asking himself.

Paukka knew he was a bad man. He knew deep down that no matter how much he tried making it sound sweet and poetic, he was just a selfish man. Selfish and needy and so horny that he could literally feel his synapses dying. Even if he was convinced of what he thought, that Gabban deserved to be treated like that saint that he was – it were not his hands that should give that to him. He, who had not been used and manipulated to fight a war, but who had it done on his own accord and so willingly, knowing what war meant. He who had all the choices and enough reason, only to still settle with a gun in his hands. Pulling the trigger. He was worse. _He was worse.

And here he was, being horrible. Pressing down more on the other man, shifting his weight to pin in madened want and blooming obsession. He was so horny it must have been straining him of his last bit of sense. Uncomfortably so. With how hard he had become within mere seconds after hearing Gabban's words. Another huff and his mouth had found the delicacy that was the Legionaire's throat; pressing an open-mouthed kiss to it before gracing it with his tongue, before licking along it lavishly and taking a sweet moment doing it. To treat it tenderly before his teeth followed. Because they did, a second after. Ghosting at first, then... no. He could not decide, it seemed, because another kiss was placed and this time he started sucking on it, that fair and soft skin. Sucked and licked and kissed, until too much steam had collected in his chest and another gear was lodged into position. Luring an incomprehensible grunt from the taller one before he bit. Down. Two rows of perfect white teeth sinking into the side of Gabban's neck, and remaining. To further mark the spot his lips had, bruised and now imprinted, and the act alone seemed to rile up Paukka even further, because his shifting above Gabban grew a little more restless then.

There he was, rutting. Continuing to rub up hardened bugle greedily against that of the blond, despite there still being fabric separating them. Not easing on his obvious urges, all uncivilized and instinctive. Impatient but not having the time to strip them both down. Another shift and he no longer used his hands nor arms to support himself, let them sink and himself lie down in full, pinning the Legionnaire underneath him solely with his weight. His hands did not remain idle, though. Led by hunger they pried their way beneath and under Gabban on hip level. Eagerly feeling up the small of his back, sliding lower, until his fingers snuck beneath that same fabric that was keeping them separated. Without hesitating he grabbed the ass of the blond, squeezing it. Letting go of the throat he turned his head, already searching to involve Gabban in another eager kiss. He wanted all of him but at the same time, drag it out. So it would last as long as it could. So that perhaps they would never stop, loving one another so intimately.

[meadowlarksabove]

What is Gabban's defence, being told that he is completely filling Paukka's mind? Rewiring this man's brain? Making him mad with want and love? He has so much power over him.

🌊🐚🎵🎶

He’s too busy placing a kiss on the other’s cheek to properly defend himself, too busy embracing, and with pressing his body to theirs. Feeling himself pulled with the roll of the tide. If he could speak or even think of anything beyond their touch he might have argued they were both in the presence of Her laughter-loving grace. That while She had come with the fierceness of an infectious fever, She had also made of their minds (his and Paukka’s alike) the foundation of Her temple. What bliss! What pure and incandescent happiness! 

How could he make the other understand without devolving to a chain of endless prayers? Or rites which would span far across the centuries? There wasn’t enough time, space, or words in his head to make the mystery of this union any clearer. Only that it existed and flourished as life itself. 

“If I were a bell you would be the sound that fills and flows through me. Without you there is no music.” Gabban cupped their face tenderly, his eyes alight with the candor of his worship. “You are all the love in me.”

[meadowlarksabove]