#you cannot contain his divinity with '''''clothes'''''. that's what he thinks.

[ynyaan]

𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 ⚔ | 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 ࣪𖤐

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ♕

𝙇𝙤𝙠𝙞 𝙭 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩-𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 | 𝙛𝙚𝙢!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

Summary: Loki didn’t lack in giving you anything. He was attentive to your needs and is a surprisingly good lover. Alas, his endless gifts and spoilings leave you feeling guilty for receiving so much. You have never asked for anything specifically until one day; you had an ache to take something of his. “I must not be doing my job right if my love still wants something?”

.ᐟ 𝙁𝙡𝙪𝙛𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙩𝙩𝙤𝙣

...

Loki has never failed to give you anything. Actually, most of his gifts are of his own accord. From silver jewelry to gems of every color, he gave whenever he could. You have always been grateful for it, but constantly receiving gifts knowing you can never repay them, leaves a bubbling guilt inside your stomach.

“Loveee!” A cheerful voice enters the living room. You were sat on the kitchen counter eating fruits while the large television played a nostalgic show.

“Loki, you’re back!” You grin. A smile you will forever greet him with everytime he comes back unscathed.

“Of course. I have a gift to present my divine goddess.” Loki motioned to his hand. A pink paper bag he had held tightly was now waving at your face. An excited ‘Oh’ formed at your lips as you grab whatever is inside. A soft texture arrives at your touch as you take it out. It was a fluffy textured box usually containing rings.

“Loki…” You began, “I told you, I dont need THIS many gifts! You’ve given more than enough!” You try to protest, but a hand to your face stopped your antics.

“Darling, I will spoil you as I please.”

“Yes but why must all of them be top-grade? Treasures that I cannot repay!” You pouted, your eyebrows pressed together.

Loki grabbed your cheek and caressed it softly. “I will only ever give you gifts worth your time, sweetheart.” Before you could exchange another sentence of no’s, the phone ringing suddenly filled the room with a repetitive chime.

Loki released his hold on you and walked further away to pick up his phone. He was speaking but it was inaudible. His facial expression created tension among his bones. Instead of wondering what they were discussing about, you instead took in Loki’s length and the extent of his obsession with coats. His pants that were worn out from battle and a dagger…

A dagger that shone gold and green, attached to his boots. The pocket being sheer enough to see through the detail of the weapon. It was by far, one of the most gorgeous daggers you’ve seen Loki owned. It’s silver hilt that had ‘LOKI’ engraved in little letters.

“(y/n)?” Your head snaps back to Loki walking to you.

“So? What do you think of the gift?” He grins, all the stress from his face faded away without a trace.

You nod, “its beautiful, of course. I love it. Thank you Loki.”

Days flew by, yet the ache in your heart would not stop bubbling. Your mind had an itch you could not satisfy, a picture popping up in your mind the moment your eyes fluttered close.

You wanted that dagger. To use something of Loki’s, something flashy yet something soft to your touch. Unfortunately, you would rather go mute than ever ask anything from him. He has simply given you way too much, things and memories you simply cannot repay.

“Somethings wrong.”

His voice snapped your train of thought. The fruits you've been cutting have taken you atleast 20 minutes already. You hum in response before feeling his arms wrap around your waist behind you. “Tell me what it is that troubles you, my sweet.”

You bit your lip. Why on earth do you even wish for that stupid dagger? Your vanity table that had trinkets and jewelry in every box and corner, your closet filled with every type of clothing all painted in your favorite colors. Why do you want something of his? Something you barely would use anyway!

“I-,” you shut your eyes tight. Unable to keep the frustration in.

“Go ahead.” Loki snuggles his face onto the crook of your neck. He tightens his grip, encouraging you to go on.

“I- um, whew, I want…I mean, Ive been wanting something.” You sigh in relief, glad you could finish your sentence.

Loki releases his hold on you, turns you so that you are met with his face. His eyebrows is raised and a grin is formed by his lips. He chuckles lightly, “You want something…” he buries himself on your shoulder. This might just be the first time you actually ask for something specific from the God of Mischief.

“I must not be doing my job right if my love still wants something?” He teased, yet your feelings wavered. How could he think he’s not doing his ‘job’ right when he’s actually given way too much?

A louder chuckle escapes his lips as you feel him grin against you. “I had simply meant that I hoped to give you the world.” He whispers softly, enough for you to hear.

He faces you now, grabbing you on both your shoulders. “Tell me, my sweet, sweet, lover.” He puts his point finger under your chin and tilts it slightly higher. “What is it that you wish for?”

You lowered your head realizing how ridiculous your next words will sound, wanting such a simple thing yet asking for it sheepishly. “…dagger.”

Loki’s eyes lit up. He raises his hand and suddenly something shone brightly from it, he had summoned the exact dagger you wanted.

“Im glad it caught your eye. Its a special design you see, something unique from all the others.” He grabs your hand and places the dagger inside of it just before kissing your fingers.

“Remember, everything I have is yours and soon enough, I will have, the nine realms.” You nod as you clutched his new gift.

“Thank you, it truly is magnificent.”

𝙒𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙥𝙖𝙙: Star (@_ynyaan) ───⋆⋅☆⋅⋆── 𝐼'𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓎𝑜�� 𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓇 <𝟥

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

**Cultivating Love**58**

**The problem with divine peaches after having your divine peach plundered and now your fiancé wants to go on a trip to his home clan** prt 3**

A second physicians visit and only echoed what Lance had been by the palace physician and firmly supported his belief that medicine within the cultivation realm needed an overhaul. Nausea, lack of appetite, stomach cramping, and increased sensitivities were common symptoms of a number of things. Not that he was with child. Keith had laughed so hard that Lange had smacked him for it. Such a ridiculous notion would have spread through the whole clan quickly if they had not had privacy. A small house hidden behind thick camellia shrubs, whose delicate scent soothed his agitation. He did not understand the Black Wolf Clan. Not in the slightest. Whispers followed his little family around, many a wife eyeing Keith as a suitable mate for their daughter, whilst giving him the cold shoulder.

Nipping at his bare shoulder, Keith was insatiable. Having done it enough that he was pestered, not flattered, by Keith’s attentions. Each time they’d met someone knew Keith had made sure to introduce him as his “fiancé Lance”, though with how often they’d done it, Lance was sure that people didn’t need a disclaimer when he was so soaked in Keith’s scent. His mate failing at reading the mood as Lance sipped his tea and mentally rewrote how he intended to write up the clan physician over his wrong prognosis

“No more. Behave yourself or I will have to be cross”

“I cannot keep my hands off of you… You do not need to be so mad”

“I do when your village lacks basic health services. Were you listening to his words? I wanted to hit him. You don’t need to do anything to encourage him either”

“Maybe I like it when you’re cranky with me?”

Keith said it as if it were a good thing. Lance had thought his temper would return to normal after expelling all the demonic energy from his body. Instead he was still short tempered, easily annoyed, and cranky at himself for it. He felt completely out of place, not a wolf and not an outsider either, but a little of both at the same time. He’d allowed Keith to pack for him and was now finding that Keith had packed all of his best clothes, leaving him further to stand out and almost yell that he was clueless. On top of the fact he’d insulted their hosts. Wolves were very proud and any offers of help were a deep insult. He didn’t know how not to offer his help. Not when the clan seemed to be doing well and he wanted to show his gratitude in some way for the use of the little house when he couldn’t offer actual assistance.

Sighing heavily, Lance threw his head back to smack Keith in the nose, not hard enough to make it bleed yet hard enough to stop him nosing his neck

“Don’t. I mean, I don’t want to be cranky at you so do not tempt me. If I’m acting out it could mean that I am not as clean of corruption as I believe myself to be. Though right now, little Keith is to blame. What kind of a wolf attacks a man once he’s done cleaning himself up?”

Determined to continue his clingness, Lance gave up on Keith giving him space as his mate slipped his arms around him

“I’m sorry. I know you’re ill, but you’re also incredibly attractive when you walk around half dressed”

“Oh, so otherwise I’m not?”

“No! I mean, you are. I’ll try contain myself more”

“That’d be appreciated. I still haven’t gotten the feel of the tribe and I doubt Kang will be happy that I was unavailable due to illness”

“Who cares about him?”

“Me. At least until he agrees to the proposal laid forth. Compared to how things were, I’m missing the demon realm. Not the fighting for my life thing, but the lack of paperwork. I would murder for an actually relaxing holiday with you and little Shiro”

“We could ignore the wishes of the other masters?”

Lance chuckled at the thought before thinking of the paperwork and wrinkling his nose. He was being too impatient with Keith. Not ever touch meant sex, even if Keith was acting in a manner he would call sexual, his poor wolf was probably projecting his past fears onto Lance the only way he knew how

“They’ll only keep adding to it. I’m sorry for being in a mood. I know you’re all over the place returning here, and I know the masters shouldn’t have added work, even if we had our own reasons to accept. I want to be accepted here, as your mate and as a fox. To be honest, I am struggling. I think that’s part of it all. I’m overdressed, anxious, ill and cranky… and you come along solving all my troubles with kisses, but what do I do for you?”

“You’re here with me”

“Shiro could have been here with you too. Two years a captive, they’re all thinking it, and that my freedom came at the cost of him”

Lance had been too honest. Wishing he could return the words to his mouth as soon as they’d slipped out. Despite being comfortably sat in the edge of the veranda, Keith hefted him back into his lap and buried his face against Lance’s shoulder. Lance proud to have not spilt his tea, which would only have made it all more awkward and added to his embarrassment

“I’m sorry I’m not him either… yet I am glad you’re here. I’m sorry that you worry about what they think, you worry so much about me and all I was thinking about was showing you off”

“No, I shouldn’t have said what I said. I mean, I miss him… I’ve been ill, yet if he were here, he would haven’t been. I don’t want to do anything that embarrasses you”

“You don’t embarrass me. Embarrassing was the first time you kissed Shiro, not getting a little sick while we were walking”

Lance closed his eyes. Keith was terrible at picking the right words to comfort him. Especially at the memory of that kiss

“You aren’t supposed to still remember that”

“How could I forget? You charged off on the battlefield trying to get yourself killed so you would not have to face Shiro again”

“What do you expect? You were there. I kissed him and zapped him at the same time. I made his fringe stand on end. I’m not sure who was more shocked”

“Shiro. His hair said as much. It’s a cute memory”

“It’s cute if you don’t go into the details. Besides, he was exhausted and worried for you and then suddenly I was kissing him”

“And the second you left I had to stop him charging right after you to ask you out”

Lance opened his eyes. He’d heard the story enough times he could relay it from the three perspectives

“If you hadn’t gone and got caught up in your own flames, we wouldn’t have been so worried. You singed your own hair. I thought for sure you’d be badly burned”

“And I thought for sure that you wouldn’t wish for two wolves as mates. Shiro worried for you so much”

“And you. He picked two hard mates with frightful powers. I thought him the most beautiful graceful master to have ever existed. We were all so jealous of how pretty he was and that everyone else had Iverson”

“And what did you think after you kissed him?”

“That I couldn’t believe I’d made such a mistake. You and Shiro were so beautiful and I felt so foolish worrying… and I was so sure that Shiro would hate me. He pretended not to know me because I treated you so poorly in the past. I don’t blame him. I was horrible”

Reaching up, Keith took the tea cup from Lance’s hand, setting it next to them both, before taking Lance’s hand in his

“Not on that battlefield you weren’t. Nor the one before it, or the one before that, and so on. I was mad at you for joining the Emperor’s army, sure that you had done it to continue pestering me. Then I saw how much you cared. How much you put into each fight. I was so confused that Shiro laughed and told me I had feelings for you. We only took a dozen battles to be on the same page and a dozen more to share our first kiss. It was because of you that I confessed to Shiro I felt confused because I felt like that with him and you. Then you kissed him and it clicked that maybe we could be together as a trio. He was so conflicted too”

“I think Shiro was conflicted to the very end”

Keith interlaced their fingers, bringing Lance’s hand up to kiss the back of it

“Why do you say that? He did make his choice”

“He did and he regretted it. That night never healed for any of us. He was afraid and ashamed of his own failings, and then everything started changing so he dug his heals in to stop it and it all fell apart. I thought to myself at least a hundred times that I would not love him again. Even his sincere apology and making love to him… I love and hate him and I miss him. By heavens I miss him. I miss him. I miss talking to him. When he would lay with his head in my lap and ask my day. Or he would get excited when I learned something and shared it. We went from master and student to lovers to master and student over and over. My memories started coming back too. And at the palace it’s so comforting but it’s also not. Why did he not love me right?”

As Lance started crying, Keith turned him, folding him in his lap so his legs were over Keith’s and his side to Keith’s chest. The hand he’d interlaced their fingers with now kept his hand to his stomach while Keith’s other hand cupped his cheek as Keith started rocking him, nuzzling and kissing Lance’s hair line

“I miss him too. He was so damn proud. Too proud. I can’t forgive him much either and I do at the same time. I hate all the unsaid and I swear sometimes I will hear him call my name. I want the anger to leave. I want to go back to before Adam was reborn and you were injured, yet I knew before I left that wanted to marry you, and I swear upon the heavens that my four months apart were spent making sure that my heart and my head aligned. You were special to him. He would talk on and on about you when we would leave. Sometimes I was indeed very jealous”

“See. It is my fault. Had I never been wounded…”

Keith shushed him gently and cut him off

“No. You are brave. You always do the right thing in your heart and you tolerated things for so long. I was too complacent. Me. I took you waiting at home for our return for granted. And I drugged Shiro so I might not have to see him until I saw you. I robbed you of those months we could have had to fix things”

“But I had never left…”

“Nothing would have changed. You were so very ill. I’m trying not to let that cloud my worry now but I am. You’re a brave little thing”

Lance snorted wetly. Shiro loved to tell him he was. He really could have used a hug from Shiro… and less talk about the embarrassment of his first kiss with Shiro out of sheer relief that Shiro and Keith were both okay. They’d all kept up such a facade, expected by them, at the palace yet he’d gotten to know them for real away from it and he’d fallen head over heels before his heart knew what was happening. Shiro had… Shiro had been so dazzling that Lance had kissed him, then too dazzling to talk to until Shiro tracked him down to return the kiss

“I’m a crying mess. No general sobs like a baby”

“No general still has a kind heart in the face of all we see”

“You’re being too kind. I really am sick of myself being up and down”

“You’ll figure it out. Are you still craving divine peaches?”

Sniffling valiantly, Lance nodded

“Yes. Though I know we have none left”

“No, but if we leave here and head for the royal palace we can get our hands on some”

“We can’t do that. You haven’t shown me your childhood home and I need to pay my respects to your father”

“We can do that today and leave this night”

“But the masters…”

“Can’t tell us off if they cannot find us”

“And Kang? Our plans for the clan?”

“Mean nothing if my mate is worrying himself because of me. I think you should listen to what your body is telling you. If it’s telling you to eat peaches, we’ll go get peaches”

“And if it’s telling me that I love you?”

“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to take you to bed and mark my beautiful fiancé until the whole village knows exactly what we do alone. You know, the demon king tournament will be approaching soon. What do you say we turn it into an extended holiday? Krolia would love to see you too”

Lance sighed, Keith was far too tempting with his sweet words

“We can’t. I’m not riding across the realm because I am ill. You won’t lead me astray, oh great fiancé of mine. We must stay and deal with Kang”

“Then I want a promise in return”

“What?”

“I get one wish once we are done with Kang. One wish to spend how I please without you telling me off. The old man makes me miserable and in return I won’t set him on fire. But only if you agree”

“You said you would behave as it was”

“Then consider this a reminder. If I’m a good cultivator and don’t lose my temper, you will grant me one wish, otherwise I do not know what I may do”

Lance knew Keith would wish to go to the royal palace for peaches. That’s who he was. Lance would need to remind of the terms of this wish when Keith came to making good on it

“You can have one wish. But that wish must be utterly selfish and no one expect for you may benefit from it”

“I can live with that”

“Then you have a deal. But that doesn’t get you out of showing me your childhood home”

“Oh, we’re going tonight. I’ve got a surprise for you and you can only see it at night”

*

Following Keith through the village at night, Lance worried for little Shiro. Their son bundled in a blanket to keep him warm in the cold night air. In the dead of the night Lance felt like a thief. As if they were doing something very wrong, yet with the promise of seeing Keith’s childhood home, he’d not raised protest with their excursion.

Towards the back of the village we’re sharp cliffs, a path barely wide enough for a horse the only indication something lay beyond. Keith keeping a slow pace for him, a ball of flame within his right palm to light the way, and his left hand hovering to help Lance keep his steps. Even a small fall would result in injury, he’d scraped his wrist carelessly in protection of little Shiro as it was, and the same damn illness that had plagued him sat low in his stomach as if he’d swallowed a fistful of nettles. He knew Keith had lived in isolation, yet he hadn’t thought isolation would be this… isolated.

Continuing through the narrow pass, Keith stopped as the sharp walls gave way to inky darkness

“Hold on a moment. I need to find it”

Biting his lip, Lance squatted down, making as if he was fussing over their little boy. Anything to shift the pain in his stomach. Turning the light away, Keith felt along the rock wall, needing a few very long moments before pulling something from a small crevice. Holding something over his flame, there was a small crackle and the scent of something burning, before Keith was turning back to him, smiling softly at the thing in his hand, then frowning at the look of him

“Lance?”

Drawing himself back up, Lance kept his face down and slightly turned away so that Keith couldn’t see his expression. The cramping would pass. It always did. And now Keith seemed excited

“I’m okay. What do you have there?”

“My father made this… it… the desert can be big and scary. So he made me this to lead me home”

Hiking little Shiro up, Lance looked over him to the pendant in Keith’s hand. He couldn’t see much in the dim light, only the soft green glow and shadows of the pendant

“What’s it doing here?”

“I left it here. When I left with Shiro the first time, I was sure he’d send me back. Everyone gave up so I left it here so I could get back home… Kang didn’t like me coming out here. Said I was insulting the good will of everyone else. No one knew what to do with me and…”

Keith was beginning to babble. Reaching out Lance placed his hand over the pendant. The magic there was weak, yet even with all this time, he could feel love lingering

“He loved you. You were a child and they failed you, not you them. I may be biased but I can tell a spell when I see one. He loved you very much. You should keep this treasure closer to you, because I feel he never wanted you to let it go”

Keith ducked his head, coming back up with a smile that made Lance feel blessed to see it

“Maybe this time I won’t leave it behind… You can’t really see it, but he carved a wolf’s head for me too… and there’s a K for Keith”

“He would have been so proud of you. I wish I could go in time and thank him for you. I wish that we could have spoken and that I could go back and hit my old self for all the wrongs I did”

“All those wrongs aren’t right, but I forgive you for those things in our past. They should stay there. And thank you, Lance. If you hadn’t given me another shot in the demon realm… well… it hasn’t been easy, but we made it eventually. It’s mating season for the desert rays so everyone stays away… I’m not saying this right, it’ll be easier to show you”

Keith hadn’t said it right, he’d made Lance’s brain hurt, yet it was alright with how cute Keith was acting in excitement

“You’d better not get us lost now you’ve found your treasure again”

“I won’t. Here, it’s a drop down to the next step, let me help you”

Making the mistake of letting his precious treasure too close to their son, Keith had to negotiate the return of the stone from little Shiro, now coated with the babe’s saliva. Lance had nearly lost his temper the moment little Shiro had put it in his mouth, instantly feeling ashamed he’d nearly yelled at the baby boy. Keith had laughed. Despite how precious the stone pendant was, his mate had laughed, then taken the stone back and reduced little Shiro to tears. Holding Keith’s arm, Lance had had to sing their baby back to sleep, not wanting little Shiro to cry too loudly when they were alone in an unknown environment.

With the levelness of the terrain, Lance would call, what Keith called a desert, a sand plain due to the lack of dunes. Silence sat between them with Lance unable to find the right words to prompt Keith to tell him more about his childhood. It was easy enough to imagine little Keith in the village stealing bread. He would have been such a handful, surely biting whoever would catch him, then kicking them in the shin before making a run for it. The children seemed to be treated well in the clan now, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t room for improvement.

Thinking too soon, they came to a steep slope. Keith extinguishing the ball of flame and bathing them in darkness just when Lance needed him not to. Stumbling, his mate plucked little Shiro from his arms before they could both fall

“I’ve got him. Take it slow, it’ll be worth it when you see it”

After all the walking they’d done, Lance sorely hoped so. He thought they were following the stone to Keith’s childhood home, not to slopes of doom

“Alright, but don’t blame me if I smack you when we got to the top”

“You won’t. We had to take a deviation, but I promise it’s worth it”

And it was. Reaching the top of the slope, before him was a swirling scene of browns and golds. When Keith had said desert rays, he’d thought they’d be small. Not massive creatures large enough to comfortably stand upon their backs. Rising and falling, they moved as if the air was water, swimming on unseen ripples

“They only get like this during mating season. Kang closes the pass to everyone, not that they come out here, and when he mentioned not to bother coming out I knew it must be the season. They’re big bastards, with a barb as big as you, but they don’t get angry if you don’t interrupt them. Pretty amazing isn’t it?”

Lance didn’t know rays like this still existed. They really were amazing

“I would expect something like this in the demon realm, not here. You never told me they were this big”

“I remembered them smaller”

“A bit like how you remembered the fish bigger?”

Keith groaned at him, Lance sliding his arm around him as he did

“I’m teasing, my love. Did you show this to Shiro when you two came?”

“No. He didn’t want to come out here at night…”

“He was probably smarter than we are. Shall we sit for a bit? They’re kind of magical to watch”

Keith huffed at him as if they didn’t have time to sit and rest

“I want to take you to the house”

Even if Keith didn’t need a break, Lance did. Sitting down, he kept his gaze on the scene below. The space must have been solely for breeding, and like birds they returned year after year. Something so pretty would have been lost forever if Zarkon had ever seen them

“Fool, if we’re going back down that slope, you can at least let me catch my breath. I think these rays are big enough to ride upon. You should have given me more warning”

“I’ve done that before. Ride them. It’s not a pleasant feeling”

Unable to tell if Keith was joking or not, Lance tugged on his robe. His mate finally sitting next to him

“I’ve been wracking my brain trying to ask you about your childhood on the walk out here and now I don’t know if you’re lying or not”

“I guess you’ll never know. I wanted you to see this. I think my father would bring me out to see them. Some of the wolves have had run ins with them before, and there used to be a trade network through here. The house isn’t too far from here. Shiro put a barrier over it, but I’m guessing it won’t be there anymore seeing he isn’t. It might not be much more than rubble by now”

“Or it could still stand. Either way, I’m honoured that you’d share this with me. This place is precious to you, even the clan. I know how poorly they treated you, yet I know how much you care. Tonight we’ll sleep there, then tomorrow we’ll go pay our respects to your father. I hope I make a good impression”

Keith leaned into him, kissing Lance’s shoulder before settling

“I’m sure you will. We have a lot to tell him… Little Shiro too”

“He’s bound to drool over everything. I’m sure he gets his drooling from you”

“I’ve never met a baby who drools as much”

“You’ve never met many babies. Should I take him back?”

“No. I find myself wanting to spend this moment with my family a little longer”

“Alright. Let the make the most of it. Who knows how many more moments we will have?”

Raising his head, Keith kissed Lance’s cheek

“A lifetime. And the next. The four of us will surely meet again”

There were three of them there. Did Keith mean he hoped for the reincarnation of his father? Lance questioning

“Four?”

“Or should I say five? That little one inside you. Shiro. Adam. You. Me. I think it would be a fine life to be together in the next life”

Groaning at the not so funny joke, there was no child within his belly

“Four, Keith. Four. And I see you’ve come round to introducing Shiro to Adam in this life”

“I know I would never convince you otherwise. Besides, I have to tease you as much as I can, my pregnant fiancé”

“Keep this up and I will take little Shiro and leave”

“Somehow I do not see that happened”

Keith was right. He wouldn’t up and leave with their son. Instead he cuddled into his mate, watching the show the desert rays were gifting them.

[godsofhumanity]

⚝──⭒─ 30 DAY HC’S | OURANOS ─⭒──⚝

OURANOS | his skin is a dark tan. there are pale swirls of a sky blue colour that wrap around his neck, shoulders and arms, and around his thighs down to his feet. he has long, choppy white hair- rough, and untamed. his eyes are like amethysts. his face is well-defined- his cheekbones and jaw are sharp and strong. he is tall, and athletic, leaning towards the more muscular side.

┍━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☟━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┑

something i've already said a few times is that i really like the idea that Ouranos was the very first creation of the gods. before Gaia created Ouranos, none of the primordials had ever made anything.

as such, i don't think Gaia created Ouranos consciously. i think she was lonely and she wanted someone to be with her,, and in her desperation, she created a being entirely devoted to her, "a perfect fit on all sides"- and that was Ouranos.

i have this image in my head of Ouranos being born from the gathering of clouds around the peak of the highest mountain... and when he was formed, there was all lightning and thunder, and the Earth trembled before him.

because Gaia created Ouranos unwittingly, i think she also unintentionally bestowed upon him great power. even though Ouranos isn't a primordial, i think he has power on par with them.

i don't think that Ouranos was ever a child. i think from the moment he was born, he was fully formed.

i also don't think anyone ever named him "King of the Cosmos". it was a title he just assumed. i mean, i don't think i've ever heard anyone call Gaia the "Queen of the Cosmos", even though technically she must have been if she was Ouranos' wife.

adding onto this, i think that Ouranos is extremely... arrogant. he's very full of himself. very confident in his abilities.

he's the personification of the Heavens.. so i imagine him to be an immensely proud god. he sees himself as invincible. as the god of gods.

in an earlier point i said that Ouranos was created to be entirely devoted to Gaia. and i think he took that extremely literally.

with Ouranos, i believe that what he calls "love" is actually "possession"... "obsession" even. he doesn't believe in autonomy. he was made for Gaia, and in his head, Gaia was made for him- they are inseparable.. he belongs to her, and she to him. Heaven and Earth, joined in union.

because of this belief, i think that Ouranos' primary reason for existing is to be with Gaia. there is no other goal more important for him... and i say this because i think it explains why Ouranos treats his children so badly.

when the Titans are born, Ouranos worries that Gaia is going to be spending time with them. he worries that Gaia isn't going to give him all her love anymore.. his children are his competition.

but the Titans are very small compared to Ouranos,, and he himself is still new to the whole fatherhood business, so i think he lets it slide at first. Gaia assures him that he is not going to be replaced. and Ouranos believes her.

from the start, i don't think Ouranos ever wanted to be a father. he only ever wants to be with Gaia. but i don't think it's the same for Gaia. she loves Ouranos of course, but she wants something more- she wants to create life, she wants to explore, she wants to do many things, and she still needs her independency. and this is where they fall out.

when the Cyclopes are born, they are powerful. a lot more powerful than the Titans. and Ouranos knows this. he sees Gaia with her new children and she's having fun. she's happy. and it's not because of Ouranos.

i think this pisses him off. he throws them into Tartarus in a rage because he's scared that Gaia might actually not need him in order for her to be happy... and if that's the case, then what was he born for? what's his purpose?

when Gaia finally rallies the Titans together to kill Ouranos, i think he feels a deep sense of betrayal. i think it's confusing for him because at this point.. he hates Gaia, but he loves her. he wants to kill her, but he also wants to kiss her.

also another thing- in Hesiod's Theogony, Ouranos is castrated. i think this is really the final blow for him- his castration, at the hands of his own children no less, symbolises his dethronement. the power that he thought he had is completely and utterly destroyed.

i think the castration part is really important because Cronus doesn't get castrated in the traditional myth when it's his time to get KO'd by his son. why? why Ouranos and not Cronus? well, my hc is that because Ouranos was so proud,, because he believed so much in his own potency and power,, he had to lose it. it's not the act of physically losing his organ.. it's the phallic imagery that surrounds it- the idea that he doesn't have power anymore. the ultimate power is that which creates life,, and he doesn't even have that anymore. the Heavens, which covers the whole Earth, doesn't have the power to create life. to rule. he's not the King. it's different from Cronus who, in my interpretation, did wicked things because he thought he was doing the right thing- there was still a sense of nobility and honour.

in Greek mythology, gods never die. but i think for Ouranos, that final battle certainly felt like death... in the end, he is left with nothing,, nothing at all except his words,, and as the story goes,, he curses his loathed son Cronus with a cruel fate- to be destroyed by his son as Ouranos was betrayed by his.

i have another hc here- and that is that the curse wasn't really about making sure that Cronus got his ass handed to him by his own son- i think the true curse was that he'd be betrayed by Rhea, the one he loved, the way Ouranos was betrayed by Gaia. that's the true tragedy.

after Ouranos is castrated, my hc is that he was probably imprisoned, perhaps in Tartarus. but tbh, i think he assumes an intangible form. he goes into a stasis.

┕━━━━━━━━━━━━━☝︎━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┙

[dragonmasterkaylz]

Wife of Poseidon

WARNING: Contains Smut, Rape & Brutal Murder. If you are sensitive to these topics or under the age of 18, don’t read. Also, if my interpretation of Poseidon is a little off, I do apologise. And he is a little (very) yandere in this. This also contains a character of my own making… so if you don’t like that, don’t read it.

Within Poseidon’s Palace, lives a beautiful woman with gorgeous blue hair that almost sparkled in the light. Her eyes matched the blue of the ocean and her body was so voluptuous, only wearing a white bodysuit with golden accents and pale blue jewels on her collar and her hips. Along with gloves and matching stockings, a sheer blue material connecting her outfit together and trailing behind her. Her name is Aquamarie and she was Poseidon’s Queen.

She was beyond beautiful in Poseidon’s eyes and the perfect Queen for him due to her Humility and Kindness. And no one was allowed to look directly at his Queen unless they wanted their head to leave their shoulders. The God wasn’t necessarily worried that another man would steal his Queen from him, especially since she had already pledged her loyalty to him and loved him unconditionally. He just didn’t want his beautiful wife to be tainted with another ones gaze, especially from his servants.

She walked down the Palace, and into the Throne Room, only to find a bunch of dead servants and her angry husband. ‘Oh dear! Isn’t it too early for this?! I only just woke up!!!’ She ran over to him and asked, “What happened?!!” He looked at his wife and gently stroked her cheek, making her blush and smile under his gentle touch. “They were tainting you with their with words of lust and perversion, thinking I wouldn’t hear them. Anyone who thinks like that about you must be taken out… no questions asked. Now, let’s leave… I wouldn’t want their blood to taint your loveliness”, he told her.

The other Gods believed that Poseidon was actually using Aquamarie more as his property than his actual wife. But the truth was far sweeter. She is the only woman that understands him, the only woman to love him for the brutal God he is, and the only woman he could love. Which is exactly the reason why he wouldn’t want anyone to taint her with their disgusting words, touch or even sight. This was just in his nature, to keep his wife from experiencing anything he deemed unworthy of her.

“Poseidon… you really must stop killing our servants though, or else you won’t have any left. Next time, just try throwing them in the dungeon”, she suggested. He hummed and asked, “Do you disagree with my methods?” She sighed and gently placed her hands on his chest before saying, “Of course not. But you should think about this logically. You cannot always resort to violence when things start to displease you.” He hummed and walked past her before saying, “You know I cannot do that my love. There are reasons for my titles, and I cannot throw that away by suddenly becoming merciful.”

Aquamarie stood next to him in silence and he looked at her before suddenly stopping in his tracks. “Hm…?” She stopped and turned back to look at him. His stance was almost as solid as rock, but she giggled when she saw the softness in his eyes… as well as the slight blush in his cheeks. She placed her arms around him and then kissed him gently. Poseidon closed his eyes and kissed her back, making every servant watch. He only had one weakness and that was the beautiful woman in his arms. No one would think that ‘The Most Fearsome God’ had a soft side and that’s because only his wife saw it. If anyone else did… they were killed.

“I’m sorry… I should’ve kissed you as soon as I saw you”, she said with blush coating her cheeks. He then whispered in her ear, “That’s going to cost you later, my beloved.” Then he held her hand and walked to the meeting room, where many other Olympian Gods and Goddesses were. Hermes bowed respectfully in their presence and then said, “Lady Aquamarie, I have tea and cakes laid out for you.” She smiled happily and said, “Thank you Hermes~!” And then she took her seat next to her husband before looking happily at her spread. “I see that your wife has a sweet tooth, brother!”, Zeus said with a smirk. “Hmph.” “Silent as ever I see.”

After the meeting was over, Poseidon walked out with his wife, who was still eating cake. “Hmm~, delicious~!” He looked at her and sighed before grabbing her chin, making her look at him. “You’re a messy eater…”, he said to her before licking her chin and then her lips. She blushed heavily and finished eating, before looking up at him. “Hm… not my first choice. But it’s not bad either”, he said to her before walking away. “H-Hey…! You can’t just do something like that and then walk away as if nothing happened!”, she protested. He chuckled at the claim she was making and then said, “Don’t dawdle then… come here if you want me to pleasure you but also punish you for not kissing me as soon as you woke up.”

Hours later, in the bedroom, Poseidon had his wife begging for mercy under his surprisingly gentle touch. He had already cum inside of her multiple times but he didn’t let her cum once, overstimulating her. Aquamarie begged and begged as he trusted into her while playing with her clit, making her scream out. He smirked and kissed her neck as he used his other hand to squeeze her breast. “M-My Lord… Poseidon~…! I’m begging you…!!! It won’t happen again…!!! Let me cum~…!!!”, she begged as she leaned her head back on his shoulder. Poseidon loved the fact that his wife was a masochist, but even he knew that she had her limits. She tried to stop herself, but she started to squirt into his hand. He smirked and whispered, “Don’t you dare… not until I finish inside of you again, my dearest.”

She screamed as she was put onto her hands and knees. He spanked her a few times, making sure red marks were present on her. Then he held her hips pretty hard, hoping bruises would form on her beautiful body. He leaned down and kissed her skin, leaving more and more markings on her. He wanted the entire world to know that she belonged to him and only him. She was his Queen, his Wife, his beloved and hopefully one day… the Mother of his children. “I want to breed you…”, he confessed. “Then please… breed me. I want your children~”, she responded before turning around so she could look at him. He kissed her and then said, “Cum with me, my love.” Poseidon grunted as he felt himself cum inside of her once more, but that was nothing compared to her screaming as she came. “POSEIDON~!!!”

Aquamarie fell on their bed as he pulled out of her and gently pulled her into his arms, kissing her head. A giggle escaped her lips and she kissed his cheek. “That was mean.” He smirked and then kissed her properly before saying, “But you deserved divine punishment for not kissing me this morning.” She cupped his cheeks and brought him down for another kiss, wrapping her arms around him. “Hmm… don’t tempt me to fuck you again.” “Hehe~. I won’t… I don’t think my hips can handle it…”, she replied. Poseidon rested her upon their bed and kissed her cheek. “Rest up, my love.” “I will.” As he exited the room, fully clothed, a few servants wanted to exact revenge on the God for his ruthless nature.

Poseidon sat on his throne, looking as bored as ever. His wife was sleeping, there were no more meetings for the day, so he felt as though he could just fall asleep then and there. He closed his eyes and smiled as he thought about his beloved Queen and their future children. But that was interrupted by Aquamarie’s scream. His eyes widened and he grabbed his Trident before heading straight to his bedroom, only to see a few of Aquamarie’s maids outside, attempting to get in. “Stand back!”, he ordered. Once they were out of the way, he kicked the door down, taking it off its hinges and walked in.

His eyes widened at what he saw. Three of his servants having their way with his defenceless wife. Her eyes almost had no colour in them as they fucked her from behind, fucked her mouth and took pleasure in the sight of Poseidon’s wife being violated by them. “You filthy bastards…!”, he said, his voice filled with rage as he pulled the one watching away from her and skewered him with his Trident, not killing him though. He then pointed the bloody Trident at the other two and shouted, “Get your filthy cocks away from my wife, this instant!!!” His orders were clear, but they were ignored.

Aquamarie then screamed as one of them grabbed her hair, pushing himself further inside, hurting her. Tears ran down her cheeks, which was the last straw for him. He grabbed the one violating her mouth and threw him against the wall, knocking him out. “I’m sorry my dear…”. And finally used the end of his Trident to push the other against the headboard, knocking him out as well. His wife then crawled up to him and hugged him. “I-I’m sorry…!!!” “Don’t you dare apologise… they’ll be receiving the worst punishment possible for this”, he whispered back to her. “Maids! Take care of my Queen and clean her up!” They obeyed immediately and two of them helped her stand up before placing a robe around her.

While the servants were being tortured, the maids cleaned her up, and then got her to rest in a hot spring just after her bath. “Is that all, my lady?”, one of them asked. “Yes… please tell Poseidon where I am. I want to see him.” “Of course. Please have a lovely rest”, the maid said before leaving. Tears ran down the Queens cheeks and she cried into her hands, as she felt as if she had betrayed her own husband. The maid walked down into the dungeons and approached Poseidon, bowing in the process. “My Lord… Queen Aquamarie would like to see you in the hot springs as soon as possible.” “Alright…”.

The Tyrant of the Seas was covered in blood, looking at the three servants who violated his beloved wife. They weren’t so much as allowed to look at her, so the crime they committed deserved a fate worse than death. “Call Hades and make sure these three are tortured in the Underworld for all eternity”, Poseidon said as he walked away. “Yes, my Lord.” The God showered himself and washed away the blood before heading towards the Hot Spring, which he only had in his Palace since Aquamarie loved the ones in Japan. He wasn’t too fond of humans, if anything he hated them. But he tolerated their customs, especially if his wife did.

Poseidon wasn’t surprised to see his wife crying on the side of the hot spring. He got in the water alongside her and gently pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry…! I’m sorry!” He rubbed her back and said, “I told you not to apologise. You were asleep, tired and sore. They used that to their advantage… but I can assure you, that they’ve been punished for their actions.” She nodded, but that did not stop her from crying her heart out. Unlike most Gods and Goddesses, she did not have a heart of steel and was very gentle. He kissed her and placed a hand over heart, as if he wanted to heal it. “Hey… you’re still having my children”, he reminded her. She giggled and said, “Yes… Yes I am~.”

END

[the-fae-folk]

How to Build a World?

Some time ago, I answered a writing question as Quoth the Raven that dealt with how to go about Worldbuilding for your story (Found Here). I’ve now rewritten the piece because I was struck with inspiration for a much more poetic form. I rather like it this way... ______________________________________________________________ Every story has to start somewhere. Some start with an endless void, a dark abyss where spirits drift over the waters, an egg which has not yet hatched to reveal the universe contained within. But in my opinion the best beginnings are found on a blank page.

Sing an ode to the whiteness of a screen, to the sterile form of an unfilled notebook amidst a pile of notebooks you keep buying but never write in. I call upon thee, oh Muses, let the divine speak into the shadows and let there be light. Fountains may spring up from the deeps and the oceans pay homage to the moon above. I am but a humble supplicant to the gods of paper and ink, where multiverses of verse and prose are crafted from words alone.

A world must be made through the number seven. Seven days, seven dwarfs, seven epochs, seven sins, seven virtues, seven founding principles of building a world.

The First is of Magic. All worlds begin with magic in a way. You can call it by any name you desire; Nature, physics, deity. First a word is spoken, a rule, a way of being. Whether the universe is filled with blinding empty light and shaded to sight by suns of shadow and fires that burn black enough to repel the light of night, or if the endless skies are oceans where planets drift in bubbles of air and stars keep the endless ice of the galactic abyss at bay with their warmth.

It is a question of how your world works, a list of rules that cannot be broken by even you as the rest of the pieces fall into place. A willing suspension of disbelief is a fragile thing. If it breaks, you are dashed to pieces beneath the weight of fallen expectations. A reader betrayed is rarely forgiving to those who have broken their own laws.

So write, write of the shifting of stars and the fundamental forces of love and duty. In your canon proclaim the laws of wind and gravity, atoms of justice, and the blessed radiation of whimsy and wonder.

But once you have finished, and the last law carved upon the last stone atop your own Sinai, you must heed them always. From gods to grains of sand on a distant shore, none can break these commandments.

When you speak a second time, it is of Place. Of mountains and mayhem, of vast oceans where secrets lie forgotten far beneath the waves.

Reach out your hand to carve canyons from the paragraphs on the page, riverbeds that flow swift and pure into great lakes and down into silent aquifers below the very earth itself. Whether one sun, or seven, or none at all, this world must be made known through careful descriptions and prose.

And as long as it does not contradict your rules, you can have islands that fly through the skies, glass rain, giant geodic structures that have never seen the light of a single day. What of glaciers that chill the whole land into an ice age? Or a supervolcano that belches molten glass from its summit?

Then, as your world is forming, think on the third principle of building a world. Life.

Deep down in the depths of the darkest seas you might form creatures so alien they defy the very mind, drifting on currents and living without sun or sky, only in eternal shadow and crushing pressure. Or you may begin on land instead, with green skinned goblin-like folk who live among the trees and speak in song and melody as they hunt the fire breathing dragonflies. Perhaps even the sky might be your dominion. Pods of whales that swim among the clouds, blowing geysers of wind high into the abyss of blue and white that turns to stars at the highest heights.

Each living thing lies in connection with one another. Eating, growing, changing, moving. Flowers make bioluminescence in forever darkened woods and caverns. Gas filled balloon-like pods could carry creatures high into the sky with them, letting them escape from predators.

Here and now your pen is the fountain that begets creation, your mind is the tree from which all life springs. This world is your garden to cultivate, your Eden cradled between life giving rivers.

Wherever you touch there will be life. In the most scorching of deserts, in the deepest caves and wells, in the furthest canyons, upon the coldest glaciers. And as long as you remain true to your rules of reality, your world can take even the most whimsical of forms. Trees whose roots tangle among the clouds and whose boughs hang down towards the distant earth below, people who can see colors that neither you nor I have ever heard of. Each new thing makes your world more complex, more real, more connected.

Perhaps you know what comes next? In truth it has already begun, for your fourth is of Cognition.

It may be that somewhere in your world there is a creature or plant, perhaps many, or even all, who have tasted that forbidden fruit and became more than they were, became aware that their eyes had been closed and for the first time knew that they could open them and look.

What might it be like? To look out at the world and for the first time see it anew? Before there was survival and safety, food and mating. There was no time for beauty, no time for dreaming, no time for such things when every moment was needed. Yet at some point, there was time, and someone stopped to look. And everything changed.

Most creators prefer the humanoid form when building cognizant peoples, though not all, some few might choose different shapes. Plant, reptile, insect, or even stranger forms the likes of which might not be found here in our world, but only in that world of their making.

But the shape isn’t the important thing. No, what is vitally important is the manner of cognizance. How is it that your people understand the world? What are they aware of? What things can they hear? Or touch? Taste? See? Smell? Or perhaps they have senses that can only be described in roundabout ways to readers who will never entirely understand what it is to perceive in such ways, like blind men who try to know what it is like to see.

Now it is time at last for your fifth. This is the culmination of all things thus far, the laws of reality, the geography, the life, the cognizant peoples… Your fifth is Culture.

Peoples gather together. They make laws to protect or to divide, to ensure and ensnare. They farm or hunt for food, creating new ways with new generations. And best of all they tell stories. Oh those stories. These are the things of which culture is made. Stories that are woven into tapestries or painted into murals, songs are composed to evoke the emotions of such stories, even food is cooked to be eaten as the stories are told.

But there are other things which can affect your peoples and persons. Where do they get their clothing? Animal hides or plant fibers? Perhaps wool or cotton? And how is it obtained? Technology? Magic? Labor? Do the people even wear clothing at all? For some might not find it necessary if they are perfect for the place they dwell in their world.

What foods can they eat? Would you or I even recognize it? Let alone be able to digest it without agonizing pains in our stomachs? A fruit that glows might transfer its glow to those who eat it, giving them light to see in the dark and energy to live another day. Certain beasts are only slaughtered on certain days of the star calendars, for festivals and holy feast days, for ceremonial reasons and never secular ones.

Here is the most dangerous part in your journey, for the building of culture can become a mire or a maze, a labyrinthine pit from whence you can never escape no matter how much you build. Every detail begets another, and cultures are more than any one person can make. World Builder though you are, you still have limitations of your own.

So you look to the sixth, which is history. From whence did they come? And where do their journeys go? And of course, what happened at every step in between? Kings and emperors to the feuds of petty farmers. Did the dragons lay claim to the seven clawed mountains in the forty ninth century or did the Arch Astronomer falsely claim they did so that he might turn his people’s thoughts to southern trade?

Culture takes time to move and once it begins it will not stop. From the grand world point of view to the shortsightedness of individuals, each and every step will be important. Religions and wars, cataclysmic events, heroes, and even plagues. Everything that arises when you add time to the world you have created is history. The world is a living breathing thing that will move on its own if you let it.

The seventh day arrives. Some deities might rest, seeing that all is good. But not you, for your world is made in slavish worship to the Story. A world built so that it might contain, for good or ill, a tale of your telling.

So write, prideful one. Your hubris has driven you to follow in the footsteps of the gods themselves, building a world where before was nothing. It is time to look closer, to follow a single strand of thread in this tapestry you have woven from dreams and shadows.

Now that you have crafted for us an entire world, tell us your tale. We are listening.

[sweeethinny]

Skin

Harry wanted to be able to show Ginny, through his eyes, how beautiful she is, and how all this insecurity with her body after giving birth to James is not necessary.

Since he cannot do this, he tries in other ways.

this fic is part of The Harry and Ginuary Extravanganza :) I'm sorry for any mistake

* all of this was written while I was listening to Mac Miller album The Divine Feminine, if anyone wants to get in the mood :)

read bellow the cut or in AO3 :)

Harry had been away from home for almost a month, which seemed more like a painful and torturous eternity than anything else. He missed Ginny and little James, it was much worse than the whole situation that he, Ron, and Theo got into, camping close to a pack of werewolves, and chasing a killer who seemed almost as good at hiding which even made them doubt their abilities as Aurors.

Harry was tired, with some bruises, hungry, missing his son who had not even turned a year yet and probably had grown a lot, and his wife. Harry wanted more than ever to hug Ginny and feel her against him.

He also really wanted to take a decent shower and lie on a bed that wasn’t a camp mattress, because Harry was no longer so young to be able to sleep in a bed like that.

It was worth it, he told himself when he could finally apparate to his home, in peace that he could be with his family again, Robards is looking to retire, he will end up choosing me . Harry didn't quite believe it, but Ginny repeated it a lot every time he complained about the boss; 'One day you will be the boss and you will not need to work like that.'

It was what he expected.

Since he had been a father, Harry was always trying to escape these suicide missions, but he was not always able, and he just hoped that when he was promoted, he would be able to spend more time at home. He never wanted so much to work with the Auror bureaucracy and leave the field.

He still enjoyed the excitement, the chase, the adrenaline, but he was no longer willing to risk his life so much.

In addition to Ginny, there was now someone else who encouraged him, even more, to return home alive.

When Harry opened the door, the smell of home entered his nostrils, a smell he never really stopped to notice, but after a month away, he managed to recognize it.

The hallway light on the second floor was on, probably for James to wake up. Harry took off his boots, cloak, and most of his clothes, and walked around the house, smiling for the first time in a month, seeing James's toys on the living room floor, and some scattered around the dining room, and a divine smell from the room that looked like a turkey, came from the kitchen. Hoping that Ginny was already asleep, as well as James since it was past one in the morning, Harry stopped for a snack.

He didn't even bother to heat the food, eating as if he hadn't seen food for more than days, devouring the deliciously seasoned turkey leg, and alternating with the remaining farofa and baked potatoes. It was a little rude and disgusting, he knew, but Harry felt his stomach echo with hunger, forcing him to forget the etiquette.

After less than ten minutes, he was fed, tiptoeing up to the second floor, James's bedroom door was open, as usual, and Harry couldn't help wanting to see his son and entered the room, taking be careful not to wake him up, seeing him resting deeply in bed, wearing adorable dinosaur pajamas, which put him on completely and prevented him from being cold at night. He looked bigger, Harry noticed, and with more hair, he wanted to hold his son in his arms, hug him but was content to just kiss his slightly sweaty forehead. Harry checked that the window was locked, closed the curtains tightly, covered his son, and left the room.

A part of him was satisfied, James was safe, well, and tomorrow would probably jump on Harry as soon as he realized his father was back. James always went to their bed in the morning, just asked to sleep with them and slept for a few more hours, but whenever Harry spent a few days outside, the next morning when the little one realized that his father was back, it was as if sleep disappeared.

After a month away from James' warm hugs during the mornings when they slept together, Harry was not complaining.

But he was not yet complete, not when he had not yet seen Ginny.

She was probably asleep, he thought, it was late and the days must have been tiring now that she was back to training, and without him at home to help with James, things should have been going smoothly. But the light in their room was on, which Harry found strange.

Still trying not to make any noise, because maybe she just fell asleep without even realizing it, Harry approached, opening the door a little more and sticking his head into their room, looking around.

Harry had already seen Ginny in many ways, they had a son together, however, he was not prepared for that.

She was standing in front of her dressing table, evaluating herself in front of the mirror on the wall, taking small turns to try to see her back, and then turning and facing the mirror. Ginny did not seem to feel the cold that Harry was feeling, since she wore one of the smallest lingerie he had ever seen, still seeming to assess whether the piece was beautiful or not.

The light blue lace made her look even more beautiful, contrasting with the freckles that spread over her skin and the light tan she was getting now that she was back in training. The bra barely hid her nipples, temptingly drawing her breasts, and not having the same common cut as the others she wore, and instead, this one had a few more buttons and went down to the beginning of her ribs, already in translucent fabric. The lace itself was only on the straps and the front of the breasts, descending in a V to the middle of the other fabric, something that made it look even more beautiful.

Ginny kept her hands in front of her belly, the same way she did a month ago when they were going to have sex, or she ended up undressing next to him, and automatically hid her belly. Harry would always comment that she didn't need to hide from him, but Ginny insisted that she still didn't feel safe with her body.

‘Pregnancy changed me,’ She always said. 'You don't know what it's like to see your body change dramatically in a matter of months... Now I have stretch marks where I never thought I would.'

Harry thought it was silly, Ginny was beautiful anyway, and he was still a fool in love, with or without stretch marks.

The panties also had that translucent fabric with a light blue background, it was one of those that had a high waistband and that he knew Ginny preferred to wear recently, but this one he could still see her belly, and the lace only appeared again from the front, covering only what was necessary, while at the back, it was just a small piece of the other fabric, not making much of a point of hiding anything from it, which made Harry salivate.

His imagination would never live up to the perfection that she was, how beautiful her ass made him a little too obsessed, or how her breasts had also changed after pregnancy, and all of James's breastfeeding.

'Hmmm… maybe?' He heard her murmur to the reflection, again turning around in a way that she could still look at her back, running her hands behind her thighs as if she wanted to lift her ass a little further. What Harry thought was unnecessary.

'I thought it was more than perfect.' He finally manifested himself, leaning on the doorframe and feeling his erection grow and cause that pressure against his pants.

Ginny jumped up and pulled her robe in front of her, startled and looking at him with wide eyes, pink cheeks and looking like she had managed to hold back the scream in time. ‘Harry!’

'Yea, it's me.’ He smiled.

'Harry .' Ginny finally seemed to realize it was him there, after a month, and dropped the robe back, running towards him and throwing herself at him in much the same way as the sunny days of 1996, but this time, he picked her up and kissed her with much more hunger and passion than he did at the age of 16, carefully closing the door behind them and taking her to bed, numb with longing and lust.

It was so good to kiss her again, to get lost in the warmth and softness of her lips, her small, slightly callused hands touching him as if to make sure it was him there, going from hair to shoulders, to cheeks, chest. It was as if she also checked that he was okay, whole, without any damage.

'I missed you so much,' he murmured between her kiss, falling on the bed with Ginny on top of him, his hands roaming everywhere he reached, feeling entirely at peace.

'I thought it would take you longer.' She cried, holding his face in her hands and parting their lips so they could look at each other. The brown eyes that Harry thought about daily were staring at him as if they hadn't seen him in years, shining on the sides as if Ginny tried to hold on to her emotions, struggling to hold herself in front of him.

Harry recognized the effort, but he didn't think it was necessary. It was just the two of them there, Ginny didn't have to hide.

He ran his thumb over her cheek, wiping away the one tear that ran. 'I was so scared,' she whispered, like a secret she had been keeping for days.

'Me too,' Harry admitted, failing to divert his attention from her caramel eyes. 'I just wanted to go back to home and be with you.'

'James missed you, he wasn't so happy and today was the first day he agreed to sleep in his bed.' Ginny smiled and lifted her shoulders, her cheeks turning slightly pink. 'Maybe he knew that Daddy would be back.'

'I'm glad he predicted that I would come back,' Harry let his eyes roam over her body, and now more closely he was able to see how the bra fabric barely made an effort to cover her skin. It was too much of a temptation to bear, and Harry barely contained himself before touching them, feeling heaviness in his hands and the heat radiating through the lace, making his stomach drop and his mouth water. Harry had missed it so much.

'You liked it? I went out with the girls after a workout, and Genevieve made me buy it, but I still don't know if it looked good.' Ginny said, her voice a little shaky as if she were that 11-year-old girl who couldn't look at him without blushing, which made him look up from those breasts he was in love with, and look at her. Ginny was really blushing, the red that covered her cheeks was also running down her neck and bust. ‘The bra doesn’t have much support and I don’t know if it looked so beautiful, I mean, it’s a beautiful piece, but I don’t think it looked beautiful on me .’

'Ginny,' Harry interrupted, holding her chin, forcing her to look at him, the other hand coming down her side and holding her in place, already sensing that she was trying to extricate herself from him. ‘You look hot,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling like a teenager, about to come in my pants.’

She laughed, that laugh he loved to hear. 'I would be really upset if even after all this time it was still happening.'

'I have learned to hold on,' He smiled, still caressing her cheek, smiling lovingly at Ginny. 'You and beautiful. In all moments.'

'Even when I was all sweaty, giving birth to James?' Ginny asked, laughing sheepishly as she laced her fingers through his, her auburn hair falling like lava on either side of her face.

'Of course.' Harry didn't take his eyes off hers, wanting her to understand that he was being more than real there. He wanted her to be seen through his eyes, and then she would understand how beautiful she is. 'I think I came to love you even more, if that is possible, that day.'

'Awn Harry, don't be so dramatic, you spend only a month away and when you come back you are declaring yourself as a passionate poet.' She laughed, but he did not fail to notice how Ginny's cheeks got even more flushed and she turned her attention to the wall behind the headboard, as if she tried not to let him realize that it affected her.

'I really missed you, that's why.' Harry shrugged, caressing her cheek and bringing her amber eyes back down to his, laying her head against his hand. 'I hate to be away from you for a long time... my romantic mind comes up and I have a lot of time to think about how to declare myself to you.'

'I hate it too when you stay away,' Ginny smiled, allowing him to see her without all those walls she put up for protection.

'Did something happen while I was gone?' He stared at her, noticing how her shoulders tensed and then relaxed when Ginny sighed and lay on his chest, hugging him as she could, as she usually liked to do during the cold nights.

'Nothing too urgent...'

'Ginny…' Harry whispered, running his hands down her back, feeling the skin prickle.

'Rita made a very pertinent comment about me.' Harry felt her tense under his arms again, and kept silent waiting for Ginny to continue talking. Somehow they got a picture of me training only in a crop top, and apparently I should wear t-shirts like the other girls... something to do with my belly and stretch marks.. ' She sighed.

Harry wanted to go to the Prophet and shout some truths that had been stuck for years, in Rita's face. But he just preferred to tighten his grip around Ginny, and kiss the top of her head.

'You look beautiful in any outfit.' He said, trying to be as clear as possible. 'Rita and everyone else are just assholes who are too self-centered to look at their navel for a minute... You are the hottest woman, Ginny, and I don't say that just because we are married.'

'My body has changed a lot in the last year.' She lifted her face, resting her chin on his chest and looking at him, her brown eyes flashed. 'I don't think I'll ever have that body again and-'

'-And you are still beautiful.' The two faced each other. 'You gave birth to a child, Gin, this is incredible. Your body being able to do that is incredible. I will never get tired of saying that. ’Harry smiled. 'I wanted you to see yourself through my eyes, and see how beautiful you are, even with all those things that you insist on saying are defects and that you hate them.'

'Don't make me cry,' She sat on his lap again, fanning her eyes and looking up at the ceiling, her cheeks flushed and a lovely smile on her face, Harry couldn't help but laugh too, feeling incredibly lighter than hours ago, as if now all that tension had been reduced to dust and there was only peace left in his chest.

'About this lingerie... do you have any plans, or are you just experimenting...?' He went back to browsing Ginny's sculptural body, almost drooling over how her breasts looked in that piece, and the transparency of her panties, which ended up exactly where it started getting more interesting. Harry groaned when she moved and stood on top of his cock, closing his eyes with the sensation of the gods it caused.

'I would surprise you when you came back, I thought it would take another week, then I would buy some candles, and cut my hair... But you ruined my plans.' Ginny smiled, biting her bottom lip as if she knew it was driving him crazy. ‘I believe you want to take a shower?’

'I might want some company,' Harry said, holding Ginny firmly in his lap, getting up from the bed and listening to her scream in fright as he walked to the bathroom in their suite, no longer feeling the fatigue from before. 'You know how needy I am after returning from missions.’

'It's a valid request.' Ginny hugged his neck, hands clinging to his hair, as if he were the life jacket that prevented her from sinking. He felt that way about her too. 'I missed having someone in the bath with me… Someone who doesn't want to mess up the bathroom with water and foam.' Harry laughed, placing her sitting on the white marble countertop, watching her body shiver as she made contact with the cold stone, waving with the wand for the hot water to start filling the bathtub.

'I might want to make a bit of a mess,' he said, approaching and feeling her warm breath against his face, before Harry narrowed the distance and kissed her, hungry but still keeping control, leaving his hands on her thighs, keeping them far enough away for him to stay in the middle.

'I like this mess,' Ginny whispered, her eyes closed and her forehead against his, breathing hard, the sound of water being the only one to fill the room. 'I am happy that you came back. I missed you a lot.’

Harry nodded, closing his eyes to make sure it wasn't just a dream, opening them again then just to see Ginny there. 'I felt it too. I am miserable without you.’

[...]

Harry woke up much later with small hands pulling the blanket off them, and the unfortunate murmurs of a child who tried his best to climb up on the bed. He sighed, feeling happy to get back to that routine, but he didn't move, wanting James to find out for himself that Harry had come back. It was a good time.

One more sigh from a boy who seemed very irritated by his young age, and then he finally succeeded, almost removing all the cover from Ginny, crawling up a little sleepily, still holding that light yellow cloth he always carried, and scratching his eyes.

The sun hadn't even risen, leaving the room in that gloom of the few hours before finally dawn, but Harry could see when James opened his brown eyes and threw himself on top of him.

‘Daddy!’ James shouted, hugging his father as he managed, cold hands making the man shiver.

'Hi my love,' Harry murmured, happy, tired, and a little too sentimental, feeling his eyes prickle. 'Speak low, it is still very early and mummy is sleeping.' He put James under the covers, stroking his son's slightly sweaty head, kissing the boy's forehead. 'We are going to sleep some more, okay? The sun hasn't even appeared yet.’

'Daddy…' James murmured, and Harry waited to see what meaningless phrase his son would try to murmur now, but the boy just kept his icy hands touching his father's face, as if to make sure he was really there.

He could not wait to be able to do fewer and fewer missions that required him to stay away from home for a long time.

'Sleep honey, daddy is here,' Harry assured him, snuggling the boy into his embrace, feeling finally complete, watching Ginny turn towards them, sleeping soundly, and then James, who was preparing for it, little hands clutched the shirt that Harry was wearing, as if it were his cloth.

Harry felt like the happiest man in the world.

[buggie-hagen]

Sermon for Seventh Sunday after Pentecost (7/24/22)

Primary Text | Colossians 2:6-19

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Dear People of God,

            Certainly, God is bigger than we can ever imagine. Certainly, our puny brains are quite limited when it comes to understanding the vast, unlimited God who rules over the heavens and the earth. This is what we call God in his Divine Majesty, we cannot grasp God with our reason or with the five senses. He has hidden himself from these things. We cannot see him. God is incomprehensible. There are many examples in the holy scriptures that will tell us that when God did choose to draw near to his created human beings, that he was overwhelming, that he was terrifying. After the LORD our God revealed the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai we learn: “When all the people witnessed the thunder and lightning, the sound of the trumpet, and the mountain smoking, they were afraid and trembled and stood at a distance, and said to Moses, ‘You speak to us, and we will listen; but do not let God speak to us, or we will die’” (Exod. 20:19). God in his infinite, Divine Majesty is too much. Seeing God naked will quite literally kill us. That is why God puts clothes on, so that we can bear to be in his presence. He does this uniquely in the person of Jesus Christ. Jesus is God with clothes on. As St. Paul writes, “For in him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily” (Col. 2:9). God who is infinite, eternal, all-powerful, everywhere present, all-knowing, unlimited, is fully present in the body of our brother Jesus. In Jesus, the infinite God is at the same time a finite human being. That is, he suffers, dies, moves from one place to another, has flesh and blood, knows what it is like to suffer from hunger, thirst, cold, and heat. He is fully God and yet fully one of us as a human being. It is a paradox. We Lutherans have a phrase for this. Finitum est capax infiniti. The finite is capable of the infinite. This is our Christian faith, that a person with hair, teeth, skin, bones, flesh, blood, hands and feet, is our God in heaven. And we too, when we are raised from the dead, will be raised with our hair, teeth, skin, bones, blood, hands and feet, and be joined to God in Christ forever when heaven comes down to earth. In Jesus, the whole fullness of deity dwells in a human body.

            The other day I came across the phrase “God is too big to be contained in one religion.” On one hand, the sentiment is trying to be nice. There has been too much strife between religions in the world. And so, a phrase like “God is too big to be contained in one religion” is trying to put a bandage on that strife. Alas, the phrase doesn’t work. It doesn’t do what we want it to do. A bandage is still merely a bandage. I can tell because anything that casts doubt on the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ as God’s unique word put into the world, of bringing salvation to humankind, is simply not true. When it comes to interreligious dialogue (speaking with people of different faiths), it is not in our interest, or in the interest of anyone, to pare down what we believe with a knife until what we have left is indistinguishable. We want to be authentic to who we are and we want others to be authentic to who they are. We’re not interested in the lowest common denominator. That is not what will bring peace between religions. Saying, “Well, we all really believe the same thing” does us no good. At least, not if we think God has actually spoken in the world. As Christians, we love others, even people of other religions, not because we are the same…. we need no such conditions, we love others and with reckless abandon, because we ourselves have been loved with reckless abandon. This love I speak of, of course, is God’s love in Jesus the Christ.

Certainly, God is bigger than we can ever imagine. But in this person Jesus Christ the fullness of God dwells in his body. That means not just part of God, but all of God in his essence. If God is too big for one religion, that is bad news for us. That means we really can never know God; we would not be able to trust anything Jesus has said or done, and we are left with nothing to cling to. It would mean God has not come down to save us. In the face of that bad news, God has given us good news. In Jesus, the infinite is in the finite. We are not left with nothing. For God has indeed come down from heaven, born of the virgin Mary, suffered, died, and rose on the third day. When you think of God do not think of the infinite, Divine Majesty to which we cannot cling. God does not want us to find him in his terrifying, infinite bigness that we cannot understand. Rather, he humbly points you and all people to his only begotten Son, Jesus Christ. That is the ultimate inclusivity of the Christian religion, that Jesus is God’s word not just for you, but for everyone. It doesn’t matter your race or skin color, what language you know, whether you are a man or a woman or nonbinary, whether you’re gay or straight or bisexual, whether you are from North America or Africa or anywhere else. God’s love in Jesus Christ is for everyone. He is the radical inclusivity of God’s love. So when you think of who God is, and how God has chosen to specifically reveal himself to all people—think of him as the one who took on human flesh. Think of him who suckled at his mother’s breast. Think of him who drew his last breath on a cross. Think of him who came to forgive sinners. Think of him who came so that we can look to him for everything good. It is in Jesus you can truly and firmly lay hold of God and grasp him with your heart, and entrust yourself to him completely. For he is God’s good news for your bad situation.  

            And what is this good news? “When you were buried with him in baptism, you were also raised with him through faith in the power of God, who raised him from the dead. And when you were dead in trespasses and the uncircumcision of your flesh, God made you alive together in him, when he forgave us all our trespasses” (Col. 2:12-13). It is God’s reckless love in Jesus Christ that when we are baptized, we are put to death in the death of Jesus and raised in the resurrection of Jesus. It is true that we are dead in our trespasses. Dead people can’t help or save themselves or anyone else. God sees our condition, that we all are truly dead. And what does he do? He makes us alive together with Christ. In Christ God erases all records of your sin, he erases all those voices that say you are not good enough, and he nails them to the cross. To say that a person does not need Jesus or his cross, is to disdain what God has done and spoken into the world. For on that cross not just any human being, but a human being who is also God died. And not just part of God died that day, but the fullness of deity. All of him. In this Jesus, God is no longer too big for you. He is a human. And because of this you can cling to him, trust in him, love him, be with him. In Jesus, you have not found God, but God has found you. And you now belong to him in your baptism. He will never let you perish—no matter what your eyes tell you! And he will give you every good thing.

[mostly-megan]

December 5th: Shopping

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Reader

Rating: Mostly E for Everyone, but there is some implied stuff

Word count: 1076; not beta read, we live and die by the sword

Warnings: It’s Oberyn, so allusions to sexy times

❄️December Writing Masterlist ❄️

(A/N): I was excited to write this one, but I really don’t know how good of a job I did, so I’m sorry. Prompts from @honeymandos​​; Photo credit: NYDailyNews

It’s strange passing through the market now, especially since nothing has particularly changed. The grocers and produce vendors call out their specialties straight from port and vine, ripe and perfect for your coin at the best price as jewelers and weavers and all manner of craftsmen peddle their eye-catching trinkets and treasures. But now as you stroll through your favorite alleys and shops, the crowds part, bow, and murmur at the Prince of Dorne by your side. 

Still early in the day, the light wind from the sea brings a relieving cool to the rising heat of the sun. The winds also carry the swirling dusts of warm spices and sweet blossoms set out enticingly. Music, chatter, and color fill the shaded corridors of the winding city, even more so than usual as the end of year festivals and feasts draw ever closer.

Oberyn’s lazy gate lets you glance at each stall, one hand gestures this way and that as he explains different rare objects or how they are transported when they are so fragile while the other is draped across your shoulders.. You love Oberyn’s intelligence which he was more than happy to share with all who cared to know, you love the warm mirth of his voice and how he can make even shipping processes sound fascinating. You’re fairly certain that he is barely containing himself enough to disregard the impulse to dash from vendor to vendor like little Dorea at the sweets shops.

You’ve learned to be careful what you gaze at or handle for too long. Any pretty trinket you fiddled with or soft shift you admired would be found laying on your bed by nightfall the next day. Although you were too lost in the dazzling shimmer of the gauzy fabric to remember that fact at the moment. “Ah, my petal’s head has been turned by such loveliness I see,” Oberyn’s smirk and raised eyebrow make you feel flustered a moment before you turn back to the material. “Yes, lover, but not for me. Do you think this would look lovely on Ellaria?” you hold the midnight blue fabric high so it catches light and reveals it’s soft glitter.

“She would, I believe she may have a dress of this already. It makes her look like she’s wrapped in the dusk sky,” Oberyn smiles warmly as he recalls his paramour fondly. You, however, sigh and drop the fabric back onto the vendors table and turn to gaze around the tables nearby.

“My petal, something is troubling you today. What is wrong?” his strong hand moves rest soothingly on your back, the gentle concern in his eyes softens your nerves as you relax into him. “I’m sorry, my love, I was trying to find something for Ellaria. The festival is so soon and I have a gift for everyone, except her, nothing seems right enough for her,” you sigh and survey the vendors again. Ellaria has been with the prince for many happy years and Oberyn’s love of lavishing gifts on those he cares for is well-known. 

She has chests of the finest jewels, overflowing shelves of books, more garments than she could ever hope to wear; whatever you could get her would never outshine all of the beauty she deserved and Oberyn always seemed able to provide. Your prince turns to the steward who was trailing you holding boxes you and Oberyn had purchased for other members of your household and instructs him to return to the palace. 

“Now, petal, let us walk and see if any inspiration strikes in that beautifully talented head of yours,” he pulls you close to him as he places a reverent kiss on your temple as he resumes your stroll. He points out several antique looking glasses, clay beads, and curiosities from all around Westeros, but still nothing is right for your Ellaria. Despite his best efforts, your Prince seems unable to help soothe your disappointment in leaving the markets empty handed. 

Sitting in the carriage back to the Palace, Oberyn drags you into his lap and gently kisses your shoulder. When he finally catches your eye, he gives an exaggerated pout, no doubt dramatically mirroring your own expression. You can’t help the small smile and laugh that follow seeing his handsome features tease you, “Don’t make fun, I’m being serious. Ellaria has so much of my love and, for a festival that is all about the love of others, I cannot even find an appropriate gift to present her with.” You huff and lean into his shoulder, not caring that you sound like a child as your frustration builds. 

“Did you find one for me?” his question is soft and curious, you almost miss it buried in his coat. “What?” you bring your head up to see his eyes, his sweet expression making your heart ache. “You said she has your love and yet you have not found a gift. I know I have your love as well, little petal, so have you found one for me?” Your mouth opens and closes like a fish a few times before answering slowly, “Yes, I have. But I’m not telling you what it is, if that is what you are after, Oberyn.”

At that, he throws his head back a bit and laughs, “That was not my intention, sweet, but I can see where you may think that. Whatever you have gotten for me, and I have a fair idea of what a gift may be as, perhaps that is the gift she would like most as well. Perhaps, my soft petal, you are the gift she would like most, as I do.” He draws your chin down to capture your lips. Of course he had figured out his gift. Most occasions, his gift from you had become you appearing in his rooms in a garment barely resembling clothing for him to admire before he disrobed you entirely. 

You smile as you draw away from his plush lips, quirking your eyebrow mischievously at him, “Then perhaps, my Prince, I shall have to return tomorrow for that shimmering fabric after all. Although I shouldn’t need much of it.” Oberyn groans, capturing your lips again and dragging you to lay under him on the carriage seat. “By Gods, you’ll look divine enough to devour in so little of that night sky enveloping you. Although I think I would much prefer to be wrapped in you wrapped in it.”

Tagging who might be interested: @zeldasayer​ @winters-buck​ @max–phillips​​ @rae-gar-targaryen​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @scribbledghost​ @plexflexico​ @sunshinepascal​ @agirllovespancakes​ @keeper0fthestars​ @freak-nasty-thick-dick-mando​​ @youmeanmybrain​ @talesfromtheguild​ @frannyzooey​ @absurdthirst​ @softpedropascal​ @fairytalesintheend​​ @lackofhonor​​ @maybege​​ @getinthepoolkeanu​​ @pedroepascal​​ @pedropascalito​ @mylifeliterally​​ @catfishingmorales​​ @miss-me-jack​​ @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa​​ @pettyprocrastination @autumnleaves1991-blog​ 

[iphisesque]

Joe + Nicky + Saint Sebastian + ☕

(this started out as a fun little question to answer! might throw around some headcanons! might even reference some of my favourite renaissance artists along the way! and here we are, a couple of months and 1.1k words later, with a fanfiction about joenicky, saint sebastian and antonello da messina. i have no idea how this happened --- you can find the link to this on ao3 in the source!)

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Yusuf loves drawing Nicolò, that much is certain: whether it be a doodle on the corner of a page in his sketchbook or a painting on a panel larger than either of them, he's always found something almost sacred, almost divine about it, about tracing the curve of his nose, the bright glimmer in his eyes, the relaxed grin on his lips and recreating his image like Allah created man in his own. They often joke about Yusuf making Nicolò into a saint, giving his face to George slaying the dragon, or perhaps painting both of their likenesses onto an embrace of Sergius and Bacchus commissioned by another wealthy Florentine with tastes not unlike theirs, but nothing really ever becomes of it --- until.

They're staying in Venice at Antonello's house, not long after he's returned from his latest travel to the Flanders; him and Yusuf are excitedly discussing the latest news in oil painting, while Nicolò is dozing off in bed as he pretends to follow the conversation, still tangled up in their sweat and spill and little else.

He stretches and stirs, more asleep than awake, and both of them look up at him from the desk in Antonello's room they're sitting at; the man glances at his figure, lightly constrained by the bed sheets strategically covering his body, his face still blissed-out, and reaches for his sketchbook, showing his latest preliminary sketches to Yusuf. A young man, tied up with rope to a pole, arrows penetrating his near-bared body in an intent more sensual than murderous, if the man's expression is anything to go by.

"San..." He can't recall the saint's name on his tongue, but he knows the man is one: it's always saints and Marys with Catholic artists, which isn't necessarily a complaint. "Sebastiano," Antonello helps him, his voice low. "I was commissioned a Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian by the Church of San Zulian, and I thought you might appreciate the idea."

He glances up at his lover, fast asleep in bed still, and back down at the sketch. "Who's the man?" he asks, an artist's silent understanding: every painting contains a part of its maker's soul, but masterpieces such as Antonello's seldom are created without a certain familiar face to inspire the hand that paints its likeness.

"An old friend," he answers, his eyes growing dark. "Loved him and left him in Messina, like too many other things in my life."

Yusuf nods, he too well aware of what it means to leave people behind; his heart still aches when he thinks of his sister Maryam sometimes, watches over her descendants in Mahdia and Tunis as best as he can alongside his beloved. "I'm going back there as soon as I finish this commission, tell you that," Antonello interrupts his thoughts. "I far too much miss my dear Smeralda and my dearest hometown, though I'm sure a man like you would have none such problems."

Yusuf scoffs playfully. "I miss more places and people than you could ever think possible, believe me," he replies, and that much is the truth: the pain of leaving people and places he's loved never stops or dulls after centuries of life, or at the very least it still hasn't for himself and Nicolò.

He comes back home that night with his head buzzing, and dreams of his sister, of his past life in sun-scorched Mahdia, of his beloved's embrace as they ate and drank and recited poetry in his family's house in Damascus, back when they were still learning to know and love each other for the very first time. He dreams other, abstract dreams too: a broken arrow, lengths of rope holding strong muscles tight, his beloved's face enraptured, the near-indecency of a drape slipping off his bare lap, and these don't fade from his thoughts even after he wakes up.

He tells Nicolò of the sketch Antonello showed him, the sketch that hasn't left his mind since he first saw it, and his lover's eyes widen, his interest piqued. "Would you like to paint me like that?" he whispers, his voice low and raspy like he knows it drives Yusuf wild.

He nods, not wanting to break the heavy intimacy of the silence hanging between them, and Nicolò presses a kiss to his lips, his hand caressing at first his cheek and then moving lower and lower.

"Paint me then, beloved," he tells him in that same voice, before dragging him to the bedroom, and Yusuf begs Allah to let him at least finish the sketch that night before succumbing to the desires of the flesh. (If He hears that plea, He seems to pay him no attention.)

---

Centuries later, one French art forger baptised as Sébastien Le Livre has joined their warrior group of immortals, and he finds himself with them at a safehouse in Florence sometime between the two world wars; he's still young, barely been undead for more than a century, and cannot wrap his head around the idea of his mates having been alive since way before his country or the one they're staying in were united. Safehouses like that are a blessing to him, filled to the brim with material testaments of his and his companions' eternal lives, and often hiding pieces deserving of a place in a museum; it is one of these he stumbles upon that afternoon as he explores the dusty old attic, holding a torch high and not too close as he theatrically removes the white cloth covering a painting --- late 1400s, he thinks with a glance at the technique and at the style, further proved by the signature in the lower right corner reading "al-Kaysani, 1479".

Yusuf's old art, and certainly not his oldest, he thinks to himself, and he has a better look at the subject: a Sebastian like himself, painted as was the norm in the day, penetrated by arrows and tied up to a pole, in an expression of supposed agony resembling more of a petite mort than a real death.

Only when he pays closer attention to the face does he realise who the subject is, and he recoils so suddenly he drops his lamp in the darkness --- he cannot look Nicolò in the face for a week following the incident, and they only find out about that when Yusuf goes to store another masterpiece in the attic alongside the cursed San Sebastiano. They laugh it out eventually, of course, and it becomes something to tease them both about, but he is more than glad to be leaving Florence and going to London the week after that, where he starts going by Booker and buries his old name for good.

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A few notes:

1) the mention of Saints George, Sergius and Bacchus is not casual: Saint George, in particular, was the patron saint of the Republic of Genova, and Sergius and Bacchus are two saints martyred together who are often thought to have had a homosexual relationship and are somewhat of the patron saints of the gay community.

2) Antonello da Messina was an early Renaissance painter who introduced Flemish oil painting to Italy and Italian perspective technique to the Flanders; his portrayal of Saint Sebastian, inspired by Andrea Mantegna’s, was among the first ones to popularise what we now consider to be the classic portrayal of the martyrdom of Sebastian, aka “young man tied to a pole and sensually struck by arrows”. In Messina, Antonello was friends with Saint Eustochia Smeralda (the Smeralda Antonello mentions), and he allegedly based his masterpiece Virgin of the Annunciation on her.

3) the headcanon of Yusuf coming from Mahdia belongs to @hottopicmonk, and him having a sister named Maryam comes from a conversation with @tovezza!

[ladyreapermc]

Fic: Falling (August Walker x Reader)

Summary: angel/demons AU. You’re tired of seeing humans destroying Father’s creation so you decide to help August Walker achieve his goals.

Author’s note: This one was written for the skype prompt.

@hnryycvll @witcherwritings @yoursecretsmutblog @toomanystoriessolittletime @penwieldingdreamer @onceiwasanun

Wordcount: 3790

Warnings: smut (rough sex)

Your nose crinkled with distaste as you walked the streets, making sure to keep enough distance between yourself and the other passersby. The last thing you wanted was one of these filthy humans touching your celestial skin.

Why did Father insist on sending you down to this cesspool of sins that was Earth to watch and report back? You would never understand, but you hated every minute. In your eyes, this generation of humanity was beyond redemption. Corrupted and dirty, only caring about profit and pleasure.

Hedonistic vermin!

They shouldn’t be allowed to exist and continue to taint Father’s creation. Millenia had passed and they have profaned every aspect of this planet. The air was putrid, the earth rotten, the rivers poisoned…

Everything that was once good and beautiful was slowly dying and still, Father refused to let you intervene. He granted humans free will for a reason and they needed to want to be saved.

As you watched them around you, the filth infesting every inch of what was once a paradise, you weren’t all that confident in their ability to repent and turn back to light. And even though Father forbade it, you decided you could just give a little nudge in the right direction. You weren’t disobeying per se, just… facilitating things. Speeding their opportunity to repent for their wrongs.

You took a seat at the coffee shop and to anyone who looked, you were nothing more than a simple tourist savoring some fresh coffee, one of the few things made by humans you actually enjoyed. The Eiffel Tower behind you, illuminated by the bright afternoon sun as you discreetly watched the man sitting three tables away, reading his newspaper.

To you, most humans look the same, varying only in the disgusting rotting of their souls, but even though August Walker had one of the darkest souls you had ever encountered, you could deny he was beautiful.

Tall and thick, his shoulders and torso broad and housing solid and well-defined muscles. His face looked almost as if sculpted in the best of marble, giving him sharp lines and features. His dark hair combed neatly, hid some of the wayward curls that would sometimes fall over his eyes whenever he was doing extraneous activities.

His lips, soft, plush, and pinked by the heat of his beverage, were shaped in a perfect cupid bow that widened beautifully when a stray smile crossed his features. A rare sign that made its apparition even more special. His eyes were the blue hue of deep ocean waters and probably just as cold, his gaze always calculating and assessing his surroundings, the superior intellect obvious in them.

Yes, it was undeniable that August was a fascinating specimen of human and if what you had seen of him in the last six months was any indication, he was just perfect for what you needed. A couple of years ago he had tried to detonate plutonium bombs in an attempt of forcing the world to see the light.

He understood that sometimes to archive peace, some bloodshed must happen. Death brought hope as paradoxical as that seemed. He nearly died in his endeavor, but it seemed to only strengthen his resolve and here he was, ready to try once again and you were more than willing to help.

You couldn’t bring the change yourself, that was against the rules, but it wasn’t uncommon to offer some divine inspiration to some selected few when a situation called for it and that was your plan. To offer August with a little guidance and protection to make sure he succeeded this time around.

Finishing your coffee and setting the money on the table, you stood from your seat intending to find a new advantage position to watch August. Maybe from one of the roofs of the buildings surrounding the café, but you only managed to walk a few streets before a solid body connected to yours, pushing you against the wall. You were so surprised by the audacity of this bug to touch you that you didn’t realize at first that it was August. Not until his mouth brushed against your ear, his breath ghosting your skin.

“Why are you following me?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His grip on your arm tightened, tugging your wrist higher against your back and forcing your shoulder in an unnatural angle. He pressed you tighter against the wall, the rough brick surface scraping your cheek. If you were a human, it would be painful, but as it was, it was just annoying, and you had to close your eyes to hide the burning celestial fire in them.

“Don’t make me ask again. I’d hate to damage that pretty face.”

You took a deep breath, containing your fury before you dared to open your eyes, glancing sideways to catch a glimpse of August.

“I’m a free agent, much like yourself and I’ve been following you because I think we can help each other.”

“Is that right?” he snorted but let go of your arm, allowing you to turn around and face him, but didn’t step away. Instead, he caged you in, strong arms at each side of your head as he looked down at you, his eyes piercing as he weighed your words. “And how is that?”

For a moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to reply. Now that you were this close, you could detect this strange, but familiar lingering smell. Something that reminded you of home but diluted and disguised by the bouquet of scents of metal and gunpowder, and sin that whiffed off August. Yet, that sweetness was undeniable, like fresh rain in the morning, clean and pure and suddenly you knew why August was so appealing, unlike all the other humans. He wasn’t a human at all.

“Oh.” You breathed out dumbly as you looked at him, noticing the realization coloring his eyes pitch black as his lips drew into a smirk.

“Does Daddy know you’re down here in the slums?”

“What do you think?” This time, you didn’t bother to hide your flames, pushing against August, but it only made him hold you tighter against the wall.

“And you say we can help each other?” he said, one perfect eyebrow raised. “Isn’t protecting humanity the gist of your job description?”

“I’ll be protecting them…” you replied, cocking your head to the side to look at him. “Giving future generations a chance to be better. There cannot be peace without suffering. Isn’t that what you say?”

For a moment, you just stared at each other, sizing one up, making sure if you could trust one another. You were natural enemies after all. You, a celestial angel. Him, a fallen one turned to a demon.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked.

“If the species die, game over,” he replied, his tongue sneaking out to wet his lips and you couldn’t help but follow the motion. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

“Then like I said, we can help each other.” August just nodded, seemingly convinced, but not even remotely inclined to let you go.

“You know what can happen to you if He finds out?” August cast his gaze upwards and you nodded.

“I’m doing His work. Even if He can’t see it.”

Time ticked by slowly as the two of you stared at each other, assessing one another, trying to discover how far you could trust the other if you could trust at all. An angel and a demon working together? Unthinkable was the only thing that came to mind.

Finally, August let you go and against your better judgment, you actually missed his touch. How strange.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper handing it over to you. Hesitant, you glanced at it noticing a name scribbled down in neat and elegant handwriting.

“Who is this?”

“Someone in need of inspiration…” August smirked. “Of the divine kind.”

“Why?” Your thumb brushed over the letters of the name, touching the soft indentations the pen left behind.

“Now, now, birdie, you don’t expect me to just trust you, do you? Leaps of faith are your kind of deal, not mine. Do this and maybe I’ll consider telling you the rest.”

Again, you stared at each other. You hated that tilt of his perfect lips and the dancing glow of wickedness in his eyes. The way they seem to mock you. You wanted to wipe them away somehow. With your fist. Or your lips.

Instead, you unfolded your wings, making August jump back startled as the strong bones and muscles stretched wide, the pearly white feathers glowing in the sun like bright diamonds, blinding and beautiful. You could see the awe in his eyes, and it was your time to smirk as you offered him a hand.

“How long has it been since you flew, August?”

“A few eons,” he stepped closer to you, ignoring your hand and circling your waist with his arms, his embrace tight, his fingers sneaking under your clothing, exploring the juncture of feather and flesh and you couldn’t hide the shiver that ran through your back.

You wrapped your arms around his strong neck, fingers threading through the soft curls on his nape before you looked up, bending your knees and canting your wings so you could take flight with August’s body pressed against yours.

It was a short journey from where you met August to the man’s apartment and you landed on the balcony with a soft thud, both of you cloaked from view by your powers as you walked into the cluttered flat that reeked of chemicals.

The man in question was perched on a stool, peering into a microscope, looking up periodically to make notations on his notepad, before his gaze returned to the equipment.

At each step you took closer to him, it almost felt like you were crossing a wall of his foul smell. It was rancid as if the man that hadn’t showered in days, mixed with the overly sweet and putrid stench of decaying food. You gagged a little and even August seemed bothered by the cloud of odor that stubbornly tried to cling to your skin.

He had better luck than you because he could keep a distance. You needed to move closer, your lips almost brushing against the man’s ear as you let out a heavy exhale, the air billowing from your nose and mouth a solace of purity against the filth.

You watched as the man breathed in deep, his eyes taking the familiar flick of flame, just a pale comparison of yours but his hand moved against the paper, drawing out incomprehensive formulas by instinct. Once he exhaled, his eyes cleared, his hand stopped, and he looked down in awe at his own work, scrambling to find his phone.

Watching over his shoulder you saw him browse through his contacts, finding the name Lark and sending him a short message:

Formula completed. The toxin will be ready in 12 hours.

As soon as he hit send, you heard a noise and turned to see August pulling out his own phone, his lips drawing into a smirk as he met your eyes. Now you knew his plans.

“Where will it be released?” you asked once the two of you left the chemist’s apartment and returned to the café where it all started. This time, sharing a table, the orange rays of sunset surrounding your both, and painting a gorgeous view, reminding once more why you were doing this.

“In every major city of first world countries.” There was a quiet detachment in August’s voice as if he didn’t care one way or the other. “It kills fast and spreads even faster. The economy will crumble in weeks. They’ll have to build it up from the ground. The trial run will be tonight. Here.”

You swirled the black liquid in your cup, watching the spirals forming like a tiny tornado. You did not regret your actions, but there was deep sorrow for the consequences, not because of the humans but because you knew how this would pain Father. He was strangely attached to these vermin that walked the Earth.

“Then it’s done.” You raised to your feet, shielding your eyes with sunglasses. “Our association ends here.”

“Doesn’t have to,” August spoke, his blue eyes swimming with something you didn’t recognize as he raised himself from his own seat, coming to stand too close to you and offering you his hand. “We could… extend this partnership.”

You should turn around and walk away. The things his voice promised were too dangerous to contemplate and you shouldn’t be thinking about them or him. Your mission was done, and you should go back home. Wait for Father’s judgment of your deeds but what would be the point? To see the White City one last time? To be reminded of all you would lose for the rest of your existence? Prolong you suffering?

You took August’s offer, letting him guide you to his hotel. The room’s window panels overlooking the skyline and the lights of the city like twinkling stars in the night as you contemplated the view, imagining them as each one of the humans you were tasked to watch over, shining like little fireflies that soon would have their lights extinguished.

You felt August hovering behind you seconds before you saw his reflection on the window, the warmth of his body seductive and tempting you to just lie back against his chest. He handled you a glass of deep red wine, his thick fingers trailing over your arm as he pulled back, making you shiver.

“Why bother? Alcohol has no effect on us,” you said, tilting your head back to look at him and his lips drew into that familiar smirk.

“Because it tastes good.” He sipped from his drink, the liquid tinting his mouth of blood-red before August’s attention shifted somewhere else, his smirk widening. “It’s starting.”

You looked back out the window wishing you could see the beginning of the ruin. You wanted to walk among the dying pest, watch them desperately claiming the heavens for forgiveness. Maybe later, right now, the way August’s mouth pressed against your neck, soft and teasing as he tasted you demanded all of your attention.

“I never fucked an angel before,” he commented and you turned to watch him.

You had never been with a demon either. Or anyone for that matter. Neither had your vessel. They needed to be pure to contain the power of divinity. And soon enough, you wouldn’t be anything, your destiny beyond your sight might as well try it.

Stepping closer to August’s warmth, you let your free hand move over the soft fabric of his shirt, tracing the shapes of his chest as you watched his eyes, letting him know you accepted his offer. As soon as you did, his mouth was over yours in a hard, demanding kiss, his fingers threading through your hair, pulling closer and laying claim to your mouth.

You had never felt something this. Sure you could access the memories of your vessel and she had kissed before, quick little pecks on the lips or slow, timid kisses, but nothing with this searing passion and you could feel a fire starting deep inside you as August devoured your mouth, rough and biting, throwing his glass aside along with yours so he could touch all of you.

With his now free hand, he explored the plains of your lower back, cupping your ass until your pressed flush against him, feeling his hardness against your lower belly as he guided backward to the couch, taking a seat and just looking at you.

“Take those off,” he ordered, looking at you with dark eyes a certain hunger burning deep in them. You obeyed without a word, stripping for him and letting his gaze run over the small frame of your vessel. “So beautiful, birdie.”

You were surprised by the gentleness of his touch as he led you to his lap, making you straddle his thick legs, your center in full view for his pleasure. This time, when he caught you by your hair, he tugged your head back hard and your scalp burned slightly, making you whimper.

Teeth and lips attacked your neck and jaw leaving sharp, stinging bites and suckles that had you wincing and flinching despite the deep need taking hold inside you. How strange were humans? They possessed such soft flesh but enjoyed inflicting and receiving so much pain

His other hand cupped and squeezed your breasts, fingers pinching and pulling your nipples until you were arching and rocking against the bulge in his pants, steady flow of moans and incomprehensible pleas coming from your mouth almost against your will, your center hot, wet and throbbing as if summoning something to complete it.

“Let me see them,” August growled against your neck, his beard scratching your skin, leaving bright red marks to accompany the purple ones that were beginning to form.

You unfolded your wings, spreading them wide and they nearly occupied the entire length of the room. August ran his fingers over the feather covering the strong muscle, descending to the juncture of your back almost in awe.

“You’re going to miss them,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Sometimes, it will feel like they are there again and you can just soar free but when you look back, there’s nothing but burnt stumps.”

You let your hands move down his chest, undoing his buttons and pushing the dark shirt over his shoulders, but when your curious fingers moved down his shoulder blades, August caught your wrists, tightening to the point of pain before bringing them down to his lap and over his hard and pulsing shaft.

“If you want to touch something, touch this.”

You obeyed, rubbing him through his slacks, watching as August leaned his head back, lips drawn into a smug smile. Especially when you moved to your knees between his open legs, undoing his zipper and buttons so you could free his cock.

“Isn’t this a lovely sight?” his voice was laced with amusement as he looked at you. “How many demons have ever brought angels to their knees?”

“Don’t make me regret this,” you warned, hand exploring the thick hardness of his cock, feeling the skin velvety and hot, the veins pulsing as you stroked him.

“A little too late for that, birdie,” August scoffed, grabbing you by the hair and tugging hard enough to bring tears to your eyes as he pushed his length past your lips, making you choke. “You have already sinned, might as well enjoy the ride.”

He used your mouth to his pleasure, shoving his cock down your throat until you were gagging and spluttering, unable to breathe. Strangely enough, his treatment of you seemed to only ignite the burning heat inside you, making you moan and tremble, your arousal running down your thighs as you pressed them together to relieve some of the burning emptiness of your cunt.

This shouldn’t feel this good. It was like every second that passed, August’s touches became scorched in your skin, vibrant and bright, making that exhilarating fire run through your veins, urging your body to welcome his claim, receive his thrusts like they were the bridge to your new paradise. His grunts and growls, your heavenly music.

You nearly cried when he pulled back from your mouth, the only connection between you two became the string of spit and precum clear under the iridescent lights of the room.

“You enjoyed that, birdie?” he asked with a smirk, bending down to kiss you as he brought you back to his lap, his cock hard and twitching against your waiting cunt. “You enjoy how I use you?”

“Yes.” You confessed, sighing as his rough fingertips trailed up your thigh, finding your soaked center to play and explore. “Please, don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” August declared pushing two fingers inside you, making you hiss and buck, pleasure like sharp shards cutting you open against your will, revealing that hidden need within. “So fucking tight.”

There was nothing gentle about his touch. It wasn’t about you or your pleasure. That was an unintended consequence that you embraced and succumbed to, rolling your body against the fingers penetrating you, his thumb rubbing and swirling your clit to make you wide and wet enough for him.

As August felt satisfied with his preparation, he pulled his fingers back, making you whimper at the loss but soon enough he was guiding your hips up, lining you with his cock and pushing inside you, making you nearly scream as he invaded you so deeply, not stopping until he was sheathed completely inside you.

“Feels perfect, love,” he grinned, licking the salt of your stray tears from your cheeks before he kissed your eyes and smacked your ass to make you move.

You started slowly, grinding on his lap and sending sparks of pleasure up both of your spines. You could see August’s smile widening at the thrill of your walls hugging and squeezing him as you rolled your hips, dragging out the feel of his thick cock pressing against your walls.

Soon, you picked up your pace, lifting yourself with the help of his hands on your hips and bouncing down on his cock. Never in your existence, you had felt this full and completed. Never you felt your body burn with such bright heat, sweat slicking down your skin as wave after wave of unimaginable bliss surged through you as if you were a little, fragile boat trying to endure a storm that threatened to claim you.

The faster you moved, the faster the feeling grew, and it became almost like a tide once August started meeting your movements, thrusting up every time you bounced down in perfect synchronicity. Before you were ready, you were swallowed by pleasure, the fire inside you erupted and consumed you.

You arched and cried out to the skies, your vision blacking out and the heat spreading. You felt it devouring your wings and the searing pain mingled with your ecstasy, occupying every inch of your conscience.

Through all, August didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop thrusting into you as if his pleasure only increased from your own disgrace and it wasn’t until your wings were completely consumed that he finally stilled beneath you, spilling his seed hot and thick inside you, his groans muffled against the crook of your neck.

“Welcome to the fallen, birdie,” his whispered once he caught his breath, his kisses against you jaw almost caring. “You’re one of us now.”

xxx

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[theodora3022]

Merciful(Yandere Dabi Scenrio)

Scenrio: You had let yourself got caught by the Fire prince Dabi on an escape attmempt. Uh-Oh.

Notes: This is a little spicy chapter of my original novel, I just changed same words hahah. I’ll post more old works like this, as long as I can figure out how to change them properly. I dug this out in my folders and it fits Dabi perfectly?? What?

Warning: Implied Non-con, Escape gone wrong, general Yandere content

The sheer terror in your (color) eyes awoken something in Dabi. Your trembling hands, how you falls on the ground, helplessly, knowing there is no escaping him.

“Sugar cube, are you lost? Your room is up there you know.”

No words, you just looks straight to him. That face, when distorted with fear, is even more beautiful. You might not be a great beauty by popular standards, but in his eyes you are divine. 

“I want to respect your wishes, I really do. But if they involve leaving my side…” Cradling your face in his hands, his lip curling into a proud smirk; “You need to learn your place. I’ve been too generous with you.”

You tried to resist, but suddenly found your limbs had betrayed you. The colors in your vision seem to be blending together, like mixed paint on palettes.

Swooping you up effortlessly, he leans near your ears: “You should have been aware what you are eating.”

You woke up in an unfamiliar room. Compare to the last bedroom she was given; this one is larger in size, and at least two time more lavish. You are layed out on a bed, with Dabi sitting on its edge, gently caressing her left thigh.

“You’re awake.” Avoiding his gaze, you tries to turn to you side, with no success; you wrists are chained to the headboard of the bed. Still light-headed from the suppressant drugs. That is when reality slaps you hard in the face.

You are now completely at his mercy. Dabi can do anything he want to you, whether it be beating you , starving you, or slicing you open. Bitter as you are to admit, you belongs to him now, like a toy that can be played with or destroyed.

“If you wish to kill me, do it now.” There is not even a hint of anger in your voice, just completely monotoned, empty phrases. It is clear that he wants to see you squirm and beg, like a lowlife. Keep the urges contained, pray he lose interest in you soon, and target some other poor soul.

“Why would I do that, Sugar cube?” Trailing his index finger up your leg, the cruel fire prince smiled when you shivers from the intimate contact. “I gave you freedom, but all you want do is going back to that weakling. What it is that he has I cannot give you?” You can feel bruises forming on your thighs. You supressed a whimp of pain, despite your efforts tears slides down the cheeks. Teeth sinking into your lower lips.

“You will not leave my room unless I say so. This room is four stories high, so do not even think about breaking out windows. My vassal will deliver you food, any unnecessary interaction with anyone else will not be possible.”

Straddling over you, he begins to unlace his pants.  

Your clothes. Ripping them off like a wild, hungry wolf, his merciless moves startled you greatly. No, this cannot be happening!

“Please, Dabi, don’t touch me!” You cry. Pleading, when moments ago you had convinced yourself you would never. You tried kicking him the abdomen, but it was fruitless.

“You want my mercy now? Where is my mercy? When did you ever consider how I feel? You throw your freedom away, sugar cube. Saving yourself for Shoto? I cannot wait to see the look on his face when he figured you have been tainted. Surely you cannot run away while carrying a child. I never once saw him lose his temper, he was always so composed and reserved.”

“Your endearing behaviours last week, there are all acts, aren’t they? Never I thought I will see you cry, begging for my mercy.”

The onslaught was more intense then you imagined. Sometimes you would indulge in stories where a maiden was to be deflowered by a bandit. Not that you wants these things happen to herself, it was just a pleasant distraction from how you has to be all “demure, chaste, good”. These lecheous fiction works may or may not kept the sadist in you sated.

Now you know how exactly how those girls feel. The desperation, the hoplessness, and the desire to just submit for gentler treatmeant.

It’s going to be a long night, and your savior would never appear. All you can do is praying to your god for it to be over soon. 

[sabineelectricheart]

The Oracle Vault [Pt. 1]

Summary: Byleth and Sylvain take refuge from the cold and prying eyes at the Abyss.

Rating: K+ - Suitable for more mature childen, 9 years and older, with minor action violence without serious injury. May contain mild coarse language. Should not contain any adult themes.

Words: 2435

Notes: So, a new series. I hope you enjoy this one, too.

The Oracle vault.

The large, stone salon was tucked somewhere on the face of the stone that held up the monastery main buildings. A wrong turn away from the Abyss settlements, the chilly, mysterious room had always elicited some strange regard from the new Archbishop.

Before the war, Rhea would use the room to make predictions about the future and the wishes of her mother, trying to communicate with the Blue Sea Star. The monks tasked with the prophecies used all sorts of methods, from magical objects, narcotic substances and, mainly, ritual dancing. So much so, the White Heron Cup was usually held to identify students with a particular talent for it, as, upon victory, they were brought here to further education in magic.

Of course, the former Archbishop’s attention to it was uneven. At the dawn of the Church of Seiros, Rhea would invest heavily upon the art, hoping to bring forth Sothis through their magic. After the Four Apostles failed so shamefully and were purged away from the religion, the woman started investing in Crestology and alchemy instead, returning every so often, after another failed experiment and lidden with guilt for perverting her mother’s creations in such a manner, hoping for absolution and guidance.

Byleth does not know why she cares for this room, as she is unsure about its power to predict the future and the will of the Goddess. She understands why she appreciates the gardens and gazebos, and do have fond memories of her old classroom, but, prior to the war, she had never even heard of this place.

It was far more contrasting from the others, consisting simply of stone walls and arched ceilings, a large empty space in the middle, as if what should go there was yet to appear. On the dark and damp corners, mismatched tapestries draped in ruffles from the walls in bursting colours, equally so in the various sizes cushions and chairs with rugs to match. Other objects as pebbles, scales, magically-infused items and strange clothing were discarded around, as well.

Regardless, it laid empty and forgotten. The Oracle mages and dancers were seen by Edelgard as the consubstantiation of everything that was wrong and corrupt about the Church, just short of the Immaculate One in foulness, and so made her personal business their systematic persecution and murder. Seteth said it was unlikely any of them managed to survive, and if not, they had no news of any of them. Their art is mostly lost, and it elicits a bit of a melancholy in Byleth’s heart, knowing that.

“Why is it that we are coming here?” Sylvain asks with a sigh, trailing behind her as Byleth ascend the last few steps of the winding spiral staircase.

The green-haired woman turns to him with a slight wicked grin and a raised brow, a look he soon returned as he grasped her hand in his own.

“I think we could do with a change of scenery, after all.” She responds with some ease. “I am growing rather tired of the Goddess Tower and the Star Terrace.”

“What is wrong with the Goddess Tower?” He scoffs in faux offense, his brows furrowing as she tugged him along with her into the vacant room as he looks over his shoulder once more.

“It is far too cold and cloudy to go up there tonight. Besides, this is one of my favourite rooms in the whole monastery if you must know. You will survive mingling with the Abyss people just this once, Sylvain.” She jests light-heartedly, releasing his hand to skip ahead of him as he groaned at her sudden absence and he had no choice but to follow her.

Though, he felt that he would follow her anywhere, and this was a proven fact with the conflict that came to a head only a few Moons prior.

“And if I do not?” He calls after her just to be difficult, pinching a piece of red velvet fabric between his fingers before his eyes roam back to her.

Byleth turns on her heel and purse her lips at him, narrowing her gaze as she fights her bemused smile. She shakes her head as he holds her stare in just the same manner, his head tilting and eyes squinting as he challenged her and she readily gave up on suppressing her grin for a moment longer.

“You did not have to join me if this is not to your taste, you know?” The Archbishop says, and he rolls his eyes as he tugs her close to him by a gentle grip on her hand. “If you have such a strong opinion of my wards, you are more than welcome to turn around and leave, but I have a feeling you would miss me too much if you did.”

The horseman silenced her very logical words with a kiss, her chuckle dwindling as she relaxed against him. His kiss was soft and tender as he hummed against her lips, his hand coming to brush her hair behind her ear as his lips moved from her own to sweep across her cheek. They linger just under her jaw before pressing chastely under her ear, his nose brushing over her skin.

“Must you always pick on me, darling?” Sylvain murmurs, his breath tickling against the shell of her ear.

Her soft laughter starts up again at his words, pulling his attention back to her gaze as he pulls back to look at her. She rests her hands on his chest, her fingers splaying across the azure fabric of his wool-lidded coat and smoothing over his furred collar.

“Yes, I think I must.” The woman concludes and, with that, she turned away from him and left his loose embrace much to his dismay.

She walks over to the centre of the salon, and twirls around slowly, taking in the static air buzzing on her skin. She knows her companion can feel the magic, too, and was just being a contrarian for sport. Besides, they were deep underground, behind complex magically-protected doors. If there is a private, unassuming room in all of Garreg Mach, this is probably it.

Sylvain watched as she smiled contently, her eyes falling closed as she tips her head back and bask in the peace that came with nightfall. In the enchantment of the room. For it was the time where they could love one another as freely as they would like, for as many hours as the moon remained in the deep navy sky. He wanted desperately to love her in the light of day, without fear of prying eyes and listening ears, but she knew why things were the way they were.

The House of Gautier were devout followers of the Church and loyal subjects of the Kingdom. The Margrave’s assistance on the Homefront during the war against the Empire was undeniable, and absolutely invaluable on their struggle for resistance.

However, for all the decoration and respect the family has amassed throughout their existence, and above all the more recent achievements, are believed by the current house head to be thanks to their Crest, and its consequent ability to yield the Lance of Ruin. As such, the blood must be protected with all zeal.

In Fódlan, that usually meant inbreeding, but the House of Gautier has not birthed a girl in one hundred and fifty years, and so incest was a material unpracticality, even between cousins. So, it was established a rotation between the Crest houses of the Kingdom: Blaiddyd, Dominic, Galatea and Fraldarius. It was believed that, through this system, the family would profit from the influx of blessed blood, but no one other Crest would be able to supplant the Gautier, as it happens from time to time with noble children.

In this regard, while Byleth carries a valuable and powerful Crest, coveted by many houses throughout the continent, a match between her and the only heir to Gautier seemed like an existential threat to the Margrave. Not only she carried the Crest of Flames, the sign of the Goddess’ favour, the Church documents seemed to indicate that both her parents carried the Crest of Seiros. They would certainly overpower the Minor Crest of Gautier the old noble and his son carried.

While Byleth cannot say for certain which Crest her children would bear, or even if they would bear one at all, or even still if she is able to have children of her own, the Church does know of ways to make one carry any Crest. From blood reconstruction surgery, to Crest Stone rituals, to even a valuable collection of Dragon Seals hidden away, if there is a pressing need for a bearer of the Crest of Gautier, she is guaranteed of its supply.

Nevertheless, it was widely agreed amongst the war generals that Crests were an undesirable feature of their society, and they should be let naturally purge away in the coming centuries. She cannot go back on such an important and consensual position for her own personal gain, especially if it means announcing to the world that the Church could have granted Crests to anyone all this time.

So, Sylvain’s father pressured him to sever his ties with his girlfriend, he is constantly pressured to wed either Annette or Ingrid, and they continue their liaison under the clandestine guard of the Garreg Mach nights. It was not a situation that would be left standing for long, but the dices will fall where they must, and Byleth has decided to deal with them as they do.

For now, to his great delight, the nobleman watched the way the torchlight glowed against her divine beauty as it shines against her verdant hair, falling like a protective veil over her head. It danced across his girlfriend’s unmarred and soft skin, as soft and jovial as a new-born’s, in bitter spite of the many years of probations she endured.

Such an ethereal beauty left him wondering how someone so perfect could love someone so flawed. He found himself to be an anchor tied to her at times, his grievous mistakes and current standing in the nobility something he felt kept her from thriving the way he knew she would, the way she deserved. She already was, far more than he could say for himself.

His girlfriend still had that unsettling unfazed look on her face, that tendency of over-rationalize what is said, but, as he grew accustomed to it, he found it more endearing than disturbing. In her own way, she radiates warmth and, above all, acceptance, something he so desperately craved and found he could not keep himself from. To him, she was the embodiment of sunshine and he felt he was quite the opposite, rather bringing storms and rain. Yet still, she chose to love him in spite of it.

He felt guilty, really.

Guilt for having a father who made her feel like their relationship was in jeopardy without ever having the displeasure of meeting the man. For not being able to love her as fully and openly as he so desired.

“Are you going to join me or are you going to stare all night?” Byleth quips, breaking him from his pestering thoughts.

His gaze flickered from the vacant spot she once stood in to where she sat on purple velvet cushioned stool. She smiled as the crystal sphere flowed before her and a grin of his own tugged at the corner of his mouth. He took a seat on the small crimson stool right next to her, finding himself a bit too tall for such a small seating arrangement but he decided against complaining.

The sphere before she contained a fog-like haze that swirled around much like the clouds many floors above their heads.

“Just what are we doing?” He asks, an amused smirk on his lips as he raised a brow.

The green-haired woman shrugs. “As the Archbishop, I suppose I should be proficient in every aspect of the religion I am expected to lead. Perhaps I would be able to see something on these. I was told they were quite easy to operate, in fact.”

“Are you having any luck with it?” He asks, as his girlfriend peers ever closer to the object.

“Unfortunately, no.” She says, laughing at his scrunched nose and the way he gripped her stool and tugged her closer with one swift pull. “Tell me, what will our future be in five years’ time?”

He chuckles, shaking his head fondly as he looked from the crystal to her. “That is quite simple, I do not need some silly crystal to tell me that.”

She raises her brow in amused curiosity. “Is that so? What lays ahead, Oracle?”

The redhead nobleman looks at her attentively, his smirk softening to an adoring smile. “Of course, Your Grace. The future is that I will love you as long as you will have me, and even more.”

Byleth nearly rolled her eyes at his sappy words, but she found them too earnest and the look on his face far too endearing to do so. She cannot deny the fact that she appreciates his steadfastness, too, but she also did not have it in her to miss an opportunity to tease him.

“Is that so? The crystal ball seems to disagree from you. As I see here, I shall sustain a wart on my nose in the next five years, and you, heartbroken from the lost beauty of mine, shall flee with a travelling minstrel.” She jests, and he rolls his eyes as he fights his smile.

“I am convinced you love to torment me.” He frowns, even in spite of his half-amusement from the stupid joke.

Despite the light-hearted moment, he finds he cannot enjoy it fully with the worry weighing heavy on his mind. Her question was merely playful, but it had been one that frequented his thoughts far more than he cared to ever admit, more than he ever will admit.

In a perfect world, one there were no Crests, that there was someone to shoulder the responsibilities he is so eager to shirk, Sylvain would have felt confident with the idea of loving her for the rest of his life. Would have felt rather excited for their future together because he loved she entirely too much for his own good.

However, it was much too difficult to indulge in thinking of such dreams when there were things in particular pressing down on his shoulders.

That one night in particular, to be specific, he would never forget that.

*_*_*_*_*

The Oracle Vault Masterlist

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[land-of-brains-and-chocolate]

fic for @bakageta, who made a VERY generous charity donation request for more meditations on human/symbiote differences! i always want to write about language and relationships, so i made eddie and the symbiote read poetry together. it’s set some time before the hunger. i hope it Scratches the Itch.

Wind roars through the streets. With desperate anger, it tears at clothes, sends litter flying. Rain beats down relentlessly. It claws at exposed skin, sharp and cold. Desperate, but directionless.

This isn’t the kind of rain that was sent in a biblical flood, terrible, but purifying, divine in strength and purpose. This rain smells foul. It can do nothing but rise from filth and return to filth, over and over, and the storm screams it for everyone to hear, but no one to listen. No one but Eddie, anyway.

Eddie lets it lash out against him, back to the wall. He can taste it, vaguely metallic, when he licks his lips. If it was the kind of rain that carries out a calling, it’d drown him, him and the rest of the rats scurrying through the gutters, but all it can do is run down his face, dripping from his chin.

Protest, at the back of his mind, as he watches water stream down the street. Nothing could drown them. 

Of course not, Eddie thinks. He does have more effective protection from the elements than the traditional bundle of newspapers. 

The rain doesn’t bother said protection - or rather, protector. It doesn’t need to be kept cool and wet, but it likes to be. It produces an excess of heat, and it has no skin to stop it from directly absorbing the water it needs.

Thunder is another matter. Far off, at first, an approaching rumble, and the mild anxiety it caused hardly registered. Coming in close, now, echoing in ways no one else can sense, crashing against the symbiote's exposed body. A wince, each time. Then, with another clap of thunder, a seizing of muscles, a grimace. 

“You’re right,” Eddie says, strained, in response to an unvoiced plea. “We should… We should go.”

He sits there. The next nearby lightning strike feels like it’s hit its target, the symbiote rippling across his skin. Resistant to any impact, but easily disturbed at the cellular level by sound and heat.

Eddie groans. “Right,” he says, again. Slowly, he pushes himself onto his feet. He’d probably slip and eat pavement if it weren’t for the symbiote’s grip. Been feeling kind of tired, lately. Can’t have been more than three days since he slept, either.

Eddie drags himself down the alley, gritting his teeth whenever thunder digs into their flesh with hot fingers. The symbiote hurries him along, taking on half the effort of moving. It's not injured, of course. Just uncomfortable. 

Memories burn through their body, prolonged exposure, dissolving biomass. 

“Alright,” Eddie mumbles. No need to remind him. He can feel it, too.

Soon enough, the symbiote stops them. The mental nudge goes unnoticed, but the tendril that wraps around the door handle yanks him back with stumbling steps.

It’s a public library. Quiet, warm, dry. Many qualities the sewers do not possess. 

Libraries have been a place of refuge to him throughout his life. One of the few places he could go to get out of the house without neglecting his work, back then. Now, one of the few places he can inhabit as an imposing, penniless, unwashed man talking to himself. Or growling to himself, admittedly, when they’re there to do research on some wretched waste of life's wrongdoings.

Most places, that doesn’t go over too well. A public disturbance, that's what they call someone trying to do some good. Tells you a lot about what the public's like, left undisturbed. Exactly why Eddie doesn’t like to face it, doesn’t want it to face him.

Fine, Eddie thinks. Fine. Just for a little while.

He opens the door. The foyer’s got some carpets to drip on, some people to get the stink-eye from. They’re far from the only ones seeking shelter from the storm. 

Eddie pushes past them. They don't need a fancy seating area, they only need some privacy. Try as they might, though, it’s impossible to escape humanity in here. It’s not just the students, writers, readers. They can avoid those by heading into the poetry section, practically abandoned at this time of year. No, it's that they’re still surrounded by culture, art, science, wherever they go. Things that used to mean something to him.

Still do, maybe.

It’s hard to tell, sometimes. 

Hard to tell what they’re here for, if not this, and not these people.

Not that he’s doubting their mission. It’s more that he’s underestimated how it would escalate, how far the rot has spread, how precious little there is left to protect. It’s them against the world, at this point. Bound in purpose, he thinks, and the sentiment echoes, drained of its satisfaction. Bound in purpose, still. Bound in purpose, at least.

Eddie stops walking, slowly, and leans against a bookshelf. Closes his eyes. Sweeps away the hair clinging to his forehead, then places his hand on the shelf, fingers catching on the edge. Stands there and breathes, and thinks, and knows that something’s wrong.

“We haven’t changed,” he says, tongue heavy. “The world has.”

But it feels like it. It feels like something’s changed between them. If Venom used to be a song they belted out together, joyful and sure, then now, it’s only background noise, easily ignored.

“Maybe,” he says, and swallows. He opens his eyes, takes a quick breath. “Maybe we should…” 

Talk. Connect. Take a break. It’s been rough, he won’t deny that. They’ve been working as one, too preoccupied with trying to survive to even try to make a difference. Tirelessly treading onward, even in the face of loss and failure.

Wistfulness, in response. Memories of when they first met, when they were foreign to each other, explored each other, discovered each other - and themselves. When he would focus on it, feverishly, and every thought drew it deeper into him. Into itself, given form by his attention. Into them.

It had so much to learn. He had so much to teach.

“We haven’t run out yet,” Eddie says, softly.

He walks among the shelves. “I used to have a penchant for poetry,” he says, out loud, just to be certain that it knows these thoughts are directed at it. “It wasn’t relevant to anything I had to do, but that made it… special."

In his journalism major, a flair for poetic language was largely considered inappropriate. Complex, ambiguous, emotional, opposed to reporting the facts. A small-minded view, in Eddie’s opinion. Any story is only as big as the words used to tell it.

Regardless, that disconnect could be liberating. Poetry was a reprieve, the one thing he didn't force himself to excel in, the one intellectual pursuit he took for inspiration, for escapism, for enjoyment, for what it was. He'd known that poetry was antithetical to everything his father stood for, that neither he nor his peers ever would’ve approved of that particular interest, so he never had to hope. It'd been liberating, doing something for himself. It'd limited the time he spent on it, of course. But it'd been liberating.

There's an undercurrent of care to these memories, and he recognises it as the symbiote’s interest, approval, affection, carrying them along. Eddie smiles. 

He’d bring a book home, now and then. Wrap up in a blanket with it, feel a little less lonely, or a lot more lonely, depending. And eventually, he even found someone to share it with. Someone to whisper to, curled up in his arms...

The current cuts off. It doesn't seem intentional, not like the warmth leaving him, but like the warmth leaving it. There’s no explanation offered.

Eddie clears his throat. "Well," he says. “That was then. This is now.” He forms a thought, hesitantly. "Would you like to… read something? While we're already here, I mean."

It pushes his own feelings back at him. Seems like it'd make him happy.

"Right."

The symbiote doesn't actually care for poetry much. Conceptually, it feels like it's developed out of limitations it doesn't experience. Something it transcends. It needs no words to express itself.

"You could appreciate it," he says, as he examines the line-up, "from a place of pity, at least." He thinks of writers it might enjoy, in subject matter, maybe in structure. Maybe-

Eddie's hand comes to rest on a book's spine. "This one," he says, "this one reminds me of you."

That seems to pique its interest. It probes at the nature of the association. 

“In a good way, of course,” he says, flipping through the book. “E.E. Cummings. The way he handles language has a certain… boundary-breaking character, but only in the service of truth, and love, and hate. As if the enormity of it cannot be contained, and he’s setting it free.”

In his mind, Eddie draws parallels to their bond. The symbiote follows each of them like it's being led through the dark, one hand warm in another. 

“He’s known for doing strange and untoward things to syntax. Very accessible, at the same time. Nothing like what I would write, but I appreciate…”

Eddie trails off, eyes drawn to a gap between shelves, where a woman stands some distance away, expression blank, lips slightly parted, and seems to be listening in. For a moment, they feel horribly exposed, and whatever shows in their face sends her off with hurried steps.

“I appreciate it,” he says, book in hand.

The symbiote, discreetly, raises a tendril from Eddie's sleeve, pointing at a page in the book. Let's read this one, it suggests.

Eddie blinks down at it. He does know that one. If they’re going to try to reinspire some faith in humanity, then he supposes they could do worse. 

They look around for a spot they'll hopefully be left alone in, some nook or cranny between shelves. They settle down, and the symbiote spreads out, cushioning him. Surrounded on all sides but one, they manage to stop feeling out of place by turning inward.

i-

Wrong, the symbiote balks.

"Wrong?"

Wrong! The I-letter is capitalised, always. The first letter is capitalised, always. If it turns out that those rules cancel each other out, it's going to throw itself into the nearest furnace.

“No, no,” Eddie says, amused. “This is what I meant. Boundary-breaking. Rule-breaking. Poetry gets to do that.”

And everyone still understands?

“Of course.”

Then what was the point in the first place?

“Well,” Eddie says, knees drawn up to his chest. “Rules do make things more understandable… More standardised. That’s just not the purpose of poetry. Well-tread ground needs to be dug up to be made fertile.”

The symbiote hardly follows. It's too busy experiencing visions of the book torn to pieces between its teeth, paper shreds flitting through the air.

“Alright, just listen,” Eddie says, undeterred, “or whatever it is you do.”

i thank You God

The symbiote is directly linked into his conscious and subconscious thought processes, so he’s doing the work of translation for it. There's the effect. The speaker, "i", small, insignificant, deferring. The addressee, "You", “God", standing tall and singular.

How is this supposed to feel? Comforting? Intimidating? Denigrating? 

Something about awe, Eddie thinks. But it’s up to you.

i thank You God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes

Natural-Infinite-Yes. That’s the closest he could come to transcribing the way it communicates emotions. It speaks to a web of associations, all the potential of the underlying concepts, disregarding the prescribed use of these words. 

The symbiote wonders: What about the spirits? Are they creatures he’s imagining, carrying his own joy?

“That’s… not bad,” Eddie says, head tilted. “Spirits are complicated. But you’re right to assume that it says more about his own than theirs.” He blows a strand of hair out of his face. “He just really likes trees.”

(i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay great happening illimitably earth)

The symbiote understands the what of it, if not the how. It’s swept up in the feeling of union, reunion. It can hardly imagine anything else it might mean.

That’s the thing about poetry, Eddie muses. It speaks to your personal experiences. Someone from a different background might take something completely different away from it. The writer certainly intended something else.

The symbiote grows pensive, faced with the uncertainty of human communication. One of them has to make signs from meaning, the other has to make meaning from signs. No direct exchange at all, no guarantee that their sign-meanings match up. They may not even want them to.  

Eddie hums. “Countless theories of communication start from that line of thought. Remind me to introduce you to Stuart Hall someday.”

That only spurs it on, digging deeper into his understanding of language. What Eddie thinks of as a ‘medium’, sound, writing, image, is actually something that encases and constricts, everything that stands between them in their permanent state of separation. How can they just accept it? How does any human cope with it, being unreachable?

It takes Eddie a second to respond, surprised by how easily he finds himself lost in the way the symbiote weaves an argument, as fluidly and formlessly as it moves. In response, it traces the shape of his own thoughts, edged and curved around the boundaries that words lay around concepts in his mind. They missed this, they realise.

Eddie runs his thumb along the page. “I suppose you understand why some of us resort to poetry, now.” If not for their bond, he might’ve been among them. But then- No. He would be dead.

how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any--lifted from the no of allnothing--human merely being doubt unimaginable You?

Though no human being, the symbiote can see itself in the speaker’s position, easily. Lifted from the no of allnothing, made real in an act of creation: Perceiving and being perceived. Given form, name, purpose. Someone to be. Brought into a richness of experience, a depth of feeling that can only carry the truth.

(now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

The kind of worship described here, though, seems intent on reducing the worshipper. Their worship never elevated one of them above the other. It elevated them above the world.

Eddie swallows.

At that moment, it’s not a connection to someone else he’s struggling for, but a connection to himself. There’s a feeling that should be available to him, but isn’t. Not quite. Like watching a lit fireplace, but finding it cold to the touch.

Well. What is poetry for, if not that?

Eddie flips through the book. Looking for something, this time. He finds it, and with it, a flash of warmth, recalling the words and the place they hold in his life. The symbiote seems almost taken aback.

He doesn’t even need to read this one to share it. It made him ache, but it was an ache for possibility, not absence. One soul, irreversibly marked by another, inescapably tied to it, and yet, unashamedly so, without regret or reservation. 

With something like a laugh, Eddie rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Tries not to let the tightness between them distract him, or the odd dryness of his skin, or the strange taste in his mouth. 

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)

Eddie’s throat seizes, hot and heavy, and for all its lack of regard for words, the symbiote curls around my dear, my darling like a wounded animal hiding its underbelly, even the sound of it suddenly seeming sweet instead of clunky. It’s okay, Eddie thinks, it’s okay. Me, too.

They use those metaphors a lot, has it noticed? Someone running through their veins, carrying them under their skin, letting them inside their heart? Humanity may fear it, use it, scorn it, but unknowingly, without prejudice, they dedicate love songs to it.

i fear no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you

The structure, the seamless transition from thought to thought, with concepts simply being available instead of being repeatedly reproduced to be put into sentences... Needless to say, that’s a lot like the symbiote, too. Beautiful, in an alien way.

Eddie blinks away tears. He realises, suddenly, that they aren’t his, and they aren’t the product of overwhelming emotionality. They’re tears of grief. Grief that reaches down deep enough to make him retch. What’s wrong, he thinks, what’s wrong, it’s you, it’s for you, listen.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

Something in the symbiote snaps.

It rises with a rumble threatening to turn into a roar, sharp-edged as if sketched in a hurry, with a set of talons that swallows his chest with ease. Eddie can hardly begin to worry about drawing attention before he’s paralysed by pained confusion. 

Why would he do this? It knows it doesn’t bring him any satisfaction to taunt it. Nothing seems to. They’re no longer what they were, when they were everything it ever wanted, and now he involves it in his imagination, his reminiscence, his lyricising? 

Eddie can hardly untangle the mess of emotions, and the symbiote hardly seems to slow down for him. He suppresses, just barely, the urge to tell it to shut up, get away, just until he knows what’s going on, and… 

You broke up with me and now you’re making me read romantic poetry.

Is that it?

That’s not…

That’s not true.

They stare at each other, dumbly. The symbiote deflates into something more like its usual form, letting Eddie push himself back up from where his neck was uncomfortably craned against an Emily Dickinson collection.

Approaching footsteps interrupt them, and the symbiote melts back into his clothes as if it was never there at all. A man comes around the corner, looking down the shelves to see… nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the man sitting on the floor.

“And what’re you looking at?” Eddie snaps.

The man looks him up and down, suspicious. Inspects the books for damage.

“This is a library,” he says.

“This is a patron,” Eddie replies, gesturing down at himself.

“Well, as such…”

“We’ll be quiet.”

The man stands there for a moment more, confused, then nods to himself, clearly wanting nothing more than to leave. Eddie mutters an insult under his breath.

Their mind feels like prickly static. Eddie looks over at where the book's fallen from his hand, still open on the same page, and sighs, deeply. He picks it up, rests it against one raised knee. He offers his hand, as if asking someone to dance - or to join him, rejoin him - and waits.

The symbiote begins bubbling forth from beneath the skin, then slides between his fingers, settling into a delicate, clawed hand. The imagery isn’t lost on it, nor the associated memories, and Eddie raises it to his mouth, slowly.

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

It churns with it, conflicted. Still?

“Of course,” Eddie says, brows furrowed. “If not anymore, I’d at least... tell you.”

The symbiote’s mass extends into an arm, a shoulder, enough of a torso to crowd him against the wall, and it thinks, very decisively: No. Those are words.

Words aren’t what makes a relationship. They can designate it, but they can’t create it. A relationship is real. It has a smell, a taste.

It’s a state of being. It’s who you are, together. 

If that changes, he can’t just tell it that it hasn’t.

Eddie’s expression grows dark. "So it's my fault," he says, and his hand clenches, dissolving the symbiote's mass between his fingers. "I'm not good enough for you, is that it? Not anymore?" His lip curls, eyes cast downwards. "You, of all people."

They sit in silence. 

No, it thinks. It’s not him. It’s the world. The rottenness of the world.

They were angry before, but it was anger that stoked, anger that drove. Now, after being beaten down time and time again, it’s anger that drains. Anger that drains him of love, leaking from him like a physical thing until there’s nothing left for it.

“Love’s more than that,” Eddie says, voice rough. “I know I love you. I swear, I- I love you in ways that make it seem senseless to even say it, to try to...” He tenses up, looking for the words, then releases. “It’d have to be poetry.”

Guilt washes the symbiote’s other emotions away, wave after wave. It soothes, settling back into him, around him. Pulls back his hair and drapes around his neck. Eddie nuzzles into his shoulder as it takes on the soft, fluffy texture of a scarf, hidden in plain sight.

“You know what a relationship is?” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “It’s a promise. It doesn’t end until that promise is broken.”

What promise?

Eddie exhales, half a laugh, half a grin. “You know,” he says, half desperate. “‘Til death do us part.”

[vampiresuns]

Manmarziyan | Haider x Anatole

✴︎ 5.3k words. The Earth has no option but to orbit the Sun, and Sun has no choice but to shine on Earth — only it is a choice, one that Haider and Anatole cannot keep pretending they do not make.

Haider belongs to @atypicalacademic. CWs: contains mentions of 🍋, though it’s not 🍋

Translations, courtesy of Kani: Priyo - darling, Amar shona - my love, Amar Jibon - love of my life.

Title song: Manmarziyan - from the Lootera OST.

Anatole had been learning about the different religions and belief systems of the world since he was little. From mythologies to now-a-days-religions, he found the subject fascinating, even if he didn’t have a personal sense of religious faith. He had done so with Amparo’s and her grandparents, with Milenko, his mothers and his uncle Blasio, and he had done so with his great grandfather’s one. 

The belief system Valerian had been raised in had common motifs with others, but it was a little different to what Anatole was used to. He didn’t quite understand this Death of theirs very much, even though Valerian had told him neither did he when he was his age. However, it made up for being the most confusing with having the best stories around it, in Anatole’s opinion. 

One of Anatole’s favourites was the story of the Sun and the Earth.

The Earth had become enchanted with how beautiful the Sun was. Though it understood the Sun could not always be around —that the object of its affections being gone was necessary so green could grow on Earth, for the Rain too was a blessing— being apart from it was unbearable. 

Thus, the Earth came up with a way to always be close to the Sun. The Earth shook itself and roared until from its flats it created mountain ranges all over the world, each of them competing with each other to see which one would be the tallest, and the closest to the Sun. The Mountains were divine and magnificent, beautiful and awe inspiring, commanders of great respect. 

And just like the Earth had aimed for, some of them had grown so high they could pierce the clouds. 

So the Earth told the Sun: “I did this so we could be together.”

To which the Sun told the Earth: “My foolish beloved! Doing all of this when I shine on you so we can be together. I nurture your plants and I shine on your oceans so I can be with you, and you with me. I have never left you.”

The Earth didn’t understand. It thought the Sun had not liked it’s gift. When the Earth said as much, the Sun laughed.

It told the Earth: “I do love your gift. Not loving your gift would mean I do not love you.”

The Sun cradled the Earth in its hands and with a kiss it said: “And you’ll find not loving you is something impossible to me.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

His knock on the door was answered with a distracted ‘come in’ from the other side. His uncle was barefoot, curled up in one of his sofas, reading a book, his reading glasses sitting on the edge of his nose. Anatole called for his attention, and he lifted his index. 

“I am almost done with this chapter, Aelius.” 

Anatole waited, trying not to fidget too much — his uncle always noticed his fidgeting. Other people could take it as talking with his hands, thinking, or impatience, but not Valeriy. Fooling his uncle was as difficult as his uncle fooling him. Instead, he occupied his hands looking at the volumes in his personal parlour’s library, until he heard Valerius close the book and fold his glasses away. 

“Sorry, Aelius, I did not want to lose my track, and this book is very interesting.” 

“Is it the one about the art smugglers you told me about last week?” 

“Very much so. I finally had time to put my hands on it again — wine, dear nephew? I want to see what your coffee-ruined taste buds have to say about my first experimental batch.” 

Anatole indulged him. When he was his private self, Anatole had a very hard time denying his uncle. Especially now that their relationship had improved significantly after it’s mishaps, and he was ever so eager to have his opinion on things. Like he did when he was young, and prepared to fight every Prakran and Balkovian political office to have his nephew working with him. 

“What is it?” He asked as he poured some wine into a glass. “We’ve both established I cannot lie to you, because you notice, and you cannot lie to me, because I notice. So better get out with it instead you pretend it’s nothing.” 

“I need a favour.” 

“Who in the Court do I need to have a chat with?” 

Anatole laughed, accepting the glass of wine when he was sure he wouldn’t spill it. “Nothing like that, this is personal.” 

“Go on. Don’t clam up now, sit with me and give me something I can tease you about.” 

He hesitated for a moment, exhaling slowly, biding his time to make up the courage to just say it. His uncle raised an eyebrow at him. “Out with it. Unless you poisoned someone, nothing you say can be worse than something I’ve done, so do go on.” 

“Val.” 

“Tsk, don’t worry about me, and don’t ‘Val’ me. What is it?” 

Right, better get on with it. “I wanted to know if you could help me find a painting by Thasveer Wazim.”

His uncle looked clearly surprised, putting his glass down, and curling his fingers against his own lips. “Wanting to start your own collection?” 

“It’s a gift for someone else.” 

“Why haven’t I met him? Or them?” 

Anatole made a non-committal gesture and Valerius actually laughed. 

“You began going out with your someone, who must either have a streak for Zadithi painters or is actually related to Wazim, and you didn’t plan to take it this far, but now you’re scarily fond of them”. 

Anatole tapped the side of his nose. “Like a fool.” 

“You’re a lot of things, but not a fool. Who is it then? I will spare myself the comments about his suitability for you, but I will not spare myself the remarks. If we’re going on a little hunt on auction houses and private collectors, at the very least tell me his or their name.” 

“His,” Anatole paused. “It’s his son.” 

“You fell in love with the line of an overthrown aristocrat,” Valerius laughed again, and Anatole threw a small cushion at him, which he caught. 

“How charming of you,” the comment made Anatole roll his eyes. “What’s his occupation now?” 

“He owns a restaurant.” 

“From riches to rags, but well, my great grandmother was a smuggler.” 

“And your grandmother, a partisan.” 

Valerius winced. “Don’t remind me.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Anatole had known Haider Wazim for around a year, they'd been sleeping together for 11 months, and they still hadn’t made anything official, even if they both had agreed that in a month, they’d do something for the year mark. Haider wanted to take Anatole to his studio in the Catclaw desert. Anatole has been in love with Haider Wazim for around 9 months and three weeks, and he still hasn’t told him.

He was already aware how much of a bad idea it was continuing to keep it to himself, as he was aware his ‘casual’ arrangement had absolutely backfired, and given how Haider was, it was questionable if it was ever meant to work. He knew. He lived with that knowledge every day, every time they touched with a little more meaning, every time the sentiments and intentions in Haider’s words drew past his barriers. Because yes, Anatole could use his magic to check on Haider’s feelings, but he felt like it would be an intromision. If Haider wanted him in any other way than sexual, with the added benefit of the pleasure of his company, he would’ve said something, right? 

What Anatole didn’t need right now was his friends and cousins questioning his logic. He knew. 

“My guy, listen,” Leonore said, clicking his mouth, “you are the smartest person I know but I also think you’re being purposefully daft, like proper, massive stupid.”

“I hate to agree with him—”

“Aw. Asra, you warm my heart.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, I know Haider, and I think there’s a chance you’re both acting the same way because no one has said anything. Anatole I’m not going to tell you what to do, but don’t you think it would be better to just say it?”

“He might not, but I will,” Amparo said, “so I compel you to say something. You both are pining, he is acting like your official date, and you’re the Consul. Don’t you think it’s better to clear that up?”

“There’s nothing to clear up, it’s not like I’m madly in love with him or whatever.”

“You know, you are amazing at redirecting topics when you don’t want to answer something, and you might be good at doing the Diplomatic vague statements at work,” Medea said, tenderness in her voice, tenderness that shifted into an accusation as she poked her finger at his chest, “but you suck at doing it with yourself.”

One of the Palazzo’s staff cleared their throat, telling Anatole Haider was looking for him. 

“I asked if there was anything I could do for him, and he asked about you, sir.”

“Right, right, I’ll be right back, I’ll find him, thank you.” 

Once he and his friends were alone again, he was met with no nonsense stares from all Leonore, Medea, Asra, Amparo and Milenko. The latter snorted. 

“I don’t remember your non-official affairs, the non presented to the public, the ‘oh, I’m doing this one for me’ deals to have the power to summon you through your staff. How was it Amparo?”

Amparo’s impression of Anatole had always been good. She cleared her throat. “‘Wait until everyone is gone, and then we’ll attend to each other, does that work for you?’”

“Oh, fuck off. Fine, fine, fine, I’ll tell him soon enough okay? Gods, you’re all terrible.”

“We love you, and we don’t want you to be hurt, or sad, especially by your own hand when there’s no reason.”

“You don’t know that, Amparo, I don’t know that.”

“May the moon hold me tenderly in the face of stubborn asses,” she said, “what happened to the brutally hopeful man I knew in my cousin?”

“Oh, I never said I didn’t hope, I said I didn’t know.”

“Smartass.”

“Oh, my, it might be that we are related, Amparo Elira.”

She stuck out her tongue at him as he straightened his clothes from imaginary wrinkles, finding a mirror to freshen himself up some, evaluating his look. 

“I can feel you all looking at me, and no, this isn’t because I’m about to see Haider.”

“Stop lying,” Leonore said, walking in circles and extending the final g. “I already have enough of your betrayals with you picking up his pronunciation on rasgullas.”

After Anatole was gone, they all stayed behind a bit longer. Amparo was the first to break the silence, asking if they all wanted to bet that Anatole would not actually have the conversation with Haider. As bets came and went, Milenko remained quiet. He disagreed: Anatole would have the conversation with Haider, because he was terrible at lying to himself. He was fairly sure Haider felt the same way about him, too.

However, they would have the conversation at the worst possible time. “Trust the Earth to be as stubborn as the Sun,” he said with a sarcastic snort.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

In his defence, Anatole did try to have the conversation with Haider. He didn’t try very hard, but he tried. It just so happened that he hated to admit it, because it meant he would have to deal with feelings he didn’t precisely want to deal with outside of himself — the possibility of being rejected if he wanted something more, twisted him up too much. He had tried battling with it, reasoning with it, and just letting it past and taking assertive action and it still loomed over him. 

His friends were aware, his family was aware. Haider had met his parents last November, for Anatole’s birthday. They both had mentioned how happy they were for Anatole, that he had found someone who loved him so transparently. When their son told them this wasn’t that kind of relationship, if it was a relationship at all, they both exchanged concerned looks.

His mother had said: “Oh, honey,” and gave him a pat on the cheek.

Anatole never introduced people he was ‘just sleeping with’ to his family. Ever. He didn’t let those people become part of his routine, he didn’t let them take care of him, he very specifically never subbed for them in sex, because while he did enjoy it from time to time, it required him to feel safe in order to even consider the possibility. Haider had done all of that without even being his boyfriend yet.

They were celebrating anniversaries without being boyfriends yet. Maybe he was a fool. 

In his defence, he had tried. He had tried during said not-anniversary trip and failed catastrophically. He had planned to say ‘Haider, I believe we need to talk’. He had said: “Haider, I want you” instead. When Haider grabbed him, lifting him by putting his hands under his thighs, Anatole had wrapped his legs around his waist instead of stopping any of them to have the dreaded conversation. 

In his defence, Haider was a very good kisser. In his defence, it was very hard not to be tangled in each other. They had begun seeing each other merely because they thought they were hot and flirting was nice and came easy between them. Anatole had a mental catalogue of looks he found positively indecent that Haider had thrown him — categorised alphabetically, by situation, and by date — and he knew he had thrown Haider some which were equally disrespectful.

He had also said Haider had an ass like those very thick and fluffy pancakes, and given a dreamy whistle about other bits of Haider more than once. Like his arms, or his lips. Or his dick if he was going to be honest. 

The first morning of their not-anniversary Catclaw trip, Haider had made him breakfast, Anatole had asked why he was always so good to him, Haider replied “Oh, you know why”. Anatole had gotten him a variety of art supplies and a couple of sketching notebooks as a present, when Haider asked, his reply was the same. It’s what they always said when any of them wanted to say ‘because I love you’ but back tracked on it. Both of them blissfully unaware they were doing the exact same thing. 

He had spent the weekend doing some short hikes and looking at the stars with him — or looking at his hand while Haider pointed at things. When they weren’t acting like a couple, Anatole was too busy putting Haider to his knees. So, once again, in his defence, he was distracted. 

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Anatole rolled around the bed finding a cold spot to put his feet against, bundling himself up in sheets that weren’t his own. He was still too asleep to register the hour, or the lack of Haider at the other side of the bed, let alone the smells or sounds coming from the kitchen. 

He almost registered it but sleep won, his mind going to his private, faraway dreamland as he slept naked in Haider’s bed, even if mornings like this were on themselves a dream. 

He would only fully open his eyes a quarter to ten, half complaining about Haider kneeling by the bed and giving him small, light kisses, and fully complaining when Haider tried to move again, dragging him back to the bed with him. 

“You’re my prisoner now,” he mumbled, groggy. 

“What about your willing captive?” 

Haider’s fingers had begun tracing figures over his spine. 

“Hm, you can’t say things like that so early in the morning, or I’ll end up saying very compromising things.” 

Haider chuckled, pressing a kiss to the crown of Anatole’s head. “Why?” 

“You know why.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

When he returned to work on Tuesday, Medea raised an eyebrow at him.

“I promise I will talk with him, alright?”

After that she dropped the topic, more interested in knowing if her friend had had a good trip rather than telling him what to do.

Anatole had always danced around people he wanted until he knew he could make a strategic move without stepping on false, prone to collapsing ground. Furthermore, this wasn’t the first time Medea has seen him do this dance where feelings were reciprocated but no one did anything. It had happened with Leonore’s older brother, Navneet, it had happened with Julian Devorak. Medea has known Anatole for 10 years. The preliminary dance wasn’t surprising. 

However, both those instances had their reasons not to prosper, finding friendship in the two men instead of a romantic relationship, and they didn’t last as long as the Haider dance was lasting. Granted, one could argue the Navneet one had lasted a couple of years, but once Anatole had become aware of it, it burned and crashed in three months, both parties moving on with their lives. 

This was an abnormally long dance. 

During the two months after their getaway, Anatole’s job got in the way. It seemed more busy than usual, giving him little respite for anything outside of it. When he did get some of those blissful moments, he preferred winding down rather than having emotionally charged and stressful conversations. He loved his job, but it was requiring a lot of his attention, and Anatole wasn’t sure if he would be able to be at his best capacity if everything went wrong with Haider now. 

Something inside him asked about the possibility it went right. Then, Anatole thought, it wouldn’t be a problem, but he would prefer to gamble with the scenario when he wasn’t about to leave on a diplomatic trip.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Along the same time Anatole was supposed to be on his diplomatic trip, Haider would be visiting his family for three weeks. Anatole would be close enough to make a detour and see Haider, if he wanted to; given both their travelling schedules, if Anatole took a week after his work trip was done, he could return to Vesuvia with Haider. 

He wanted Haider to want him to be a part of his life to that point, he wanted what they already had but without the weight of yearning and the domesticity between them. He wanted to hear stories from his childhood from his grandparents, and he wanted to have the option to wear one of his scarves or shirts to work, because they shared a room, because they shared all of them with each other. His issue was he had no excuse to shimmy himself into it, nor he felt he had a right to meet Haider’s family, even if he would love to. 

He’d do anything for Haider. He didn’t know how it made him feel.

Around two weeks before he left, Haider and him were standing close to each other, Haider hugging Anatole from behind, both of them swaying to imaginary music. Haider’s thumbs went back and forth over Anatole’s sides, making him want to feel them over his naked skin. 

When Haider began asking about his work trip, he didn’t expect him to ask what he himself had not dared to suggest, the words echoing in Anatole’s head and his heart on his throat. 

“If you wanted, you could make a detour and stay with us. I know it’s not wise, and out of place for me to ask, but I’d love you to meet—”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll go. I’d love to go.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Nadia’s green light was both a relief and a nightmare. The former because he would hate to make Haider hope for something and then take it back. Anatole wasn’t someone who took, he was someone who delivered and was proud of it. The latter because he would meet Haider’s family despite them being formally nothing. 

Natiqa didn’t miss a chance to tease him as soon as she was informed she would be delivering a written report on Anatole’s behalf to her sister. Also involved in the trip as a diplomatic envoy, Anatole’s old acquaintance took more than one chance to remind Anatole of the Vesuvian saying about Consuls and their spouses. 

“Don’t you say that ‘good Counts make their Consul their friend, while good Consuls keep a happy marriage in their beds’?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Anatole said without looking up from the report he was writing. 

“Given that began with your family one would think you do.” 

“We’re not together, Tiqa.”

“Nana, you’re meeting his family.” 

“I know.” 

Though she made a few more jokes at his stake — which was fair, Anatole thought — all she said on the matter was she was there if he wanted to talk. “Even if I haven’t forgiven you for preferring the Vesuvian Court to working with me, but we are still friends, Radošević, because I’m gracious like that.”

Out of time crunches, they didn’t quite get around that chat but Anatole appreciated it all the same. Soon came the time they had to depart, Anatole handing her the full volume of his preliminary Diplomatic report to Nadia before hugging Natiqa good-bye. 

“You’re adorable, Radošević, I’ve never met anyone with more worries, and Nadia’s my sister.”

“I don’t know how to take that.”

“As a compliment.” 

As Natiqa embarked herself in a Vesuvian-bound ship, she turned away to yell at him: “You’re a great catch, Radošević, anyone who doesn’t see that is an idiot!”

Her cat-like, dastardly grin was all the confirmation he needed to know she had done that on purpose.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

The trip towards Haider and his family was uneventful. Anatole occupied most of his time reading for leisure, or finding things to occupy the passing hours with. It was an 8 hours ride, the distance too short to merit taking a ship there. He arrived past sunset but before the night fully settled in.

Haider was waiting for him, wearing a sky blue scarf that contrasted with his mahogany eyes and his black hair. Anatole didn’t think of it twice, running towards Haider on impulse. He caught him in his arms and spun them around while they hugged. He didn’t let Anatole go when they stopped spinning. 

“Can I kiss you hello?” 

“After not having seen you in so many weeks, I surely would hope you did.” 

Haider, as always, indulged him.

He offered to help carry his things inside, Anatole joking about how he should be thankful he was only carrying two trunks. His third one along with the rest of his things — except for his sword — had gone back to Vesuvia with Natiqa. Anatole accepted the offer, but not before taking a piece of chalk out of his bag and writing a series of glyphs over his luggage. He took a deep breath before putting his hands over each inscription and releasing, the words shimmering and disappearing into the material of the trunks, imbuing themselves in it. Haider couldn’t help staring, marvelling at this facet of  Anatole.

When they both lifted the trunks, they were almost weightless. 

“Comes in handy, doesn’t it?” 

Haider and him exchanged talk about their specific journeys, what the former had been up to with his family, and how Anatole’s work trip had gone, as well as his trip there. 

The closer they got to the house, the more nervous he got. 

“They will love you, I’m sure.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You always frown in the same way when you’re nervous.” 

“And how’s that?”

“As if someone had put some really atrocious ensemble together but you were obliged by politeness to not say anything. Something that’s awful in a non-charming way.” 

“That’s certainly one way of putting it. It’s just— it’s just I haven’t met anyone’s parents in a very long time, that’s all.” 

What he didn’t say was: What will be the use of them loving me, if there’s a possibility you might not. Not how I’d like. 

They were inside now; it was too late to turn back. 

“Everyone, this is Aelius Anatole, my— I mean, the Consul of Vesuvia.” 

“Hi,” Anatole said, with his most confident smile, “it’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

That might have become the most delightful week of Anatole’s life and he still hadn’t had the conversation with Haider, his excuse now being it was a terrible idea to have such a discussion during a trip. 

Haider’s family was lovely. Lively and colourful, a myriad of humbled aristocrats and bohemians who had preferred a life lived with others, for others and for art in its many forms, than a life of privilege. In so many ways it reminded him of his own, with its mismatched ends and its stories that seemed almost like legends of their own. 

There was also Haider. So much of him, under the sun and under the moonlight, clothed and unclothed, in the privacy of their bedroom and in furtive looks stolen when they thought no one else could see. There was Haider and the water, Haider and the kites, Haider and his hands on him, and his lips on his own.

There was him on the veranda, trying to do mehendi on Anatole’s hands and there was them ruining it on accident, too overtaken by craving each other. Most of the paste had ended up on Haider’s skin, but some had on his kurta too. No one had come to retrieve them, so they had no reason to stop. Wasn’t it always like that anyway? Once they began, they couldn’t stop, too much unsaid between them as always, too many things to act on?

Anatole did not regret missing dinner. He was too busy riding Haider in the veranda. He didn’t even mind when, later that night, they both were having dinner in the kitchen, wrapped around each other and looking like a mess of disheveled clothes and henna stains when Haider’s grandfather walked in. Haider had felt compelled to explain themselves, which ended up being more embarrassing than anything else, since Asghar clearly did not buy into Haider’s ‘I was showing him around and Anatole tripped’ excuse. 

His cousin Shaan had walked into the kitchen to get some water right when Haider was explaining, though he stayed until Asghar was gone to make any comments. 

He took a look at them, and gave them a sly, cheeky look. “Yeah, I’m sure there’s plenty to see.”

Haider’s blush intensified, but Anatole raised an eyebrow at him, a cat-like grin on his face. “I don’t know,” he said, nonchalant as could be, throwing a look at Haider’s chest, “I’ve seen that before, so not really.”

Shaan laughed, stating he liked Anatole and asking if they could keep him. Anatole didn’t say how, if Haider wanted to, he’d stay forever.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Anatole should’ve known his incapacity to say anything to Haider would come back to bite him on the ass. He had slept in — courtesy of not having had a vacation in a while and staying up until a little too late with Haider. Their pillow-talk had drawn out to the point of becoming another round, so they didn’t go to bed until two am. Haider was gone with Shaan and some of the others in the morning, having left a note and breakfast for him, telling him to enjoy a lay in as much as he wanted. 

Haider came back around lunchtime, walking into the kitchen to find Anatole helping prepare it, looking worried in the way he always did when he tried to pretend whatever which troubled him wasn’t important. He looked that way all over lunch, and he continued to do so when Anatole pulled him away into their shared bedroom to ask him if he was okay.

“I’m just tired, priyo, that’s all.”

“Seriously? You’re going to hit me with the I’m tired line?

“I thought you didn’t do the language magic thing with me,” Haider said, trying to joke.

Anatole pursed his lips. “You’re evading the topic. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I’m here for you, if you do want to talk.”

Haider sat down on the bed, he sat up again, turning over himself to look at anywhere but at Anatole, until he was looking only at him. “Nana, why did you come?”

“What?”

“You took a purposeful deviation from a work trip. You skipped personally informing the Countess of a serious enough diplomatic trip to send her Consul to.”

“I don’t think Nadia minds me taking a couple of weeks off, since I’m always working, and I sent a full written report with Natiqa, so I don’t see where your question is going.”

“But you always say you don’t do those things.”

“Haider, I can’t even remember the last time I said such a thing. I’m here, isn’t that what matters?”

“Yes, but why, Nana?”

“Oh, Haider, you know why.”

“What if I don’t?”

If someone would’ve had access to Anatole’s mind in that moment, he would’ve heard high pitched screaming. A note so high it was only audible to dogs, never mind Anatole’s voice register wasn’t nearly as high as such a thing suggested. Dreads settled in his gut as they started one of the most stupid circular arguments Anatole has ever witnessed or been part of. It was like there was a duplicate of himself watching them fight, shaking his head at him, saying ‘I told you so’  while he realised that if this was it, if for some reason this was how it ended, as dramatic as it sounded, he didn’t know if he’d ever fully come back from it. 

The argument was too stupid for Anatole to let it fester any further. 

“How can you not know that I love you, Haider? How can you not realise that I’m in love with you?” 

Well, he said it. It was out. The only way to get out of this conversation was there was no way to get out of that conversation now. Unless, of course Anatole climbed out of the window without breaking a leg in the process. 

“Iloveyoutoo,” Haider blurted out without missing a beat. A somehow candid and terrified look on his face, which went away when he repeated the words, more slowly, more surely. “I love you too, amar shona.” 

The certainty in his words made Anatole forget how to breathe. “You— you love me too?”

“I do. More than anything.” 

Anatole barely let him finish that sentence. He made his way across the room in a flash, walking over the bed (thank the Gods he was barefoot) to close the distance between them as fast as he could. He climbed on Haider, pulling him into a kiss, and Haider caught him in his arms — Haider would always catch him, Haider would always be there, and he was a fool not to realise it sooner. 

“I love you,” Anatole said against his lips, “I’m so sorry I didn’t say it sooner.” 

Haider kissed him back, wrapping his arms around him like Anatole could evaporate in front of him at any moment. All his family had told him not to let him go, and now, now that he knew himself loved and Anatole knew he loved him, he would hold onto him until he had a chance to say it for all the months he wanted and didn’t. 

“I love you too,” he said between kisses. “Amar shona, Amar Jibon.” 

Anatole knew the language. He didn’t need Haider to translate to know he just called him both ‘my love’ and ‘love of my life’. Haider repeated it in every space between kisses where he could fit the words, over and over again.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

When he was around ten and Valerian had told him the story of the Earth and the Sun for the hundredth time, he said he wished someone loved him like that one day. 

Valerian had kissed his forehead. “You will find your Earth, I’m sure of it.”

Now that he was lying on top of Haider, spent and happier than he had ever been, he knew he had. 

[heliads]

Away With Me Chapter 3: Escape

Princess Y/N is dreading her looming arranged marriage to a wicked nobleman when she makes an unlikely friend in castle craftsman Peter Parker. Will they be able to become close despite their differences in status?

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You’re not sure how Peter feels about you now. Whenever you close your eyes, you see the stunned look on his face after he found out the one truth that could push him away from you forever. It’s a new day now, a new day that could mean anything from Peter pledging to be by your side forever or him being too afraid to ever look you in the eyes again.

Regardless, you’re forced to direct your thoughts away from the boy you love- you have been called into the throne room to help your father with courtly matters. You survey the room in front of you, hands gripping the arms of your gilded throne to keep you firmly seated in reality instead of slipping away into destructive thoughts. The head of the kitchens is just leaving the room; he had explained menus and produce until you felt sure that you could count every crop in the kitchen with your eyes closed.

You’re distracted from your musings when another man steps in front of you, beckoning to a group approaching behind him. “Princess Y/N, I am Earl Hurrey, of the Guild? May I present to Her Majesty my craftsmen.”

Your head snaps up- craftsmen? Your theory is confirmed when you spy Peter standing among the group led by the Earl. He keeps his head down, avoiding eye contact until he is introduced to you. Only then does he look up, and the second he sees you his lips part in surprise and wonder. As the other craftsmen are introduced, you realize what you must look like to him: gone is the laughing, adventurous lady-in-waiting that he knew so well. In her place is a princess dressed in the finest silks, crowned by a band of gold and jewels and seated on a throne. No wonder he was surprised- you look nothing like the girl he loved.

Eventually, the court meetings give way to a brief break, the courtiers and nobles flocking to each other and conversation swirling around them. You step off of the throne, making your way slowly down the throngs of lords and ladies, intending to leave the room. Instead, a hand encircles your arm, pulling you out of sight and behind a pillar. 

You open your mouth to object, but relax once you realize it’s Peter who’s pulled you away. “Peter? What are-” You’re interrupted by his kiss, and once his lips leave yours he hastily explains himself. “I’m sorry for avoiding you. I just needed time to take all of this in, you know?” At your raised eyebrow, he continues on hurriedly. “I believed you when you told me you were a princess, I just didn’t realize I’d be seeing you as one so soon. You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, pressing a kiss to your hand, “and very regal.” 

You blush at that. “I’m just glad to see you again. For a second, I thought you would be leaving me once you found out I was a princess. Everyone else does, they can’t handle the pressure of being too close to a royal.” Peter cups your face in yours, and you lean in to him. “I would never leave you, Y/N. You being a princess just means that we’ll be more secretive when we meet. Speaking of which, you’ll have to return to court soon or they’ll be worried.” He gives you one last kiss, then whispers closely in your ear. “Meet me in the courtyard after nightfall.” With that, he goes, leaving you alone with a growing blush and a smile.

After you’re able to get through the day, you hurry out to the courtyard to meet up with your lover. He’s not there when you arrive, so you walk slowly through the flowers, waiting. Suddenly, hands close over your eyes. “Surprise.” A voice whispers quietly in your ear, sending shivers up and down your spine. “Peter! You scared me!” You whirl around to face the grinning boy. “My apologies, princess.” You glare at him playfully. “Don’t do that. We are, and always will be, equals.” He extends his hand to you, face painted over with mock regret, and you take it. “My apologies, I would never want to hurt Her Majesty.” You can’t help but laugh at that, and let him lead you out of the courtyard.

Once you’re far enough away that the risk of being overheard is gone, he turns to you, finally serious. “I’ve been thinking, Y/N. We have less than a week until you get married. We have to leave the castle.” You turn to him in disbelief, and he continues on. “Run away with me, Y/N. We can live together, outside of the need for politics and this horrible forced marriage.” You take his hands. “Peter, there’s nothing I want to do more than leave the castle. But where would we go? You know they’d come looking for me if I disappeared.”

Peter nods at that. “I’ve been planning this ever since you told me about the marriage. There’s a town on the outskirts of the kingdom, close enough that we could get there without much difficulty but far enough that the king’s guards wouldn’t be able to find us. The townspeople wouldn’t know what their princess looked like either, so we would be safe. I could take work there as an artisan or village craftsmen, and we could be happy together. The only thing is, you would have to give up most of the comforts and privileges of castle life.”

You hold him close to you, unable to keep the smile off of your face. “Peter, I’d live anywhere if it meant I would be with you. That sounds like paradise.” You step away from him as a sudden thought hits you. “I can’t ask you to do this. Your entire life is here in the castle- what about your apprenticeship, what about your work as a castle craftsman? I can’t make you give up everything just because of a marriage.”

Peter closes the distance between the two of you, looking deep into your eyes. “The only life I want is with you, Y/N. I mean that with all of my heart. No apprenticeship would be worth knowing that the girl I loved was away from me in a marriage that would destroy her. Please, Y/N, run away with me.” You take his hands in yours. “Absolutely, Peter.” He beams. “We leave tomorrow night. Pack clothes and necessities, and meet me here at dark.” He kisses you once more, and the two of you plan out exactly what you’ll need to escape.

The following night cannot arrive fast enough. You’ve already decided what clothes to bring- which dresses are simply too ornate and would give you away, and which ones would be alright to wear? Which of your favored possessions can you bring without alerting suspicions, and which ones do you need most of all? Also, how can you pack all of this without the notice of your ladies-in-waiting or maids?

Finally, everything is done. You don a hooded cloak and slip out of your rooms, avoiding guards and nobles alike. A bag containing everything you’ll need is tossed over your shoulder, and the sturdy boots you’ve stolen from a palace maid send quiet footsteps racing up and down the stone hallways. 

You meet Peter in the courtyard, and you take one final look around you as you leave. This castle has been your home for years, and you know you’ll miss its every nook and cranny. All the same, you can feel the excitement bubbling up inside of you at the thought of an escape with Peter. The marriage to von Strucker has filled you with dread for months, and now that you’re getting away from it, you feel the tension leaving you.

Peter knows a secret passage that will take you out of the castle, and the two of you hurry through dank stone corridors until you find yourself treading instead on worn grass, the shadow of the castle falling on your back. You and Peter walk on until you find an inn willing to sell you horses, and you two ride on as the silhouette of the palace becomes no more than a distant memory.

As you and Peter travel, the inky blackness of night soon blends into the first light of dawn, and you marvel at the beautiful colors of the sunrise. Every blade of grass, every towering tree seems drenched in the golden light, and even though you’re tired from your long journey, you can’t help but feel amazed at the sights.

Eventually, the empty meadows start to change into sprawling fields, and those fields into town paths. At the first inn you spy, you and Peter sell your horses once more, pocketing the money and continuing the final journey on foot. It’s only a short while longer until you’re at the town, and you smile at the sight of it. Stone and wood buildings stand side by side, flowers poking out of window boxes and hand-painted signs decorating store fronts. It seems a quaint, charming town, and you’re glad Peter has picked this one for your new life.

Peter has also chosen a small house for the two of you- one floor, and tiny as compared to the palace, but somehow it is the best place you’ve ever lived in. You spin in place, taking it in, and Peter smiles at your antics. You spy a bed in a corner of the bedroom and collapse onto it, finally feeling the toll of your long journey. Peter stretches out next to you, and you curl up next to him, finally giving in to the divine relief of sleep. You are away from the castle and your horrid marriage, in a new life that will be yours for the choosing, and safe and happy with Peter, your love. What could be better than that?

[lu-undy]

Chapter 55 - SBT

Here it is!

"Uh… Spook?" 

"Oui?" 

"I-I'd need to go to my van to get some clothes…"

Both men finished bathing. Mundy followed Lucien from the bathroom to the bedroom, each wearing nothing but a towel around their waists. 

"Nonsense. I will lend you some clothes for the night."

"For the night?" Mundy asked. 

"Unless you would rather go back to your van but-"

"No, I'd… I'd love to stay actually."

Their eyes met and they exchanged a smile. 

"Glad to hear it. Now, which color do you prefer, navy blue, light blue, Burgundy red or off-white?"

Overwhelmed by the choice, Mundy went for the last one he heard. 

"Off-white?"

"Interesting choice." Lucien passed him some pyjamas and a pair of underwear.

Mundy took them and realised it was a shirt and a pair of trousers, made of satin and matching of course. They had motifs of branches and leaves of fern sewn in, in white cotton. Lucien opted for the Burgundy one with golden sewn flower motifs. 

Each of them turned their back to the other and dressed up. Lucien was the first to finish, he turned to Mundy and heard him mumble and curse under his breath. 

"What is it, mon loup?"

[my wolf]

"It's the bloody buttons, I can't get them right, I always mess them up…"

"Let me help." Lucien moved in front of Mundy and did the buttons. "If you have any difficulty, start from the bottom and go to the top."

"Why would it be easier that way?" Mundy asked. "Doesn't make sense, does it?"

"But it does. The buttons at the bottom you can see easily, whereas the ones at the top are right under this lovely chin of yours." Lucien tickled it gently as he finished and Mundy chuckled. 

"Thanks…" 

"My pleasure."

Mundy looked down at himself. 

"Uh… We might have a problem, Spook?"

"What?" Lucien went to sit on the bed, with his back against the wall. 

"Well look at me…" Mundy wiggled his shoulders and pulled down the end of the shirt. "The sleeves are too short, and look down, the legs too! And if you don't mind, I'll open the buttons cause it's too tight on my shoulders."

"I would be an utter fool to complain when you want to sleep with your shirt open, Mundy."

"N-no, I mean, it's not like that, it's just your shirt's too small for me… Also, wait, what? You want me to sleep here?"

"Unless you prefer the rusticity of your campervan…" Lucien raised an eyebrow and Mundy shrugged. 

"Ok, I get it… But this time, don't take all the blanket, alright?" 

Mundy took the other side of the bed and both slid under the duvet.

"Me?! You were the one to steal it all night long and I had to pull it off your limbs!"

"As if…" Lucien answered and he stopped when the door to the bedroom creaked. 

"Meow." 

Perle trotted to the bed and jumped to climb on it. 

"Perle, mon bébé, you should really sleep in your bed tonight."

"Meow?" 

"Cause your dad wants me to sleep with him." Mundy answered and she went under his fingers. Yes, Papa knew how to choose his companion wisely, the scratching was divine.

"Meow…" She answered, disappointed, but started purring under the delightful head scratches.

"Don't worry, kitty cat, I'll take care of him. I'll keep him warm and safe, alright?" 

"Meow?" 

"O'course you can say goodnight to him, you'd better do it actually, he might be pissed off if you don't, eh." 

Perle went to Lucien and climbed his shirt to settle on his shoulder. He hugged her and kissed her repeatedly, saying sweet nonsense that Mundy could hardly understand. 

"Bonne nuit, mon bébé, fais de beaux rêves." 

[Good night, my baby, sweet dreams.]

He kissed her fur and put her down on the floor next to his side of the bed. To his greatest surprise, she climbed in her little cosy basket and curled into a ball of fur. 

When Lucien came back to lie down in the bed, Mundy wrapped his arms around him and pulled him to himself. 

"Ah, here we go for the clingy kangaroo."

"Oh alright then…!" Mundy let go of his lover and turned his back to Lucien. 

"Non, mon amour, please…!" The Frenchman spooned him and laced his arms around him. "Please turn to me…"

"The clingy kangaroo says no." 

"Mundy, please…" Lucien begged as he brushed his skin under his lover's open shirt. 

The Aussie melted. Hearing Lucien beg him to give him attention was something that his mind barely managed to understand. He rolled on his side to hold him back. 

"Right, right…" 

Lucien hummed happily as he buried his head against Mundy's hairy chest, lovingly. The Aussie closed his arms around him and held him close. 

"Gosh I never imagined I'd feel all this one day."

"Feel what?" 

"Wantin' to hug someone that badly." 

"I feel that for you too." Lucien answered as Mundy made sure the blanket was around him properly. 

"Oh-?" The Aussie blushed when he felt Lucien kiss his chest. 

"Ticklish?" Lucien asked. 

"Surprised." Mundy answered. 

"Is it too much?" 

"N-no. It's just… I didn't expect that." 

Lucien stopped and just cuddled with the taller man. They both appreciated the warmth, the fingers exploring each other's silhouettes, the hands sliding on clothes and skin.

"Lu'?"

"Hm?" 

"I feel weird right now…"

"Why?"

"I love you."

"And that makes you feel weird?" Lucien asked. 

"Yeah… I mean… It's been a few days since, y'know, you told me that you liked me and I liked you and…"

"Oui?"

"I haven't left your side for those past few days. It's weird. Spent years on my own and I never liked people. Now, I can't get enough of you."

Lucien smiled against Mundy's chest. 

"It's weird…" Mundy repeated. 

"You are thinking about it in a weird way." Lucien answered. 

"What d'you mean?"

"I do understand what you mean of course, as I have gone through a similar… sentimental desert for years."

"You haven't tried to get anyone?" Mundy asked. 

"Non. I couldn't get her out of my head."

Mundy looked for Lucien's hand under the blanket and when he found it, he slid his fingers between the Frenchman's. 

"What's her name?"

"Mary but I always would call her with my French accent 'Marie'."

"Mary…" Mundy repeated. "What's she like?" 

Lucien grinned as he reopened the most colourful chapter of his life in his mind. 

"She was charming, in her own way, and I never thought I could fall for a woman like her. She was American, she lived in Boston. I met her there as she worked as a waiter in a diner, similar to the one Victoria works for."

"Ah, I see." 

"She had black hair that would hardly touch her shoulders. She would always wear a headband that matched her outfit. My favourite one was her blue dress, it enhanced the colour of her eyes."

"She had blue eyes?"

"Oui. Darker than mine and lighter than yours. She was about… half a foot shorter than me and the curves of her body were proof of the existence of God…"

"What d'you mean?" 

"She had a slim waist and beautiful hips, oh… She had the most feminine silhouette."

"Have any pictures of her?"

Lucien frowned. 

"You would want to see her?" 

"If that's ok with you. I mean, if it hurts or anythin', you don't have to."

"I just fail to understand why you would like to. Wouldn't it make you feel uncomfortable? Actually, perhaps it was foolish of me to talk about her at all…" Lucien rubbed his face with a hand and frowned. "I shouldn't have."

"No, I was the one to ask, I mean, if you don't mind…?" 

Lucien sighed. 

"Fine, give me an instant." He got off the bed and Mundy watched him go out of the room. He thought that he might have pushed too far and his mind pictured Lucien locked up in the bathroom crying of grief, or anything worse maybe?

But no, Lucien re-appeared and sat back on the bed, his back against the wall. Mundy sat up next to him. 

"Your cigs case?" 

Lucien nodded as he opened the metallic case containing the nicely lined cigarettes. He pushed them slightly and retrieved the photograph hidden behind them. It wasn't facing him, but rather was turned such that Lucien needed to flip it to see it. 

"Here." He took it away from the cigarette case delicately without flipping it, and handed it to Mundy. 

"Can I see?" 

"Oui." 

Mundy flipped it. 

"Oh… It's… her with…"

"Jérémy, my son, and myself."

The black and white photograph showed the three of them. Lucien, Mary and young Jérémy in the middle. Lucien was lacing his arm around Mary's hips, and she was resting her hands on Jérémy's shoulders as he smiled to the camera. The Frenchman was wearing a white shirt and dark trousers but no tie or vest. Mary was wearing a dress with a headband of the same shade of grey and Jérémy had a baseball jacket that seemed a bit too large for him.

"You three look cute in this picture. And wow, you look quite younger too."

"No grey hair and not a single worry in the world." Lucien answered.

"Why d'you keep this picture upside down?"

The Frenchman sighed. 

"Because I am a heavy smoker as you know, and it is too hard to see them all the time. I keep them close to my heart, but I cannot afford to look at them. It is too strong, even after all this time."

"Right, I see. Any other pictures you have, or did you leave them in France?" Mundy asked as he gave the picture back.

"They are indeed in France but not in my possession."

"What d'you mean, 'not in your possession'?" 

"I…" Lucien thought fast. He didn't want anyone to know about this but Mundy was surely the last man he was speaking to, so he might as well confess all his sins. "After Marie and Jérémy passed, I gathered all evidence of their existence, and all proof that I once was happy. Any photographs and souvenirs I put in a box and on a rainy night, I went to a park in Paris."

Mundy frowned. 

"The rain was pouring on me and my clothes, drenching me to the bone. I could feel my suit sticking to my skin and all my hair was soaked. I picked the lock on the gate of that park and entered it. I walked such that I was sufficiently deep in and at some point I dropped to my knees, in the muddy grass. I took my knife out and started digging a hole with it and with my hands."

Mundy's jaw started to lower down. He could guess where it was all going. 

"When the hole was sufficiently big, I lowered the box in it. The rain drops falling on it made an unbearable drumming noise. I then put the dirt back on top of it and made it look like any other mole hole."

"Holy…" 

"All of what I was before is in that box which to this day lies under the ground in Paris." Lucien summed up. "I guess you surely think that I am a fool for this. But I don't want to keep secrets anymore, especially not with you."

Mundy pulled Lucien to himself and hugged him. 

"No. You're not crazy. I… After my parents went away, I put my rifles, bullets, bow and arrows, everything in a large tin crate and buried it in the middle of the desert. I prayed each day that I forgot where it was so that I can't go back to it. I'd learned my lesson. With a rifle in my hands I can not only kill the bloke in my scope, but also all the other people that I don't see when I scope. So yeah, I took everything, tossed it in a box and ditched it far from anyone and anything." 

Lucien snuggled against Mundy. 

"We both did the same then." He said. 

"Yeah. We both tried." 

"And look where it led us." Lucien said as both sank down to lie on the bed and intertwined their limbs together again. 

"I dug up my rifles again." 

"And I went back to three-piece suits and balaclavas." 

Both sighed. 

"But it's the last time we do that, right?" Mundy asked. 

"Oui. This is it, the final job."

Mundy was lying on his side with Lucien tightly between his arms, his head against the Aussie's chest, under his jaw. 

"Love you, Lu'. Love you more and more." 

"So do I." 

Mundy lowered his head and kissed Lucien's still slightly damp hair. 

"Mh, merci, mon loup."

[Thank you, my wolf.]

And those were the last few words they exchanged before falling asleep in each other's arms.

The minutes and hours hands spun, sweeping past the clock's face and soon the sun rose again.

"Mh… Lu'... What are you doing… Stop it… Let me sleep, please…" 

"Meow."

Mundy opened his eyes. 

He thought Lucien was playing with his hair on his face again but no, it was actually Perle brushing herself on Mundy's face. 

"Baby cat…" He hugged her and kissed her, looking over to Lucien who was still sleeping giving his back to him. 

"D'you think we should wake your Dad up?" 

Perle purred and stretched under the rough fingers and the exquisite scratches all along her back. 

"D'you want to wake him or…?" 

"Meow." She answered and rolled to offer her belly for Mundy to scratch. 

"Right, I'll do it myself then, but you need to leave, Pearl."

"Meow?" 

"Cause it's not a sight for kids. You'll understand when you grow up."

"Meow…" 

"No, you're still a baby, look at your big head and massive eyes. Also, your tail is very short."

"Meow!" She answered. 

"Yes, it is. Now, here," He kissed her and rolled on the bed until he was at the edge to drop her on the floor. "Go and play while you wait for me to wake Papa up, ok?" 

"Meow." She brushed herself on his hand one last time and trotted out of the room. 

"Right, now, to us…" Mundy got closer to Lucien and if his first thought was to spoon him, the temptation to kiss him overwhelmed the man and laced his arms around Lucien to kiss his back, on his satin shirt. He shifted closer to stick his body to the Frenchman. 

"Someone is happy to hug me…" The voice with the French accent sung and Mundy blushed. "Very happy, hm? Unless you keep a dagger in your underwear at all times." 

"Uh, n-no, I mean, it's just that, uh, I just woke up, ok? Sorry…" Mundy shifted away from Lucien's body but the Frenchman pulled his arms to make him come back. 

"When did you hear me complain about it?" He asked and Mundy came back right behind him with his happiness of the morning very much stuck to the Frenchman. 

"Sorry…" 

"Mmh… Don't apologise, there is no harm done. How did you sleep?" Lucien asked, revelling in his lover's arms. 

"Yeah, good. Didn't have nightmares but didn't dream about you either. Could be worse and could be better." 

"Hm? Have you ever dreamt about me?" Lucien asked. 

"Y-n-no, I mean, I might have, once or twice, maybe, ahem, anyway, did you have a good night?" 

Lucien smiled. He understood his lover's uneasiness at the question. 

"Oui, I have slept well, and woke up in the arms of the man I usually dream of, day and night."

"Oh, so you dream of me sometimes?" Mundy asked.

"Of course. My mind shows me images that my mouth can barely speak of."

"Why? Is it nightmares?" Mundy asked, oblivious.

"Quite the opposite, Mundy. In fact, there are hardly any dreams more pleasant than those…"

"Oh." Mundy now caught on what Lucien was meaning. "Right, ok, wow! I'll uh…" He pushed the blanket away from him. 

"Are you hot this morning?" 

"W-well, yeah, a bit, I mean, it's what you said, it's like you're meaning that you dream about-"

"Oui, I do." Lucien cut him. "I did and I still do with my eyes wide open, Mundy." 

He rolled to face the Aussie and sensually ran the tip of his fingers on his stomach and sides. 

"Gosh…"

Shivers everywhere and Mundy shut his eyes, frowning. Then, Lucien's lips on his chest, kissing softly, nipping here and there, up to his neck, under his jaw. Mundy's fingers were twitching on their own, they were lost, paralysed. Lucien finally arrived on Mundy's lips. He kissed them slowly, taking his time to appreciate each contact, each time he pressed his thin lips against the sharpshooter's, as he ran his fingers behind Mundy's back. 

Without consciously realising it, Mundy slid his hands on Lucien's slim cheeks and kissed back, passionately, his legs stretching and his toes curling under the blanket. He felt Lucien slither his legs between his.

"Gosh, Lu'..."

The Frenchman smirked and buried his head in Mundy's neck, nibbling softly there as his hands glided down Mundy's back, lower and lower until...

"Oh-?!" Mundy got startled at Lucien's sudden grasp for softness.

"Sorry, it was way too tempting." Lucien whispered in Mundy's ear.

"Yeah, nah, it's fine, it's just… I didn't expect it." Mundy lowered his head and kissed Lucien's hair. He shyly whispered. "Can I do the same to you?"

"I'm all yours." 

Mundy's hands slithered down Lucien's satin, dark red pyjamas until they reached the bottom of his back. 

"You sure?" 

"Please." 

Mundy timidly slid his palms lower and didn't see Lucien roll his eyes in bliss when the Aussie grasped the softness of the situation. 

"You have wonderful hands." Lucien purred.

"Oh, uh, ok, I don't know…"

"Do with me what you wish." Lucien snuggled closer to Mundy, sticking his chest and abdomen to the Aussie. 

"Oh, God…" Mundy realised that Lucien too was happy to wake up next to him. The surprise of it made his hands twitch and squeezed what they held for an instant. 

"Oh!" 

"Shit, sorry!" Mundy removed his hands.

"Non… It was delightful." Lucien's voice was begging for more without the words.

"C-can I-?"

"Oui."

"But you don't know what I was going to say?" Mundy chuckled. 

"Whatever you want to do," Lucien raised his head to Mundy. Their eyes met and Lucien pushed Mundy's long hair away from his face. 

"Please, do it."