meadowlarksabove

[meadowlarksabove]

Heyyy :') Gonna be away from home until the start of August <3 I'm gonna be visiting my partner's family and doing some real vacationing aaa

[meadowlarksabove]

“Only a couple of days…” 

Slivers of doubt whirled in his eyes for a moment, leaving behind their traces of an all-too-genuine sadness. A strange and, perhaps, misplaced sense of mourning for a man he had only just met. Yet his fingers tightened around the warm and perspiring flask all the same, suppressing the urge to tug at their sleeve. If he’d listened to the persistence of his heart then, fussing like the wings of a hummingbird, he would have asked them to change their flight immediately. Gabban was surprised at himself for a second time, stunned to silence by the sly and possessive thoughts that’d nearly taken hold of his voice. 

Reason ultimately won over the impulses wreaking havoc in his chest, reminding him of what little he actually knew of the man. A sentiment they’d coincidentally shared in that instance, as Paukka expressed his wish to get better acquainted. But how much? And in what way? This could all be another coarse and casual fling for them. Merely a treat to be enjoyed abroad and remembered on their lonesome nights– fondly recollected once they were back to the comfortable monotony of their own home. Never having been seriously pursued or considered as more than an experience to be tried, it wouldn’t be the first time Gabban was taken for such a ride. He didn’t have the best track record of lovers after all. Though it was clear by the softening of his gaze that, for better or worse, he’d never forgotten how to love strongly and recklessly. 

He met their eyes straight on, searching them with as much intent, while simultaneously admiring their shape and tender shade. So much like the soft and fertile soil of a flowerbed. Thinking that, his lips finally split open with a smile, stricken with the urge to make something bloom there. To tend the garden with every bit of strength he had. 

What an odd thing to feel. Yet how natural it came, coursing through his entire body like the low and imperceptible thrumming of his blood. As if he’d been waiting all his life for this exact moment. 

“There’s no time to waste then. But where to start?” Gabban gently blew over the rim of his mug, and later sipped his tea as he attempted to gather his thoughts. 

“You know my name, my profession– where I work and where I live.” That last part he’d added with a touch of mischief, implying things which were and weren’t there. Not so much an accusation as it was a tease, or a challenge to return the favor. Besides, the more he stared and shared the same space, the less he worried over their intentions. It wouldn’t be so bad to be used by them, he thought, and a different sort of warmth, wholly unrelated to his drink, had sparked in his core…

“Well, if we’re going to be spending time together, I guess you should know that I’m terrified of dogs. It doesn’t matter the size or the breed, I’d rather cross the street than walk next to them.” He straightened, his expression worn a little sheepishly. “I don’t hate them, however. They um, they can be very sweet, I’m told…Does that bother you?”

Paukka did not know anything about how doctors lived their life. He had wondered a few times, when he had been sitting across from the physician, looking at them how they looked so small behind their large, document-filled desks. With all sorts of strange and medical equipment and clutter that he only knew what it was supposed to do but not how it worked. How many hours did they spend doing their work? How many hours did they spend looking up cases long after hours? Did their thoughts follow them home and into their private life? How easy was it for them to find sleep? Could they turn off the way they were thinking or were they forced to always reiterate their patient files?

Gabban saying that he was only resting his back at this time of the night, did it mean that he had trouble sleeping? Being a doctor, did he even have a lot of time for himself? What did his day look like and how much of it was routine?

He had wondered the same when trying to look into the eyes of the doctor, only to see the light of the computer screen reflecting in their glasses, as if the light itself was trying to hide the exhaustion that was physically in the room with them. Paukka could well say it did not come from him. No, he always felt tense and restless and awaiting the psychological evaluation he was mandated to undergo to be over so he could leave and be on his way to continue the job he was supposed to be doing. In his eyes, he did not need to ensure his mental well-being and ability to continue performing his duties. He was always fine.

Paukka looked at Gabban and listened to his confession. Feeling the need to intervene, to interrupt and tell him that it was totally fine, he ended up not saying anything. He thought it was wiser not to say anything at all and had to live with the fact that he did not have the words to comment on such a delicate and severe matter as confidentiality being upkept or not. He simply believed Gabban. Deep down he knew and understood Gabban to be a responsible and qualified person. Experienced and competent. Which was a strange feeling for him to have, Paukka was acutely conscious of. After all, what did he know about the other? Who he was and how was all but a mystery to him still. In actuality and reality and still... Still...

He could not shake the feeling he knew him for much longer than he knew himself.

The subtle movement beside him pulled him from his train of thoughts and he unhurriedly turned his head enough to silently watch Gabban retrieve the flask from underneath his coat. A twitch of the lips had a smile quickly appear as it did disappear again. Driven away by the seriousness of the question that followed. The blond had every right to know and yet his heart fretted at the idea of speaking so openly about the why. Still convinced that he was the freak, acting so atypically of himself that he would stand before a mirror looking at his reflection in question, wholly unable to recognize the man that looked back.

Hands folded in his laps and his gaze wandered again. Back to the lit pavement and greenery that was bathed in the warm shine of the street lamp a little off to their side. He was caught up by the fluorescent green shine of the grass that looked oddly strong in its color. He remembered the pictures of photoluminescence algae with their stunning blue hues as they lined up at the coast of california, lighting them up at night. For a fleeting moment it even looked as though the ends of a path of grass were caressed by a gentle breeze. He felt nothing of the cold wind.

            „I couldn't get you out of my head.“ Distractedly, Paukka rubbed with the pad of his right thumb over the back of his left one.

            „You know the feeling, when you're presented with an opportunity and you do not take it, you'll regret it for a long time?“ For the rest of his life, he was almost certain. He would think about not having had the guts for the rest of his life.

            „I only got a couple more days before I'll have to head back. The time I do have, I just...“ Paukka paused, then turned his head again, searching Gabban's eyes with his own. „I really want to get to know you.“

[meadowlarksabove]

focusing on getting better from a fever/cold :') I might just rest and draw for a while, maybe through the weekend. I'll still try to write, but I feel like hell...<3

[meadowlarksabove]

He couldn’t repress the full flood of his love. The way it poured from him as they embraced and he, with tremulous fingers, clutched the worn fabric of their coat. It’d practically burst through the dam in his throat, stealing from him whatever chance he had at remaining composed. Even less, when a strong hand bid him to look and had cast his tears loose with the motion. 

How those eyes moved him! Gabban’s lips were split by a soundless gasp, as both their gaze and speech weighed over his person like a spell. Totally bewitched. There was something earnestly pained about their expression, yet warm and reassuring as their focus fastened back onto him. His Paukka. Past the facades of those cold and stolid frowns so used to appearing on their mouth, this was his Paukka. The name reverberated all throughout his body, and after all their time spent together, he could never shake the feeling they’d actually met before. Long before the first walls of this office, this city, were ever erected. Or even conceptualized. Before their and their father’s lifetime, perhaps even their grandfather’s– the forces which stirred and rattled him like a bell were too great and far-reaching to be fathomed in their entirety. A piece of something forgotten, still carried and whispered throughout the centuries by the chiming of an aged church tower. He heard it then, at the very back of his mind, tolling as it always had. And would forevermore. 

If Gabban were wiser, or better acquainted with poetry, he might have recognized the significance of this feeling. How he’d somehow stumbled upon eternity itself. Not as the cruel and wicked clock-turn of the years that withered the tender blush of Spring. But the inkling of something happily divine. The constancy of a passion which could only be shared by two immortal souls. Exactly as if they stood before the gates of heaven, if paradise were the lights speckled across the mediterranean waves and the froth gathered on the shore. 

Eternal love. He’d never doubted its existence, only questioned whether he was truly deserving of it. Now faced with the promise of its enduring bliss, he understood it wasn’t a matter of worth, but of how much he was willing to sacrifice. The answer was simple, and brought to him with the natural shifting of the tide. 

Everything. He would give everything. 

“I’m not as good as you think I am– and I couldn’t bear you regretting this–” 

His voice puttered out like an anxious flame about to be snuffed. Fear had whipped him violently and in an instant, briefly shaking his resolve. Gabban scorned himself twofold, for both wanting and stubbornly refusing what seemed like an impossible thing to ask. This still didn’t seem fair to him, even as they tried to soothe the raw ends of his nerves with the strength of their own solid foundations.  Paukka had a whole life away from him, one they’d worked for so tirelessly. Yet in thinking of the distance, of the previous years wasted without his presence, the shadows still biting at his ankles to this day, he declined letting go. 

Both hands found purchase over Paukka’s chest again, comforting themselves with the warmth and the precious sound of an organ ticking away the seconds, mirroring his own in their frenetic beat. 

“If you’re sure, and only if you’re sure…” The pattering of his hummingbird heart slowed, somewhat, as he realized he couldn’t control them any more than the warmth beginning to spark in the pit of his stomach. Instead, he would wager something of his own, and prove that he too was capable of giving. He would make this an equal exchange. 

“My home is yours. Everything I have is yours. I will work harder for you, Paukka.” To deserve you, and a new life together. 

If not for Paukka’s figure between his legs, keeping him settled on the old desk, he might have dropped to his knees then. To further submit himself and beg, as all worshippers should at the foot of their altars. The way he finally grinned, gentle and openhearted, had all the airs of a long awaited rapture. 

“I’m yours. I want you to live with me.”

With stark differences between seasons, Finns were used to contrasts. Dark Arctic winters had their counterpart in one of the most iconic of Finnish natural phenomena — the Midnight Sun.

Many wondered how Finns survived with no sunlight in the winter, and nature replied with 24 hours of it in the summer. The nightless night was a phenomenon experienced in every corner of Finland. North of the Arctic Circle, the sun did not set at all from May to August, while even further south the sun could be visible for nearly around the clock during June and July. The greatest difference came from the change in the nature of the light. The sun took on a reddish-yellow colour, like during sunrise or sunset, and everything was bathed in an unimaginably warm, bright light.

Was he not beautiful? Radiating right before him that same light, even through that sadness and that fear, that did nothing to take away from how handsome he was and how gorgeously his soul shimmered. No. The tears did not make him ugly and it ached and angered a hidden side within Paukka to hear Gabban talk about himself like that (like he was not so perfectly lovely, like he was not that midnight sun bringing warmth and light back into his life after thirty-four years of ever-lasting winter and cold, cold darkness); hurt the heart thrumming in his chest to painfully halt a second, before his arms moved in instinct and wrapped around the man suddenly clinging to him again so desperately. Doing so firmly, still standing nestled between Gabban's legs. Lowering his head to kiss the top of his head and for his lips to then hover and remain close to the soft strands of sun-kissed hair, it was one hand that he used to tenderly start rubbing the back of his love in hopes to soothe.

„I'd miss you so much more“, the low, smooth tone of his voice hummed against Gabban's hair while he continued to rub his back. Paukka caught the greatness of the selfishness of his lover, how this wonderful soul had nothing but the best for him in mind. Noble and pure, when it was Gabban that deserved to be offered the world and Paukka was so ready and willing to hand it to him. All that Gabban thought of (feared) boiled down to Paukka regretting his choice eventually, when he himself was dead certain he never would. Never could...

How could he prove it to the man that he loved so deeply? How could he drive away those fears and make certain what was questioned and doubted? How could he ease that burden and that pain that left the handsome young man shackled to the ground when he deserved to spread his wings and fly? How could he open his own heart and show all its corners and its one truth — that there was no doubt and no space for regret? That it was so full of love and content with that. How could he make Gabban understand that he had understood, that his own eyes had been opened and he came to realize why he had felt that way throughout his past years? That he had finally found his place in life and that it meant everything to him to be able to pursue a future together, side by side, rather than separated through 7 to 11 hour long flights from Vantaa to Catania alone.

„I understand your concern and love you even more because of them“, he calmly began, tried sorting his thoughts and searched for the proper words, which he was so horrible at finding in those moments. Not that he had a lot of experience with them — Paukka had trouble properly voicing and even with making sense of what it was he felt. Situations that had always resulted in him either not caring enough to or deciding it would be better for him to remain silent in the end, it was different now. He wanted to speak, wanted Gabban to hear and know and hopefully — understand.

„I would not hurt. Nothing hurts me as much as being away from you. My life up until this point did not fulfill me. Being with you... does. I am content, Gabban. I wouldn't suggest it if I wan't.“ His voice wascarried by a lighter tone — soft-sounding the best he managed it to. Still with that confidence, but a gentle one. One that was born from the mind and the heart agreeing in unison for the first time in their existence. To underline what was said, the hand having rubbed over Gabban's retreated and so did he. Inching away enough to be able to slide his fingers underneath Gabban's chin to make him luck up and for Paukka to be able to look into those mesmerizing eyes again in turn.

„I love you. You are so good for me. How could I ever be miserable!“ his tone, although still warm, one as though he responded to the most absurd claim he had ever heard, and the hand went back to lovingly brush loose strands of flaxen hair back behind the ear which they had escaped from again through the movement.

„I need you to know and I need you to understand that nothing bad could ever happen to me from being with you. Quite the opposite. I have never been this alright and sure of moving on.“

[meadowlarksabove]

If spending the night with Gabban were a song...🐚🌊 Come and worship Venus with him!!!!

[meadowlarksabove]

yeah well, modern!Gabban would ride around on a motorcycle. Your dentist is cooler than you.

[meadowlarksabove]

@ihmissutta sent: When your voice is so alluring it even catches the attention of the freshly-caught near-delirious captive that was made to kneel with bound hands behind his back, some feet across from where Gabban was talking to another Legionnaire. Dusty and more disheveled than he'd himself like to be, suffering the heat accumulated under the NCR armor even with the setting of the sun. Given up for now his own confusion over why he was made to wait where he kneels (or for who) because he too is just a human and fatigue catching up. Having sat with his head hung, even. It is slowly lifted again and turned to look the direction of that voice, and with dark eyes catching and even recognizing that pretty face. Paukka does not know what to make of the fact the Bull has such overall handsome boys kill for it. The Ranger does not know why he even cares, he should be working on an escape plan…

For a time he was motionless, listening to the courier and the laboring of other soldiers clambering throughout the camp. He half envisioned, without ever seeing it, the blacksmith’s hammer thumping rhythmically over heated metal, wearing the scalding thing until it bent every which way. The same merciless beating, as with his heart, grew louder as his gaze finally landed on the captive. Pulsing as it had never pulsed before. 

There, and just then, on his expression, his overall person, laid a barrage of emotions too complex to be deciphered by a single glance. For just beyond that rage and disdain, so easily cast over the eyes of a young legionnaire, was a profound sense of fear. The full breadth of which expanded the more it was sought from those pools of grey-ish blue, like yarn spooled across the shadowed paths of a labyrinth. 

He wasn’t ready for this. His princeps knew he wasn’t ready for this. 

The thread was cut with the snap turn of his head. Gabban faced the wild and open desert instead, jaw clenched as he forced himself to a more tempered frown. Yet the horror still lingered at the corners of his mouth, the afterimage of a nightmare burned to the very mettle of his being. He felt the other two mirror the gesture with mounting trepidation at his side. Unsure of which frumentarius they’d rather have offended at that moment. Gabban ultimately chose for them. 

“Understood.”  He’d been given no other option but to accept the prisoner as part of his charge. Though he’d be speaking with Vulpes on the matter the second they returned, already sensing the true nature of his orders. Worse than even a wound or a crass betrayal– this had to be a test.      

“Get him out of that hideous armor already.”

[meadowlarksabove]

@ratherxintense : continued from here.

Both the obligation and impulse to scold fell mute before his boots. Gabban wasn’t in the mood to argue whether they should or shouldn’t have kept the waif. Only, he would have appreciated a warning, or to be included in his princeps decisions before they were so rashly taken.

If their wish was to release her, they might have done it before the desert had cooled to a deathly chill. If it’d been to put her out of her misery, before she had a chance to scorn the very air drifting in and out of her lungs– he would have found a swifter way. Simpler, cleaner, with something akin to mercy in the swing. 

Gabban allowed himself a sigh, briefly rolling an arm in an attempt to soothe the taut muscle of his shoulder. They’d led younger persons to slaughter before, and he doubted her being a girl was what set her apart. So, what then? What were they thinking? 

“It isn’t.” Exhausted, he passed a hand over his face. “But even death is better than what awaited her East.”

[meadowlarksabove]

Another excerpt from a thing I wrote! Feat. my first language lmao

Los primeros destellos de luz cortaron por el interminable vacío de la noche, anunciando con ondas de puro azul y rosa la llegada de otro dia. Uno más tachado sobre el calendario y otro descartado en el olvido. El tiempo parece un concepto superfluo entre las ruinas de la vieja América. Una patria quebrada y putrefacta como el cuerpo expuesto de un animal ahogado. Pero sería imposible quedarse sano sin tener en cuenta las horas.

Se hace tan fácil olvidarse de uno mismo. Todo pierde el sentido por completo. “¿De qué vale si las cosas tengan sentido o no?” Gabban miraba con cierto interés el remeneo de las olas y los reflejos deslumbrantes de la mañana sobre las aguas. Tan bello como lo es absurdo, pensó sin saber el origen de sus propias palabras.

Absurdo. ¿Son las cosas absurdas? ¿Qué vale un cielo de colores infinitos y la espuma tierna de la playa cuando trocar por el mundo es una puta miseria? No queda en la tierra placer de ningún tipo, complétamente desprovista de todo mérito estético y espiritual. Se ha quedado todo en la nada. Nada por nada a su máxima potencia.  Nada, como ver el mundo por una ventana sin tocar ni saborear. 

“Quiero irme.” Se dijo sin levantarse a tomar camino. 

[meadowlarksabove]

For a brief moment, consciousness returned, rattled by the strong winds outside the old farm, tugging and pulling at loose boards of barn and shed and whistling through the gap between the foor and the door, breaching their sanctuary through the room on the other side of the floor that was still only half that, half an opening for the outside forces. He had yet to pull up a new wall. Reminded by that even more so now, as he lay in bed with closed eyes, solely listening and cursing out how sharp his senses were to force him from his slumber for that. While knowing well it was a good thing they did. Be it in case of danger or last minute preparations for an incoming storm. Yet the force of the wind did not grow more violent and something else — something more urgent — soon called attention of the little that was awake of him.

The way the mattress was weighed down differently. How his blanket did not fall the way that it should. How there was some haunting space that he could not explain. How his arm was not lying by his side, and, how it instantly tightened the embrace around the handsome young man lying next to him at the realization. Sharing with him the bed that was too large for him alone. Driven by instinct, Paukka pulled Gabban back and with it, his back against his chest. Then shifted a little closer, burying his nose in stands of sun-kissed gold. This was it. This was all he needed. Contented and mind calmed, sleep took him again.

🪽🪶🍃🌬️

There was a small thrush hidden in between blades of grass. Barely the size of a child’s palm. Gabban watched as it struggled to flutter its wings, nervous of the fast approaching night and of the presence gliding across the field. The suggestion of a massive animal he couldn’t make out, but was sure of having seen before. Somewhere distant and in another way, with all the violence of certain death. For a moment he was seized by the flash of a memory, his stomach knotted uncomfortably tight, before he laid eyes on the little bird once more. It fussed soundlessly in the darkness, searching for a way to break through the reeds and far away from the hunting grounds. There was a nest to get to, a pair of yellow spotted birds that twittered in a similar voice, and who would ask where it went if it never returned. Whose bodies would also crumple in its absence, like twigs beneath the treading of a bull. He– it had to get home! 

Another pause and it risked a hasty retreat, disturbing the utter quiet with the subtle rustling of a branch. But that bit of noise was enough to be noticed. He watched in horror how the beast swiveled in mid-flight, turning with the quick beating of its wings to grasp at the other. Its claws deftly closed around the smaller bird, and Gabban felt his breath hitch at the base of his throat, jolting his limbs with the desperate need for air. Neither a shout or an inhale sounded from him, choked to a frenzied silence which puttered out stunted vowels. A slew of other images flooded his vision then, blending claws with hands and cawing with screams, ringing louder and louder still as too many things threatened to breach the seams of his mind.

Until the little thing disappeared in a mess of feathers, wrested from the shadow’s talons by a wild and whipping wind. The force of which drew it– him high above a tufted valley of clouds, colored in the gentle midtones of a sunset. Wisps of pink and orange flitted by his eyes as the breeze carried him aloft, carefully this time and altogether changed, like hands cupped underneath his body. The fretful bird of his heart thudded too quickly in his ribcage, yet he was imbued with the great and unerring sense it was mercifully guiding him home. 

Not to Arizona. His true home…

Gabban’s muscles relaxed, and he instinctively sought the warmth then pressing at his back, turning in his slumber to embrace the phantom silhouette of his lover. Placed there in the waking world, and half there in his dream, tinting everything with the certainty that he was safe. No longer was he at the mercy of leering eyes or of hands reaching for his ankles, but swaddled in the kindness of a weathered and lonely canyon. His home. His home…

[meadowlarksabove]

 You can stop pretending that you know me.

Their words compelled him to stop, closing the circle with a single turn. Gabban never broke his gaze from them and their weapon, but a raised brow more than betrayed his earnest confusion. What were they talking about? Why were they pretending not to know him? The strategy no longer made any sense, not with their partner dead at the emergency stairs and the space being vacant of any White Glove members. It was just the two of them then, and with the shadows prowling in the corners. He narrowed his gaze to the tightly wound muscles of their face and to the animal twitching of their eyes for a sign, or a hint that he was being played for a fool. But the silver gleam of their gaze, as with their knife, cast back at him the vastness of a cold and perilous wasteland. An emptiness so profound he might have taken it for an abyss and doubled over with vertigo if he were any weaker. There was not a single gesture of recognition, not a one... 

He sensed a vague prickling at the back of his neck, like jaws trying the gentle flesh to get a hold, and to finish what had once been started in his youth. Perhaps he should have vanished into shreds of cartilage all those years ago, instead of fighting the mongrels off just long enough for his screams to be heard. Death had come for him mercifully early, some years before the world could show him the full brunt of its cruelty. And he’d repaid the kindness with an ignorant refusal. Having assumed there was more to life than pillars of smoke and the stench of decaying mass graves. Wishful thinking. If he’d known of the paths ahead, and how far they stretched, he would have given himself up as silently as the birds do. Instead he’d fruitlessly worked his way through the chaos and the clock-turn of the years. Only to be drawn to the belly of the beast in the end, alone, without his family and kinsmen. Surrounded by profligates– Forgotten about. 

The notion stirred another bout of prickling, like nettles stuck beneath the lining of his skin. An itch, an all consuming rash that burned its way to a strung out fever. He shouldn’t have expected much from a stranger with no loyalties– except he was sure he’d made some impression, just as they had with him. Enough to warrant him sharing his name. Gabban was shocked to discover that might not have been the case, and doubly surprised that he was not without his pride. 

“You’ve really forgotten me…”

Barely a whisper, but the silence and the natural acoustics of the room carried it forward. His disbelief landed on the shrouded tables like motes of dust, adding another kind of weight to their surroundings. The little charm that’d remained on his face disappeared then, swept with the tide of his emotions like footprints on sandy shores. Insult wasn’t a strong enough word for what coursed through his fingers, paling his knuckles with the strain, and urging his free hand to quickly whisk out the dagger hidden in his pants. More blood would be shed tonight. His sense of honor called for it with the fervor of a zealot. 

The frumentarius pressed forward, trying to corner the other without a second thought on cutting the distance. Unlike the NCR and their gun-toting soldiers, legionnaires were purposely trained for close combat on the battlefield. A man afraid of breaching space was no man at all in their eyes. Therefore, he risked more snags on the skin of his arms for a chance at landing a well honed swing, moving in such a way that partially impeded side-stepping. Gabban wore the look of a man who knew how to make oblivion as painful as possible, and would. And would.

Something was different. Half-truths revealed themselves without Alexander even having to try, presenting themselves through the watchfulness of keen eyes trained on reading and dissecting. Picking up on the way the other man moved deliberately, though slowly, with steps well-set and a body that was under firm control. It was different from the way he had seen others move. Vastly different, even.

There was absolutely nothing of the headlessness displayed by most, or the drug-induced craze urging (if not pressuring) the other of that far-gone mind to do and seek feats usually deemed impossible. It was nothing like the desperate drive he had seen people act out on, out of fear of not seeing the next day. Not the cocky display of those thinking they had it all figured out. There was something animal about that gait. Not the wild and unpredictable kind (though Alexander had learned he did have trouble predicting anything that other man did, let alone could be thinking). The sharp mind, predator kind. A primal sense, honed and made perfect through a smart mind and trained muscle, having proven its position high atop the food chain.

Different. Even someone as sly and hiding as the White Gloves were not as slick and quick with their attacking. Not as precise as this man had been, slipping out a pin and moving in within the same breath, to kill a man within the blink of an eye. Knowing exactly how to move, knowing exactly what to do...

Former military, perhaps? Did they have such excessive training? The spy could not keep his mind from wandering as he watched the other begin to walk his half-circle, mimicking the ruse of a wild dog distracting his prey from the approaching of the rest of its pack closing in from the sides. Having no horns he could have used to fend off his attacker with a distance, he was forced to move, to match the step and resume walking the other half of the same circle. Which he did, but not before retrieving the hidden Balisong from his pocket, which he flipped open and took proper hold of through the flicking of his wrist. Seemingly having a change of heart however, the fan knife danced again in his hand a second later, until he caught it in an underhand grip.

Either he was unskilled and inexperienced, or he was highly skilled and extremely experienced. Sacrificing range and mobility could cost him, if he would not find a way to compensate. The truth was, even now Alexander did not want to fight. Using the underhand grip was primarily for defensive reasons. Of course, there were many disadvantages he burdened himself with. A risk he was willing to take. Unlike the other, who spoke as though he had something to regret. Still going with that trick. Still suggesting that they had met before.

            „Convincing yourself of untruths so you can sleep better at night? You can stop pretending that you know me.“

[meadowlarksabove]

Little more than a gasp escaped him, his breath hitched, and his nerves stormed by a wild and unfettered rush of excitement. As if he were witnessing an unveiling of sorts, made privy to the secrets of his Goddess with a single, swift motion. He swallowed thickly, and again he was being kissed with renewed hunger, mirrored twofold by the want pulsing through his veins. If he were any more coherent, he would have attempted to pull back and watch their forearms tense, to marvel at how the muscles settled as they loomed over him. Yet breaking the kiss wasn’t an option either. Of course, Gabban had no other choice but to let his hands feel what his eyes couldn’t see at that moment. That perfectly rugged body, both rough and scarred beneath the pads of his fingers. So handsomely built that it dashed what little sense remained in his skull. He wouldn’t heed it any longer anyway. Not when there was such a man to make an altar of. Gabban tenderly pawed at their chest, slipping a soft and satisfied groan into their mouth, a note of approval folded between their tongues. Slowly, he trailed his touches downward, exploring every dip and ridge until he’d reached the marked contours of their Apollo’s belt. Ah– how these hips were driving him closer to madness, pulling his thoughts to less than savory places. Where strength was no longer a threat but a thrill to be dearly coveted. 

He imagined all the ways Paukka’s hands could also leave their mark, with pretty bruises to color the outlines of his own hips and thighs. And what of their teeth? The question echoed through him, further stoking the flames as their lips ghosted down the length of his neck and to his shoulder. What of their sharp canines? Gabban would have assumed himself tired of jaws clamping down on his flesh, given his history and the myriad of other injuries scattered across his frame. But the animal pitted deep within his core craved it more than anything else. He would have even begged for it if given the chance, or if he wasn’t as startled by his willingness to succumb. To surrender to the mere temptation. 

It’d never occurred to him that he was weak in that way, and for sensations he’d never thought to relish before. The feeling of being ensnared– trapped beneath the weight of someone taller and ahead of him in experience. He’d been pinned before, of course, but only ever on his stomach and without so much as a kiss. Already Paukka was teaching him something new and sacred. That Gabban could indeed be wanted, earnestly and with enthusiasm, with eyes that yearned to look at him and to be seen in turn. The Legionnaire was used to quick exchanges and nervous glances, his intimacy squandered for hastily-made retreats. Just so that hypothetical onlookers could never tell if anything happened. (Anxious that his disgraceful nature could taint them.) Yet he’d then discovered how their touches lacked the doubt he found in other men. That poisonous hesitance that’d given him an impression of worthlessness. Somehow, somehow, Paukka had found a use for him. 

For that reason, and many others, he refused to believe this man actually went without the delights of Her providence. That Paukka wandered the world without their choice for lovers, and in great abundance. How could a person as warm and accepting as this be starved of the adoration they deserved? When lesser men made of the wasteland their stalking grounds, and picked from the common herd like meat stuck to the bottom of their cauldron. It wasn’t right for them to be disappointed in life when their form and spirit were clearly made to be loved.  

Still, a twisted kind of jealousy then made it to his heart. An irrational, ugly thing that wound around his lungs like a tourniquet of thorns, cutting off more of his dwindling good sense. He didn’t want to think of others quenching their thirsts at the mouth of this generous river. Nor could he accept the fact that, sooner or later, someone else would notice the riches gleaming from their dark gaze. When– When it could be him. When Gabban could kneel at the steps of this temple, groveling on his hands and knees, asking to give without ever taking from the sacrificial circle in the purest sense of worship. He was already there, ready to serve and dedicate his entire life to prayer…

There was something wrong with him. Unhinged to some extent, and swayed by a resonance that should have felt misplaced. But it grew stronger with every breath they shared, each one of their exhales another gust of wind to his sales. Yes, perhaps he wasn’t in his right mind. Venus’ fever could do that and much worse to a mortal man. She could even drive one to act a little more brazen if She so chose. But it was Gabban who moved next.

The frumentarius reached with skillful precision, placing his palm flat over Paukka’s still-clothed dick, rubbing gently from over the roughhewn fabric of their pants. Another soft breath and his lips curled to a playful grin, unable to hide with what joy he felt their shape, his own responding to the call by jolts of fervid pleasure-- which then also bade his legs to spread wider. Gabban somewhat furled his fingers, half-stroking as best he could through their layers, while he reached with his teeth to nip and tug on their bottom lip. A wordless and playful challenge poised. Even as his focus was truly stuck on the length and thickness, enthralled by what they could do to him. And how he wanted them to act upon every base instinct they possessed.

Sex was the closest one would ever get to someone's soul and people just turned it into a hobby. It was a realization that Paukka had caught himself lamenting on several occasions throughout the past years, especially when he was still of rank and trying to kill time on the strip of new vegas, where colors were many and the lights were a little too bright for his eyes. Where people were loud and brisk and not caring for personal space, condemning it even. Sodom and Gomorrah, synonymous for impenitent sin. become a proprietary eponym for one of the casinos, thought to cleverly take upon itself the title, as if it was anything to strive for, something to repeat instead of in need of repenting. People fucked so easily that it lost all greatness and all meaning in his eyes. He should have known better. Broke his own conviction. Here he was, drunk out of his mind and kissing a man he had not even known twenty-four hours ago.

Paukka was in shock and disbelief at how unimaginably great it all felt. At how great, at how right. Suddenly he felt only half as drunk, closer to sober. Suddenly it felt as though this same man was no stranger to him, but an individual who was connected to him so strangely intimately. Of the same understanding, the same suffering, the same troubles and fears, because he had seen what Gabban's soul had looked like and how pure it still was, no matter how harsh his life had been to him and how damaging, how damning. Paukka did not care what this man had done to survive because they all were selfish sinners when it came to it — he himself was the worst of them all. How could he blame someone for fighting? For giving what it took...

Maybe it was because he was tired, maybe because he had grown bitter and old. Maybe his heart had grown softer than he realized and easier to sway. Whatever it was that made him feel as he did, that made kissing the other so great, that made it feel as though their bodies fit so perfectly snug even now, even before he got to enter — Paukka knew one thing. That he did not want to stop feeling the way he did. That he did not want that moment to end. That he was drunk, after all, but not suffering the consequences of alcohol. He was intoxicated, drowning in a kind of lust that craved and was fed and continued to want simultaneously, creating that dangerous cycle of bliss and threatening to starve. How was he to live without this feeling? That chemical reaction within the body and of the brain that took him away to another place. No mistakes, no awkwardness. Pure bliss. Where hours feel like seconds and everything seemed to fade around him. Where it was soft and warm and lips tasted nice and he could not wait to hear the noises and sounds the blond would make underneath him. Time and space had no relevance anymore and so did not all that followed behind him like vultures flying around him waiting for him to miserably die and turn carrion.

How was he to move on in the morning? Heaven had tested him and he had failed. But Paukka did not care. He greeted his sin with open arms and would sink onto his own two, weak knees to beg for it to stay just a night longer. If only he was deserving of it. If only he had been well enough a man and perhaps they had met under different circumstances. If only he was not a drunk he could offer Gabban more than sullying him with a greedy mouth and hungry teeth, following along the trail created by swift fingers exposing to him even more skin. Sadly, he was a bad dog, a mad dog. Untrained in being tender once the heat within him reached a certain temperature.

His lips ghosted along the side of Gabban's throat, unable to witholt the need to bite the spot where he felt Gabban's pulse the strongest. Halting only because he noted the marks of abused skin and if he would have been of clear mind enough he would have stopped then and there. Yet his lips ghost further down from there and pressed against the shoulder of Gabban another kiss. Places he never thought to find so tempting and delicious now stirring within him more of that desire which had him grow restless, enough for him to subconsciously try moving towards against the fingers he felt going for his clothes now; repositioning himself briefly, it gave him a moment to glimpse at the handsome face, lust-drunk (love-drunk, so foolishly), that drove him near wild. In his head the only coherent word being by which this lovely soul was known. Gabban. Paukka would leave what was left of his heart with, tonight. Thinking that, both hands reached for the hem of his own shirt, followed by him pulling the fabric over his head to help undress him. Tossing the worn piece carelessly to the side he already was about to lean in again, thirsting for for the other's lips.

[meadowlarksabove]

can i come over and inhale your scent

[meadowlarksabove]

The dark of his shadow slipped over the other man like a curtain, tucking them out of sight as with the embrace of his arms. Gabban couldn’t trust the calm and tender quiet of the outside world, nor the gentle winds which rapped upon the glass like a welcome visitor, to be enough of a salve to ease them in their current state. (They just couldn’t be left alone. Not like this.) Panicked, and frightened like an animal strung out of its burrow, the sheriff clung to him with an instinct to claw. He winced at first, as he felt their strong hands jabbing along the sides of his torso, often meeting the resting place of his more fragile scars. Still, he’d resisted the urge to squirm just long enough to grow comfortable with the touch. Then he lowered his chin to the top of their head, as if to further anchor himself to the spot, before his own body followed suit on the edge of the bed. 

Gabban swore to protect them then. A whisper in his heart which’d quickly splintered and spread to a cacophonous stir all throughout his nervous system. Yet the intensity borne from such an oath should have felt as sudden and absurd as the murderous act itself. Irrational. Who were they to him? Who was he to them? Strangers in every sense of the word, only hauled together by the tide of an unfeeling ocean. One second too late or too soon, and he would have surely missed his chance of saving the poor soul. He would have never learned the deep color of their eyes, the constellation of moles trailing down their torso, or of the lush warmth of their voice. The thought strangely agitated him, subtly jolting his fingers with a desire to smother the cowboy to him. He would protect them- he would protect them!  

“Do I?” A chuckle sounded from the base of his throat. “Thank you.” 

A part of him was oddly flattered by the compliment, whilst another sighed with relief. Gabban couldn’t help but worry over every aspect of himself, wondering whether the mark of his sin had speared right through to his essence. It could have just easily laced his scent as it had ruined his appearance. He’d been cracked open and broken into, sullied of all dignity. Neither the beauty or the grandeur of God could rid him of that wretched taint now. So plainly drawn over the left side of his face for all to see. The wicked touch of a demon swaddled in the skins of a mortal man. He closed his eyes and hurriedly dashed away the memory of blades. The four corners of a room imprinted onto his gaze, the ghostly weight of a chain no longer wrapped yet somehow present around his ankle. 

He was tired of questioning the turns of his fate and the futility of prayer. Exhausted, even, while the press of the cushions beneath them reminded him of his long nights of standing vigil. There was no point in remembering what darkness had ruined his chances for salvation. Instead, he focused on the miracle laid out before him. A dead man risen from the mists like Lazarus from their long-shadowed grave. Brought back to the warm and pulsing land of the living by his hands. If he couldn’t hope for heaven anymore, then he could hope to show himself worthy of the very spirit which had flung itself headlong into comfort. Like a bird landing inside the chest cavity of an old tree. He would do good for them. 

“You can sleep like this if you’re tired. I won’t let go.” The doctor had felt the other slump and guessed their strengths were already depleted. Naturally, they still had a long way to go for their recovery. 

Gabban carefully raised a hand to caress the back of their head. “I promise. I will stay with you.”

No resistance came. No twitching, no flinching of the fretful animal that he had become. Despite all that it was he felt, those boundless surges of helplessness, of felt frailty, he did not twitch. Did not flinch. Accepted being led and guided and nestled against something soft and solid at the same time. Something warm...

Arms were around him. Holding him and sharing their warmth where hands touched him. It was a comfortable warmth that burned against cold skin. Previously fever-stricken it cooled out almost eagerly the moment he had shifted away from the mattress and the second the fabric of the blanket had slipped off his frame. Poor blood circulation. The icy touch of the night began seeping in further, started touching more places of him now as he was huddled against the other as best as he possibly could. Causing a chill to send him shuddering into the embrace. Like a youngling bird that had fallen out of its nest, now back within the clutches of its safety. Was it not strange? For a grown man to feel that way. For a grown man to feel (be) this weak and rely so heavily on the presence of another. Once whose name he did not even know, but whose face looked so familiar, whose gaze he felt he knew intimate and whose voice sounded like it had guided him for a prolonged, perilous time. Guiding him to the light. Telling him on and on again that all was alright...

The wounded man was soothed. His mind slowly calmed, as was his body. The previously frantic beating of his heart found back to its natural rhythm. As did his breathing, shown by the calm and deliberate heaving and sinking of his chest. There was still the occasional stopping of it, the occasional halting and gasping as he swallowed a straggler of a wave still keen on washing over him. Dissipating into the calm, tranquil waters of shores that were touched by the most gentle breeze, the most tender of songs. Still, because of it or because perhaps he did not even notice, tears had long begun to well and glide over the lower lids of his eyes, running down the corners of them and down the sides of his face in pent-up pain. An upheaval of something that his psyche could no longer push down because there was simply too much of it. The rinsing-out of a sore wound before it could turn into a bruise, and either scar or vanish entirely with time. A cleansing. A balm for the soul. Acknowledging it for that one last time before it escaped his body.

More and more he sank against that chest, literally slumped against it with no strength left in that weary and broken body. His blinks turned slow, drawn-out. Sometimes he squinted, forced them close, then his face turned to bury itself further into that fabric covering the Doctor's body. Heaving a shuddering exhale to break away from his lungs only for the gunned-down fool to fill them again with the scent of the other man. A sigh followed. A content one. Still — during the entirety of the time — both his hands remained latched onto (clawing at) the sides of the blond. Dug-in deeply and twitching occasionally. As if the Sheriff had to make sure he was truly there.

            „You smell good...“ Nothing like wet stone. Nothing like stale water. Nothing like gunpowder hanging in the air. Nothing like that stench of iron, heavy and tenacious. More like soap. Like freshly washed linen. Like a plumped out down-filled pillow he could sink his head onto after a hard day of work. Like clean air and those tiny, delicate blue flowers he remembers sprouting forth in his family farm during springtime. Like those soft pink clouds kissing the sun goodnight before tucking her away for the night, or those cozy warm hues of orange and gold she kissed in turn the world awake with.

The tears still rolled but his heart was no longer afraid.

[meadowlarksabove]

Gabban's in one of my current dnd campaigns and he's struggling in the Underdark because there's no wild game for him to hunt. (He's a werewolf.) So he's constantly whining and pleading for the party to let him eat the humanoids they fight. Last night he ate so many gray dwarves he ended up looking like a dog that's been playing in a puddle. :')

[meadowlarksabove]

“Difficult. Not impossible to cook, but I’m not a fan of it either.” Gamey, chewy– Nightstalkers had a similar taste to birds, but weren’t as easily felled or prepared. One had to wonder if they were even right for eating or if their skins were only useful for leatherworks. 

It was his turn to sink and be pulled by the tide of his thoughts, giving her words ample consideration. His memories of the camps, of his childhood, were simply too chaotic to make out at times. Haphazardly put together by fear and the outbursts of war, explosive visions which left a ghostly ringing in his ears. Even the quiet moments carried with them a wicked taint, warped by the presence of something just lurking in the shadows. Always there. Still there. 

“Not really.” He winced as if pricked by his own voice. Was there ever a time when he wasn’t in a camp? “We weren’t given individual rations until we were much older. It’s– efficient– to have the children feed in groups. Giving each of them a sizable share is considered wasteful, since most of them don’t survive…” 

The frumentarius’ voice had slowed to a hush, pricked for a second time, and painfully. Having said it aloud, he felt…

“Group pressure had a lot to do with my improvement, I think.”

her brows knit, uncertainty threatening as he laughed, even in such a way that made her cheeks warm - an older habit, one she had thought long lost, re-emerged, and teeth dug faintly into the interior of her lip.

"Is there something wrong with the meat, or is it... just difficult to cook?" Celia's gaze followed his, watching as he moved the chairs and absently fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. no complaint was offered for the position of the seats, and once he was finished, she sat once more.

Persistence was something she typically excelled at - one could not survive the wasteland without it. yet when it came to food... cooking and the art therein were something she had neither time nor energy for, at least until more recently.

sometimes I feel our hands have minds of their own.

her gaze moved to her own hands, now clasped carefully together in her lap, a thoughtful frown finding its way to her lips.

"Practicing... forms stronger bonds between our thoughts and our actions. Did you often practice outside of your nights cooking for the others?" She looked back up to him, still thoughtful. "I have only attempted to cook when I must eat. Doing so otherwise has always felt... a waste."