#All-Star Glorious Bronze Chest

[evonydavidguo]

How to increase your March Size in Evony?

How to increase your March Size in Evony? With the development of your castle and troops in Evony, you will realize that even though you have a lot of troops, there is a limit to how many troops you can send out. In order to send out troops as much as possible, we have to increase our March Size. So, how to do this? There are a lot of methods to increase March Size in Evony. If you are interested…

[ronaldofandom]

Glorious Akhtar

I just saw this fricken amazing artwork about bare-chested Akhtar from @belligerentmistletoe and was transported to a different realm.

In his honor, posting some bits from A Sinful Temptation that fit such a scene. Because that's what he is. Sinfully tempting.

....................................................

At that exact moment, he lifted his wet kurta to wipe his face. And she got a peek at his abs. His toned, chiseled abs. Which seemed to have been carved from granite. With hot, bronze skin stretching over them tightly. Glimmering with moisture. Wreaking havoc on her senses.

She stared open-mouthed, in stunned silence. In her defense, her body was just rooted to the spot. It would have refused to move or look away even if her brain had given the command. Her other senses had taken over, and they wanted to revel in the glorious sight of this hunky, masculine, erotic man. A man who would put even a Mills & Boons protagonist to shame. She continued to ogle as he hopelessly tried to untangle his stubborn hair. He finally gave up and smiled in despair. When he was about to look up at her, she quickly turned away and covered her face with the towel. Hiding in shame was the only reaction she was capable of in that moment.

Bheem looked at her wet form and figured that she would need a change of clothes quickly, or else she might catch a cold. He went into the adjacent room and picked out something from his sister’s cabinet. It was a new saree, her favorite. He figured it would be fit for Jenny, and carried it back to the room. Placing it on the bed, he called out to her, pointed her towards the clothes, and left the room to give her privacy to change, shutting the door behind him. Then, he went to the kitchen to make some herbal tea for both of them.

The tea was ready in five minutes, but Bheem waited for fifteen, giving her ample time and privacy to change. After 15 mins, he knocked lightly at the door. No response. He knocked again and called out her name. No response. He tried one more time, knocking harder. Again, no response. The lashing rain drowned out any other sound; Jenny hadn’t heard him at all. But he didn’t know that, and suddenly he worried if everything was alright with her.

He pushed the door open and went inside. And was extremely amused by the sight in front of him, of Jenny’s struggles with the saree. When she just wrapped the whole thing around her waist and ended up trapping her legs & nearly falling on her face, he couldn’t help but laugh, making her aware of his presence. Jenny turned around to admonish him for making fun of her helplessness but found herself at a loss for words. He was SHIRTLESS. Bare-chested. WET. He had taken off his kurta, making her gawk at his glorious Greek-God-like physique.

A usual, innocent, sweet Akhtar was hard to resist. A shirtless Akhtar was making her see stars and go weak in the knees. But, BUT, a shirtless and wet Akhtar was a Brahmastra. He was the Apple from the Biblical Garden of Eden - the ultimate sinful temptation to tease, taunt and torment mankind. She forgot what she was mad about. She forgot how to breathe, consciously having to remind herself of the motion. Why hadn’t he changed into another kurta yet? Was he trying to give her a heart attack? Her heart was convinced that it was the only explanation. While her brain chided her that she was occupying his room and his clothes must be here.

[kingfyre]

mortal!donghyuck x naiad!reader, angst, horror, fantasy, drabble, 1.8k, ancient greece!au

cw: dark themes, drowning, one line mentioning r*pe

The breezes are chillier as the goddess Selene slowly ascends across the sky on her chariot of glittering silver. The night has come, and along with her, the growing dangers of cunning gods and their insatiable desires. 

You sit on a steady stone near the banks of your river, observing as you have done every night before and as you will for eternity, watching for anyone and everyone who may come. 

Your river is cold, untamed, most especially when your gossiping, unruly half-sisters come to visit, or when you hear news of a god nearby. But no matter what, when the sun chariot has completed its trek across the heavens, your waters turn calm and slow, almost sluggish in its run, waiting for Helios to rise again.

Though the trees and their long, outstretched branches block much of your view above, the shimmering stars you see are always glorious, brilliant, and beautiful as they shone down on you. You sigh, closing your eyes as the cold wind hits your skin. Peace and serenity. You've known them as far as you could remember, but never truly. After all, the life of a naiad, or all divinities alike, so long as they were female and unmarried, means living in perpetual fear, paranoia that today might be the day your body stops being your own. Or worse. 

The beat of your heart is loud in your ears when he appears, stumbling and a hand propped against Pomona's trunk. A mortal. He’s draggled and dirty, clothes worn and torn from endless dawdling. His stride is drunk and unsteady, his long, dark hair cascading over his face as he blunders closer to the banks of your river.

Your fingers bunch at your dress. The thought of the man intoxicated leaves an unpleasant taste on your tongue. You can't flee, and you doubt anyone would hear or come if you cry for help. You've listened to much and heard time and time again about your sisters, naiads and nymphs violated and taken advantage of, deflowered against their will by not only gods but arrogant mortals drunk with selfishness and power. 

Mankind is a plague, your sisters tell you, increasing in numbers, breeding like cockroaches under a rock. It was a wonder how none had come upon you before.

He kneels by the riverbank, knees hitting the ground with a thud, and reaches out his dirtied hands to your waters. He falters, hands coming up to brush the hair out of his face, at last, tucking the strands behind his ears. His face is bronzed by sunlight, his dark eyes holding untold weariness. He wears a sullen look that does not suit his smooth features. He was no Adonis, but you feel your heart jump in your throat nevertheless. 

Perhaps it is more fear than it is anything else, but you can't deny the pull you feel. You swallow your uneasiness down as his calloused hands sink into your river. Still, you are doubtful.

"Hail, mortal."

His head snaps up to meet your face, water dripping from his cupped hands before falling when he retracts them to his side. He lowers his gaze to the water in front of him in a meek bow, mouth parted and eyes blown awake.

"Hail, fair goddess," he says softly. "Do I trespass on your waters?"

His voice is hushed, smooth as velvet, sweet in your ears. There is an immediate desire to hear more, but you push it away. Goddess, he called you. An easy mistake. You do not correct his assumption, however, preferring to hide behind your divine dignity.  

"Yes," you affirm, hoping it will spare you from all the uncertainties racing through your mind. 

He lowers himself even more, placing his hands on the ground in front of him in a kneeling bow. "Please. Forgive me, most divine lady." 

Moments pass in silence, only the rushing water filling the quiet. His words settle into your chest. He does not dare to look up yet, the apprehension evident in his figure. Taken aback by the difference between his actions and what you expected, the beginnings of a smile begin to pull at your lips.

"I did not wish to intrude," he continues, "nor did I mean to cause any trouble."

You take a quiet breath and dip your toes into the water, letting yourself smile as his words carry on with regrets. Tension dissipates from your body as you listen to his honeyed voice and soft tone. 

"Rise," you look down at his bowed figure from where you sit. "You have yet to cause trouble for me."

Hesitantly, he raises his head, expression carefully blank. You lower yourself from the rock, plunging your feet into the cold waters. You wade through the current to his kneeling form, stretching out a hand when you stop in front of him. Expressions cross his face, eyes darting to and from your eyes. From his stiff posture and demeanor, you know very well he is yet to believe you bear no ill-will. 

"Please, be as you were," you say softly, giving him a gentle smile. "Be comfortable. Wash up if you'd like. I will not hurt you."

Still, his voice trembles almost as much as his hand does when it reaches for yours. "Thank you, kind goddess." 

You cannot help but laugh softly at his tone. His gaze lifts to you, moonlight and surprise glinting within his eyes. It is that laugh that convinces him to place his hand in yours.

His hand is warm and awkward, but you wrap your fingers around it, dipping it into the water below. He glances at you tentatively before his other hand follows, dipping down into the clear currents. You step back, letting go, watching as he raises them to wash his dirtied face. 

"Will you tell me your name?" you ask. 

Water drips from his hair as he tries to wipe his face. You reach out again, to tuck the stray strands of hair falling to his face behind his ear. 

“My name...” he says. "My name is Donghyuck." 

You smile in kind, “Y/N.” 

At the sound of your name, ease flickers across his expression. That is when his lips grow to mirror the curve of your lips, though they still do not seem to reach his eyes.

Moments pass after moments and he begins to relax, sitting up and dipping his legs into the water while he answers question after question. He tells you of where he is from – the outskirts of a kingdom ruled lone by a noble queen, widowed after her dear husband had fallen ill. He speaks of the humble cottage right by the sea where he and his family stays, and that despite living so close to the shore, he had never learned how to swim. His voice turns fond when he comes to talk of his hardworking mother and his playful younger sister, who did not come back even after the sun had already set. 

Every story he told brought the sweet taste of honey on your tongue. No matter how it ended, in sadness and anguish, or in relief and gratitude, you drank down every bit like a parched man stumbling across a spring in the middle of a desert. No one has ever spoken and entrusted such things to you – no one who has ever confided so to you.

You gaze at him as he speaks of another story – one of his dear sister and the games she likes to play. He is more than tired, that much is apparent. There are dark bags under his wet, earnest eyes that carry the weight of the sleepless nights he has gone in order to look for his sister. His hair, long, unkempt, brushes over his face once more.

When you reach over to brush them away from his face, he does not wince as he had before. “You are exhausted,” you say gently. “You must get some rest.”

Donghyuck’s eyes stare into the water with a faraway look before he looks up to the sky and starts, wide awake as he sees the beginnings of the dawn of a new day. It has him bumbling and blundering, staggering to get up from where he sits before he turns to you, head bowing low. “Forgive me, kind goddess, I must – I must go.”

The honeyed taste on your tongue turns sour as he utters those words.

“Stay with me.”

“Fair goddess, please. My sister is lost, somewhere – my mother waits alone, at home, for me to return with my sister in tow.” A troubled look appears in his eyes as he continues to reason. “I must not delay any further.”

“Stay with me, Donghyuck,” you tell him again, voice as coaxing as it can be. “I’m sure your sister has already returned home, safely, tucked into bed right next to your mother.” 

You see the hesitation that flashes across his face. You think he would not have even considered such had he not been so spent.

“Fair goddess, please, I must go,” he tries weakly. His voice is desperate, beginning to despair, and his tone strikes your heart, but you would not give him up so easily.

“Wait. Please,” you say. From the water, you reach out. “Come into the water for a moment. It is cold; it will awaken you.”

He is tired, you think.

There is a pause before his hand stretches out to take yours hesitantly. You give him a smile as he wades into the water, his fingers stiffening around your hand. Rays of light begin to peek from the branches above. The sun is coming up. 

Donghyuck almost stumbles as the water rushes faster around him. You tug at his hand, and he comes, perhaps hoping you could steady him as the current grows wilder, but you take a step away with every unsteady one he takes to come close. 

His brows scrunch as he calls out, “What are you – what are you doing? Y/N –”

He slips.

His head plunges beneath the cold water and you let go of his hand. You watch as he tries to swim, his legs kicking frantically underneath the water, his arms desperately reaching for the surface. He breaks the surface, takes a breath – and stops. 

Donghyuck is tired – and as he sinks down again he puts up one last, weak fight, but when you push his head within the water once more, he stops. His flailing arms cease, his struggling legs settle. His eyelids close, and you know he’ll no longer have the fight in him to go. He’ll stay.

Donghyuck almost pulls you down as his body slumps, finally devoid of any movement. He’s heavier now that he doesn’t resist, but with difficulty, you pull him up, dragging him to the riverbank. You take a seat next to his unmoving body, intertwining your hand with his. 

“I hope you find your sister soon, Donghyuck.”

[dfroza]

“Make a book of what you see, write it down…”

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 1st chapter of the book of Revelation:

[Prologue]

This is the revelation of Jesus the Anointed, the Liberating King: an account of visions and a heavenly journey. God granted this to Him so He would show His followers the realities that are already breaking into the world and soon will be fulfilled. Through His heavenly messenger, He revealed to His servant John signs and insight into these mysteries. John, in turn, gave witness to the word of God and to the glorious truth revealed about Jesus, the Anointed One, the Chosen Ruler, by carefully describing everything he saw.

Blessings come to those who read and proclaim these words aloud; blessings come to those who listen closely and put the prophetic words recorded here into practice. The finale is approaching.

I, John, to the seven churches in Asia:

May you experience God’s favor and rest in the peace that comes from the One who is, the One who was, and the One who is coming; from the seven Spirits, the Perfect Spirit, constantly before God’s throne; and from Jesus the Anointed, the Witness who is true and faithful, the first to emerge from death’s cold womb, the chosen Ruler over all the kings and rulers of the earth.

To the One who loves us and liberated us from the grip of our evil deeds through His very own blood and who established us to be His kingdom and priests for God, His Father. May glory and power be His throughout all the ages. Amen.

Look! He is coming with the clouds, in glory.

He will capture every eye,

Even of those who pierced Him through.

All the nations of the earth will be pierced with grief when He appears.

Yes, may all this be done according to His plan. Amen.

Lord God: I am the Alpha and the Omega, [the very beginning and the very end,] the One who is, the One who was, and the One who is coming: the All Powerful.

I, John, your brother who shares with you this journey in persecution and the establishment of the Kingdom and endurance in Jesus, was on the island called Patmos because of the ministry of the word of God and my testimony about Jesus. I was in the Spirit on the Lord’s Day (the first day of the week), and I heard a voice behind me. It sounded like the blast of a trumpet.

A Voice: [I am the Alpha and the Omega, the very beginning and the very end.] Make a book of what you see, write it down, and send it to the seven churches [which are in Asia]: Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia, and Laodicea.

When I turned around to see what sort of voice this was that was addressing me, I saw seven golden lampstands. And among the lampstands, I saw One like the Son of Man right in front of me dressed in a long robe. Across His chest was draped a golden sash. His head and hair were pure white, white as wool and white as snow; His eyes blazed like a fiery flame; His feet gleamed like brightly polished bronze, purified to perfection in a furnace; His voice filled the air and sounded like a roaring waterfall. He held seven stars in His right hand, from His mouth darted a sharp double-edged sword, and His face shone a brilliant light, like the blinding sun.

When I saw Him, I fell at His feet. It was as though I were dead. But He reached down and placed His right hand on me.

The One: This is not the time for fear; I am the First and the Last, and I am the living One. I entered the realm of the dead; but see, I am alive now and for all the ages—even ages to come. [Amen.] I possess the keys to open the prison of death and hades.

Now write down all you have seen—all that is and all that will be. Regarding the mystery of the seven stars you saw in My right hand and of the seven golden lampstands: the seven stars are the heavenly messengers who preside over the seven churches, and the seven lampstands are the seven churches themselves.

The Book of Revelation, Chapter 1 (The Voice)

A note from The Voice translation:

The Son of Man is none other than the risen Jesus shining in glory, moving among the lampstands.

Today’s paired reading from the First Testament is the 2nd chapter of the book of Daniel:

In the second year of Nebuchadnezzar’s reign, the king had a dream that disturbed him so much that he was unable to fall asleep. So the king sent for his usual advisors—magicians, enchanters, sorcerers, and other Chaldean wise men—to come and help him understand the dream. They came and stood before the troubled king.

Nebuchadnezzar (to his advisors): I’ve had a dream that has disturbed me. I know I am not going to have any peace until I know what it means.

Wise Men (in Aramaic): Long live the king! We are your servants. Tell us your dream, and we will tell you what it means.

Nebuchadnezzar: My mind is made up; my decree is firm. If you do not tell me what I dreamed and what it means, you will be torn apart, limb from limb, and those houses of yours will be turned into piles of rubble. But if you do tell me what I dreamed and what it means, then you can expect to receive great honor, gifts, and other rewards as I see fit. So tell me the details of the dream and what it means.

Wise Men: Perhaps the king should first tell his servants what he dreamed; then we can tell him what it means.

Nebuchadnezzar: It’s obvious to me that you are just buying time, hoping to figure a way out of this, because you can plainly see I will do as I’ve said. If you do not tell me what I dreamed, then there can be only one fate for you: death as I have decreed. You have conspired to lie and deceive me until the situation turns around. But it won’t. I will not change my mind. So tell me, right now, what I dreamed. If you can do that, then I will have some assurance that you can tell me what it means.

Wise Men: No one on earth is able to do what the king demands. And never in history has a great and powerful king, such as yourself, asked this sort of thing of any magician, enchanter, or wise man. What the king requires is far too difficult for any human being. Only the gods can reveal it to the king, and they do not live among us mortals.

When the king heard their reply, he was absolutely outraged and ordered that all the so-called wise men of Babylon be put to death. So the decree was issued, and the king’s officials began to round up all the wise men in Babylon for execution; officers were sent to find and kill Daniel and his friends, too, for they were renowned for their wisdom. As Arioch, the chief of the royal guard, was searching for the wise men of Babylon to kill them, he came across Daniel. Daniel responded to the situation shrewdly and with discretion.

Daniel: What has happened? Why has the king issued such a harsh decree?

Arioch did his best to explain the situation to Daniel. So Daniel entered the palace and asked the king to give him a little more time so that he could come back and tell the king both what he dreamed and what it all meant.

After Daniel made his request, he returned home and told his friends—Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah—what was going on. He asked them to pray and plead for mercy so that the God of heaven might reveal this mystery. If Daniel and his friends could tell the king what he wanted to know, then they would not be put to death along with the other wise men of Babylon. Then, one night, the mystery was revealed to Daniel in a vision, and so Daniel offered this blessing to the God of heaven:

Daniel: Praise the name of God forever and ever,

for all wisdom and power belong to Him.

He sets in motion the times and the ages;

He deposes kings and installs others;

He gives wisdom to the wise

and grants knowledge to those with understanding.

He reveals deep truths and hidden secrets;

He knows what lies veiled in the darkness;

pure light radiates from within Him.

I recognize who You are, and I praise You, God of my ancestors,

for You have given me wisdom and strength.

And now You have graciously revealed to me what we asked of You,

for You have revealed to us the king’s dream and its meaning.

So Daniel went back to Arioch, the officer charged with rounding up and executing all the wise men in Babylon, and tried to stop him.

Daniel: Stop what you are doing. It is not necessary to execute the wise men of Babylon. Instead, take me to the king, and I will tell him what the dream means.

Arioch did not waste any time in bringing Daniel before the king.

Arioch (to Nebuchadnezzar): Mighty king, I have found a man from among the exiles from Judah who says he is able to tell the king what the dream means.

The king turned to Daniel, who you remember had been given the Babylonian name, Belteshazzar.

Nebuchadnezzar: So, Belteshazzar, are you able to tell me what I dreamed and what it all means?

Daniel: The Chaldeans were correct. There are no wise men, enchanters, magicians, or sorcerers in all the world who are able to reveal the mystery the king requested. But there is a God in heaven who can reveal such mysteries. The dream you dreamed and the visions you saw, King Nebuchadnezzar, unveil the future and disclose what will happen at the end of the age. Now I will tell you what you dreamed and the visions you saw as you slept in your bed.

Good king, as you lay in your bed that night, thoughts about the future sprang up in your mind, and the revealer of all mysteries unveiled to you what is going to happen. I am here today, not because I have greater wisdom than any other in the land, but because God in His wisdom has revealed this mystery to me. It is God’s plan that the king knows the meaning of this dream and understands the thoughts that raced through your mind.

Daniel: In your dream, you were looking, O king, and suddenly a great statue of what appeared to be a man stood before you. It was enormous in size, shining bright as the sun at midday. Its appearance was frightening. The head of the statue was fashioned of fine gold, its chest and arms of silver, its trunk and thighs of bronze, its calves of iron, and its feet partly of iron and partly of clay. As you were watching, a special stone was quarried and cut, but not by human hands. The divinely hewn stone began to move; it struck the statue on its iron and clay feet and smashed them to pieces. Suddenly the entire statue collapsed—its iron, clay, bronze, silver, and gold were all broken into pieces and turned to dust, like the chaff carried away by the wind from the threshing floors in summer. Soon not a trace of the statue was left. But the divinely hewn stone that struck the statue became a mountain that filled the whole earth. That, good king, was your dream.

If you allow, we will now tell you what it all means. You, O king, are the king of kings. The God of heaven has conferred upon you the kingdom you now rule, along with the power and strength and glory to subdue it. He has placed all people everywhere and all the beasts that roam the fields and all the birds that fly in the sky under your control. He has made you ruler over them all: you are the head of gold. After your reign is over, another kingdom will rise, but its glory will never match yours. This lesser kingdom is the chest and arms of silver. When that kingdom has come and gone, a third and even less majestic empire will rise, which will rule over the whole earth. This kingdom is the trunk and thighs of bronze. Then, when those days are past, a fourth kingdom will come to power with the strength of iron, though lacking in grandeur. Just as iron breaks and shatters everything, so this kingdom will break and shatter all these former realms. But as you saw in your vision, this kingdom will be divided, with feet and toes made of both clay and iron. The strength of iron runs through it, but as the toes are made partly of iron and partly of clay, the kingdom, too, will be partly strong and partly fragile. Your dream envisions that this kingdom of iron mixed with clay will be of peoples mixed but not united, the kingdoms joined in the bonds of marriage but not true allies, for iron and clay form no alloy.

In the days when these kings of iron and clay reign, the God of heaven will set up another kingdom, a kingdom that can never be destroyed, a kingdom that will never be ruled by others. It will crush all the other kingdoms and bring them to an end. This kingdom will last forever. It will be as you have seen in your dream, that a special stone quarried and cut from the mountain—but not by human hands—will crush the iron, the bronze, the clay, the silver, and the gold. The great God, the one True God of heaven, has revealed to the king what will happen in the future. You can be sure that the dream and its meaning are true.

When Daniel had finished, King Nebuchadnezzar did something remarkable. He fell on his face before Daniel, worshiped him, and ordered his officials to offer grain offerings and burn incense to him as they would to a god.

Nebuchadnezzar: I am now certain that your God is the God of all gods, the Lord of all kings, and the Revealer of mysteries, for unlike the other wise men in my service, you were able to reveal to me this mystery. You told me not only what I dreamed but what it all means.

The king bestowed high honors and many gifts on Daniel. He promoted him to new positions in his court and made him governor over the whole province of Babylon and head over all the wise men in his realm. Daniel approached the king and requested that he put his friends—Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego—in charge of affairs in the province of Babylon while Daniel remained in the royal court.

The Book of Daniel, Chapter 2 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Saturday, december 16 of 2023 with a paired chapter from each Testament (the First & the New) of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons that looks and dreams and interpretation:

Though Joseph was given great wisdom to interpret Pharaoh's dreams and to serve as Egypt's regent, his foresight did not prevent the famine from coming in the first place, and the testing that came was part of God's hidden plan. The role of the true prophet is to bear witness to God's truth and to shepherd God's people through the unfolding vision. Joseph could not control the outcome, though he worked within the context of revelation to bring about deliverance. In both the "fat times and the lean" we look to God for comfort and strength: We "show up" every day to ready ourselves for what is coming, even if we currently find ourselves in darkness. We refuse fear because we trust that the LORD our God is guiding our way...

The term hashgachah pratit (הַשְׁגָּחָה פְּרָטִית) refers to God's personal supervision of our lives (hashgachah means "supervision," and pratit means "individual" or "particular"). Since He is the Master of the Universe, God's supervision and providence reaches to the smallest of details of creation - from subatomic particles to the great motions of the cosmos. God not only calls each star by its own name (Psalm 147:4), but knows each particular wildflower and sparrow (Matt. 6:28-30, 10:29). Each person created in the likeness of God is therefore under the direct, personal supervision of God Himself -- whether that soul is conscious of that fact or not. As Yeshua said, even the hairs on your head are all numbered (Matt. 10:30). The God of Israel is also called אלהֵי הָרוּחת לְכָל־בָּשָׂר / Elohei ha-ruchot lekhol-basar: "The God of the spirits of all flesh" (Num. 16:22), and that means that he has providential purposes for every human being brought into this world (John 1:4).

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

========

Psalm 139:7 comments:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm139-7-jjp.mp3

Hebrew page:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm139-7-lesson.pdf

12.15.23 • Facebook

from yesterday’s email by Israel 365:

I had a friend who was scrupulous about keeping a diary. Everything that happened went into his journal. And in his spare time, he updated his calendar to commemorate significant events. Along with the birthdays of friends and family, there were about ten days set aside to commemorate the beginning of jobs and fifteen more days to commemorate visiting significant sites. Once he got married and had kids, practically every day was a special occasion.

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

December 16, 2023

O Praise the Lord

“O praise the LORD, all ye nations: praise him, all ye people. For his merciful kindness is great toward us: and the truth of the LORD endureth for ever. Praise ye the LORD.” (Psalm 117:1-2)

Psalm 117 is especially noteworthy for two reasons. First, it is the middle chapter of the Bible, and, secondly, it is the shortest chapter, with only two verses. Thus, it is significant and appropriate that its theme be that of universal and everlasting praise. The very purpose of human language is that God might communicate His word to us and that we might respond in praise to Him.

The word “nations” in verse 1 refers specifically to Gentiles, while “people” seems to refer to all tribes of people. Two different Hebrew words for praise are used so that the verse could be read “Praise the LORD, all ye Gentile nations; extol him, all ye peoples of every tribe.” In any case, the sense of the exhortation is to urge everyone to praise His name.

The Hebrew word translated “merciful kindness” is also rendered as “loving kindness,” or simply “mercy” or “kindness.” Whichever is preferred, the significant point is that it has been great toward us. This word (Hebrew gabar) is not the usual word for “great” but is a very strong word meaning to “triumph” or “prevail.” An example of its use is in the story of the great Flood. “And the waters prevailed exceedingly upon the earth” (Genesis 7:19). In fact, it is used four times in this account of the “overwhelmingly mighty” waters of the Flood (Genesis 7:18-20, 24).

God’s merciful kindness has prevailed over our sin and the judgment we deserve in a manner and degree analogous to the way in which the deluge waters prevailed over the ancient evil world. God’s mercy and truth are eternal, and this will be the great theme of our praise throughout all the ages to come. HMM

[spiritsoulandbody]

#DailyDevotion We Live In Hope

#DailyDevotion We Live In Hope Psalm 92 10But You have given me strength like that of a wild bull, and fresh oil is poured on me. 11My eyes see those who watch for me; my ears hear the evildoers attacking me. The Hebrew here probably should be expressed in future time as a number of other translations do it: Psa 92:10  But my horn shalt thou exalt like the horn of an unicorn: I shall be anointed with fresh oil. (KJV) I would tend to agree with those that do that. We, the oppressed Church, look forward to the day of the resurrection and judgment. On that day we are raised immortal, imperishable, incorruptible and glorious. (1 Cor. 15). Though certainly at times in this life we receive from the LORD the strength we need to face the day and all of its troubles. (Phi. 4:13) Often our strength and encouragement for today comes from the fact of what the LORD is going to do for us in the future. We can bear all things if we have a hope for the future, which we do. On the day of the LORD we shall see those who watched for us, who waited for us to fall and fail receive their due. They despised the love and the forgiveness of our LORD Jesus Christ and trusted in their own goodness to prevail in the afterlife. They will be terribly disappointed. They will no longer surprise us on that day. We shall see and hear all their plans against us and they will come to naught. The LORD is with us. 12The righteous flourish like palm trees and grow tall like cedars in Lebanon. 13They are planted in the LORD's house; they blossom like flowers in the courts of our God. 14Even when they're old, they still bear fruit, being green and full of sap, 15to show that the LORD is righteous. On the day of resurrection how glorious we will be. The apostle says we will be like our LORD Jesus Christ in His resurrected body. (1 John 3:2) Revelation1 gives quite an image of our LORD, “He wore a robe reaching down to His feet, with a gold belt around His chest. 14His head and hair were white like white wool, like snow. His eyes were like flames of fire. 15 His feet were like glowing bronze refined in a furnace, and His voice was like the sound of many waters. 16In His right hand He held seven stars, and out of His mouth came a sharp, double-edged sword, and His face was like the sun when it shines in all its brightness.” Well the Psalm gives us more of the image of majestic palm trees and the cedars of Lebanon (see sequoias in California as a reference). In the kingdom of God, the kingdom of our LORD Jesus Christ, we shall ever bear the good fruit of the Spirit. We are planted in the New Jerusalem. We are pillars and stones in the temple of God. We will never wear, tear, or have the effects of wearing out as we age. This is to show the LORD is righteous. We put our trust in Him. This will be our reward for believing in Him. Let us then remain faithful to Him all our days as we pass through this veil of tears and darkness. He's my Rock, and there's no iniquity in Him! There is the name He calls Himself in Deuteronomy, Zur, the Rock. Jesus is the Rock. He is the stone rejected by the builders which has become the cornerstone. He is the One whose word we are to believe and put into practice. No one who puts his trust in Him will be put to shame. Upon Jesus, the Rock, the Church is founded. He is your foundation. Paul in no uncertain terms identifies Jesus as the Rock of the Torah in 1 Cor. 10:4). In Him, there is no iniquity. So He could take our iniquity and trespasses upon Himself, make the atoning sacrifice for them, and give to us His righteousness so we may be His holy people. Heavenly Father, always put before our eyes Your promises that we may trudge through today in the hope they give us of the world to come where we live under Your Son, Jesus Christ, our LORD in all holiness and righteousness. In Jesus' name we pray. Amen. Read the full article

[nikethestatue]

The Heirs of Shadow

Prompt: here

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Language and Fluff

Part I

Calanmai

 The shadows danced along the obsidian walls of the chamber, jumping and fluttering across the marble floor and the intertwining carved beasts that scaled the width of the room, waving across the walls and the ceiling.

Behind the doors, Elain could feel the pulsating throb of the revelry that was taking place in the opulent halls and loggias of Hewn City. Fire Night. Calanmai. Beyond the onyx-black bowels of the city, up, up, up somewhere in Night Court, the night skies were streaking with falling stars. Starfall.

Starfall was somewhere else though—they had glimpsed it, taken in its beauty, but now, Calanmai was in full swing.

Azriel’s powerful, muscular body strained over hers, his arm gripping her hip so hard, she was sure that it would leave bruises. Not that Elain cared—she loved the marking of his love on her flesh. She loved the lilac bruises that he left on her neck with his lips and teeth, and the outline of his hands on her thighs, her waist, her…everywhere. For a man who was known for his self-control, and who embodied cold, calculated sophistication and cruelty to all those who did not know him well, Azriel, the Spymaster of the Night Court, loved Elain Archeron with an uncharacteristic degree of unrestrained passion and blind, all-encompassing adoration. He was not above kissing her with uninhibited ambition in public, or slipping his scarred hand into her jacket and cupping a handful of her soft breast or pinching her behind when fancy struck him. It struck him frequently. His love was reciprocated, at last, and there was no limit to his indulging of his gorgeous female. His betrothed and his Lady. The glittering band of her betrothal bracelet was testament not only to their mutual love, but also his wealth and the degree to which he was willing to spoil her. In fact, he had picked out every diamond, every amethyst, every pearl that comprised the intricate flower design of the bracelet himself. Gone were the days when he had to hide his love and desire for her, when the only acceptable gift was a dainty necklace of stained glass. In fact, he designed a very similar necklace for her yet again, only instead of glass, it was rubies and pearls and pink diamonds.

The glint of the necklace in fact, bounced against her creamy skin, the pendant sliding between her swaying breasts. He kissed her, slow and hot, watching her body arch beneath him. The kiss was slow, but not gentle, their mouths fusing together in desperation, as if they’ve been apart for too long, that the previous 500 years were unbearable for him and he needed to fill his lungs with her, with her breath, her very soul, as he sucked and sucked on her lips.

Elain’s nails sunk into his broad, thickly muscled shoulders, and Azriel dipped his head, groaning into her throat, dragging his tongue from her hot, pulsating vein back to her lips, sliding back into her mouth. She kissed him back, sloppy and heated, her lips swollen and ruby-red, before pressing the heel of her palm into his chest and pushing at him.

“I want to look at you,” she moaned, her eyelids heavy with want.

He pulled up and did as he was told, settling on his knees and allowing her to trace the skin of his cobbled abdomen with her fingertips. He was running hot and volatile, his dark brown skin gleaming like dirty bronze beneath the faelights, his wings spayed and open behind him, casting shadows on his sculpted, inked shoulders. His soft, inky-black hair fell across his forehead, sticking slightly to his damp skin, and she smiled at him and rubbed her thumb between his eyebrows.

His thick cock glided in and out of her tight glorious heat and he pushed inside of her with an obscene, wet sound, feeling the smooth thrust of his shaft in her.

“My good girl,” he murmured, extracting loud, explicit moans from her parted lips, while his thumb settled on her pulsating, engorged clit, rubbing firmly, with precise, firm pressure. Elain’s head rolled back, her honey-golden hair fanning out over the dark-gray satin of the pillows. She felt overflowing, torturously stuffed with him, which was the most glorious, gorgeous fullness that she could ever imagine.

“Open up for me, beautiful,” he ground out, “so I can ride you like you need,”

Elain obliged compliantly, wordlessly splitting even further for him, as Azriel gripped her thigh and pulled her deeper onto his shaft, while hoisting her leg onto his shoulder.

“Look at us, my love,” he urged, thrusting harder into her, his gaze gluttonous with pleasure and utter satisfaction. Elain could barely lift herself up on her elbows, but she looked between their bodies, watching her splayed pink folds, his member disappearing in and out of her, glistening with their arousal. His long brazen finger thrust alongside his shaft, the fit impossibly tight, but so wonderfully pleasurable.

She squeezed her breasts in her palms, absently fingering her nipples, watching the explicit show between her legs, while Azriel smiled at her and kissed her foot that rested on his shoulder. She bit her lower lip, enjoying the indecent scrutiny with which his eyes skimmed over her body, as both of them watched the workings of his cock inside of her.

“Do you want to taste, my sweet?” he offered, his midnight voice smooth and sensual, encouraging even more debauched behavior from her, and she nodded eagerly.

Licking her lips impatiently, she murmured, ‘yes’ and he rewarded her with a smile, while slowly pulling out of her stretched passage.

“Az, my love,” she moaned, emptied of him, instantly missing the presence of his thick, long member in her, her hole twitching at the loss. But he pulled her up gently by her back of her neck and instantly fed the shaft in her mouth, thrusting deep and far into her throat. She choked softly around him, but swallowed compliantly, sucking his length down into her mouth.

“That’s my girl,” he approved, holding the back of her head and pumping between her lips, watching her watch him. Her eyes, the color of milk chocolate, blinked rapidly, as she struggled against the girth of the member, but sucked on his bravely and eagerly. He enjoyed the sucking, noisy and wet, her tongue working on him constantly, licking their intermingling juices, but then he patted the corner of the bed, and Elain knew what he desired. She scooted over, and lay back on the cool sheets, never releasing the cock from her mouth, holding it tightly in her hand, as she lapped on the broad head of it, playfully dipping the tip of her tongue into the tiny slit.

They’ve been at it for hours now. Calanmai. Fucking, eating, drinking, fucking, fucking. That’s what people did on Calanmai. Elain figured that perhaps, this would be her new favorite holiday. Always to be celebrated here, in Hewn City, her new home.

The Lord and Lady of Hewn City, feared and venerated—that’s what they were. Who would have thought that Elain would love Hewn City, its obsidian beauty, its marble and granite lined ‘streets’, its unbridled opulence, its soaring columns, its ceilings lit up with faelights that were ensconced in chandeliers that were dripping crystals and silver.

They had begun today’s festivities by following its ancient custom of the Great Rite. As the Lady and Lord of the Underworld, they did not need to ‘choose’ each other, for they were already chosen—chosen the moment the Darkbringers acknowledged Azriel as their Commander General, and Rhysand how no other choice but to pass the crown of Stewardship to his shadowsinger. With Keir dead, all assumed that the magic and the power of the Hewn City and the Darkbringers would pass on to Mor, or one of the sons, yet, it skipped the family entirely. The magic of Hewn City left the bloodline of the High Lord, moving over to Azriel’s line. And just like that, Azriel became Prince of Velaris, the Lord of Hewn City, and Elain, his chosen Lady.

Today was the first year they presided over Fire Night, and while Azriel worried about Elain, she reminded him that she was the Lady of Hewn City and therefore, would participate in all rites and rituals, just like Feyre participated in them as the High Lady of the Night Court.

The entire population of Hewn City, tens of thousands of them vibrated and pulsed in anticipation, gathered in the Great Hall, hundreds spilling outside, thousands crowding the balconies and terraces above.

For Elain, it was the initial walk that was the most nerve wrecking. Naked, she was expected to enter the hall and await Azriel’s arrival. But she squared her shoulders, and draped in nothing but jasmine and moonflowers that cascaded down her unbound hair she made her walk, regal and unhurried, as any queen. When he’d arrived, the new Lord and master of the place, the place shook with a different kind of energy.

And then, they joined together on their throne, in front of their subjects, and Azriel rode her long and hard, until she barely remembered that she was being watched by thousands of eyes. She was eager and willing, taking him in any position that he desired, until he filled her with seed and spilled the rest of it upon the stones of his domain, signifying the start of Calanmai.

The insemination was met with wild cheering and Elain felt nothing but prideful satisfaction after the ritual was concluded and his seed dripped down her thighs, for all to see. She was their Lady, the benevolent one, the kind and just one, while Azriel still inspired fear and trepidation in most. The seed that filled her and poured out of her as she walked through the throngs of people, all of whom looked at her with admiration and excitement, was a sign of good things to come. After centuries, perhaps millennia of stagnation, Hewn City would rise again to its former glory. Lady Elain would be the catalyst for it.

Azriel settled atop of her, her head thrown over the edge of the bed, and rubbed the head of the member over her lips, tugging on it slowly, his eyes wide with the anticipation of pleasure.

“I love Calanmai,” she vowed with a joyful sight, and he laughed.

“Indeed?”

She nodded, licking the tip of the member. “You aren’t tired?” he asked, for they’ve been entangled for a while now. She shook her head no. “Tired? Until you, my lord, render me unable to walk tomorrow, then I might consider myself tired!”

“Is this what you want, my girl?” he asked, his voice gravelly and breathy with lust. Beads of liquid dribbled onto her tongue from his straining member. She whined with anticipation, nodding impatiently, while he guided the shaft into her mouth, her position allowing him to slide deeper and deeper and deeper.

There was nothing that Azriel didn’t love about Elain. Nothing. There was no word ‘no’ in his vocabulary when it came to her. She was his strength, his rock, the one person in this world who offered him complete understanding and acceptance, who supported him gently and lovingly through every peril and cataclysmic change that had taken place in their lives.

Sexually, Elain was brave and tolerant, experimental and curious. Every part of her was enticing and sensual, but nothing excited him more than her willingness and ability to take him in her throat, usually, without him even asking for it. Elain surprised him daily, but her voracious sexual appetite was a marvelous, unexpected gift for him. Because it matched his own perfectly.

He gently cupped her hollowed cheek and rubbed his thumb over the warm, flushed skin of her face, murmuring, “you feel so good, my love. So wet and ready for me.”

Elain hummed against his member and gasping and panting, and the vibrations of her mouth against the head of the member had him moaning, his head thrown back. She stroked his muscled stomach, running her palm over the hard, defined ridges, while he began thrusting between her lips, the tip striking the back of her throat with each push.  He gingerly cupped her head, her soft, messy locks a tangle in his fingers, and kept it steady, while she allowed him to use her mouth the way he liked it.

Azriel was not a talkative man, and because he was quiet and reserved and cerebral, most assumed that he was a tender lover. He was not.

So when he plunged into her mouth, it was not gentle, though he was always considerate and acutely aware of all her emotions and reactions. Spymaster, after all.

“My good girl,” he began a litany of praise, “you feel so good. My sweet, beautiful Lainey—are you enjoying yourself, my love?” he looked over his shoulder for a moment and a smirk played on his lips. She was clenching her thighs in desperation, gurgling and panting softly around his member, and he pumped harder, clasping her jaw and muttering, “is sucking my cock making you even wetter?”

She attempted to nod, but it was virtually impossible, though he didn’t need confirmation seeing her rosy folds bathed in her arousal. Taking pity on her, he slipped three fingers in her, and they slid in easily and fully, the walls of her sex clutching at them strongly.

“Where do you want me, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand working inside of her with quick, deep thrusts, while he used her mouth brutally, watching tears spill down her cheeks from the pressure. She did not respond in any meaningful way, indicating that it was up to him to find his pleasure within her, wherever he wanted. He smiled and caressed her sweaty, flushed face, while she chocked lightly against him, stroking his balls with her usual tenderness. He moaned, especially when he glanced lower and gritted through his teeth, “Love, I can see my cock in your throat,” he gasped, his eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness, cloaked in oily lust. Every time he pushed, the member bulged and imprinted in her throat, and he couldn’t help himself and gently lay his scarred hand on the spot, feeling the vibrations of his dick against his palm. He almost came right then and there, himself panting and gasping for air, and even if this certainly wasn’t the first time he saw his cock protrude in her throat, it never failed to cause some instinctual male reaction in him. His wings flared and snapped open, uncontrollable, guided by nothing but base instinct to show his female who was inside of her. By the Cauldron, if he could stay like this forever, he would.

Alas, he could hold back no longer and with a few well-placed thrusts, he felt Elain’s throat contract on him and that was his undoing. His release swept like a tidal wave over him and came in her mouth, making her groan with feral pleasure as he spilled and spilled into her. He was thinking that maybe Calanmai was his favourite holiday as well.

He collapsed alongside her, his wings a mess beneath him, but he didn’t even care. His breath was ragged and heavy, but she lovingly fed her nipple between his teeth and he sucked, tucking her beside him, murmuring an endless string of ‘I love you’ and ‘thank you’ into the soft, wonderfully comforting globe. She held his head against her breast, moaning sweetly, delighted at his steady sucking, wiggling against him to get more.  

Once they’ve calmed down a lit, she kissed his neck, while twisting her wrist before her eyes, watching the sparkling and gleaming bracelet explode with a thousand tiny lights in the shadows of faelights and the fire in the marble fireplace.

“Do you really love it?” he murmured, kissing her hand.

“Being yours…your bride and your Lady is all that I want,” she admitted, “but,” she smiled, “yes, my love, I love it. Isn’t it stunning?!”

He nodded, “I think I did well.”

“I can’t believe that you designed it yourself!” she kissed his chin, then his lips. “What other incredible talents do you possess that I am not aware of?”

He turned onto his back, rearranging his wings in some semblance of acceptable order and tugged her next to him. Running his finger over the bracelet, he said, “well, let’s see—I sing.”

“Uh-uh,” she pouted. “But never in front of me!”

“One day, my sweet, one day,” he teased.

“What else?”

“I enjoy building things…carving wood. I think that deep down, I am just a humble carpenter.”

Her brow furrowed, “have I seen any of your work? Or are you being stupidly humble as usual and refusing to show it to anyone?”

He laughed, amused by her indignation.

“No, I don’t believe that I am stupidly humble when it comes to my work. You might have seen it. Most of it is at Rosehall,”

“Oh, speaking of which—I promised your mother that I would visit!” Elain snapped her fingers, frowning at having forgotten.

He kissed her brow and said, “I am sure she’ll understand. Her daughter-in-law is a Lady of Hewn City,”

Elain smiled at the title.

“Even though,” she insisted, “I love her and I want to visit her. She said that she and the girls had made spice blends and mulled wine over the winter break and she wanted us to have it. And she also promised gifts for Calanmai,”

“You are my gift for Calanmai,” he whispered tenderly and kissed her. “My gift for every day. My gift for life.”

Elain cupped his cheek and kissed him back, running her tongue over his lower lip. She smelled and tasted of him, and he shuddered from the sensation, from the realization of how thoroughly his she was. His gift indeed.

Remarkably, it also made him hard.

Elain smiled and ran her finger down his chest, then his stomach.

“I am sorry, Lainey, I know you are tired,” he scrambled quickly, embarrassed by his response to her. Even by Fae standards, he was no spring chicken—not a green youth to be hardening at every kiss of these sweet, soft lips. Yes, he was a male in his prime, but,

“Once more?” she requested softly, batting her lashes at him and he grinned.

“Whatever my lady wishes,” he nodded with a courteous flair. The he kissed her and whispered into her lips, “tell me what you’d like, sweetheart?”

She chewed her lower lip, contemplating, the action making him ever harder. She found that very hardness at the ready for her, and wrapped her hand around him, rubbing him tightly, as she settled in the crook of his arm and he kissed her again.

“In my bottom, please,” she requested shyly.

Her secret, intimate pleasure that only Azriel was aware of. It thrilled him to know that she found pleasure with him, in him, in many different ways—from the simplest and most mundane, to the very intimate and personal, and only he could provide it for her.

“If that’s alright with you?” she added and he laughed, bringing her closer to his chest.

“I don’t think that I need to be pressured, sweetheart,”

She smiled and he parted her thighs, settling just behind her, muttering in her ear, “will you be a good girl for me? My good girl?”

She nodded, breath hitching in her chest, her breasts rising and falling in anticipation and she flicked her plump nipple with his fingers before biting it softly. She squirmed and her legs fell apart of their own volition, while he pressed his thumb into her clit and ground into it, watching her eyes roll back in pleasure, while he lined his member with her little opening. It was well-stretched from their previous bout, as he’d taken her everywhere in front of their Court, and then again, when they returned here, to their private quarters.

He pushed into her, easing slowly and carefully, and her back arched in his arms, as she pressed her face into his neck, moaning loudly. There was always a bit of pain, especially in the beginning, at the initial breach, and the sharp bite that he received on his clavicle was an indication of just that. She gripped the immense muscles of his shoulder, grunting and moaning into his neck, squeezing his arm so hard, it was sure to leave bruises. He was inside of her, his cock enveloped in such mind-boggling tightness that he ceased all movement, just to avoid coming at once.

He clasped her jaw and made her look at him. Her eyelids were heavy and a love-addled, blissful look settled on her face, while he lightly kissed her parted lips.

“Does that feel nice, my girl?” he asked, finally sliding a bit deeper, each shallow, easy thrust opening her up a little more.

“Az, Az,” she groaned breathlessly, “I can’t…it’s so…ohh,” she swallowed his thumb, still wet with her slick, needing to suck on something while he plunged forward, rocking his hips into her.

“Elain,” he hissed low and winced at the sweet, torturous friction that the walls of her bottom offered to his invading shaft. He pressed her to him, slowly bringing his hips against hers, and finally settling fully inside, while she went still and pliable in his arms.

The ache inside of Elain was particularly wonderful right now, even if she felt like she was being split inside—it always happened for a few moments—while her body spread to accommodate him.

“I fucking love you,” he moaned into her mouth, pulling his thumb out so he could ravish her with his tongue, while he returned back to her clit and stroked steadily.

He did not set an unreasonable pace, but rather moved languidly and deeply inside of her, kissing her to his heart’s desire. She nestled into his arms, stroking and kissing him lovingly, mewing and panting against his thorough, merciless thrusts.

“You feel sublime,” she confessed, watching him squeeze her breast, toying and tugging on the nipple.

“Did I tell you that I love you?” he asked, placing light, tender kisses all over her face. She laughed. “About a minute ago.”

“Good. Because I love you.”

“I love you too, Az,” she wrapped her arm around his neck, and then shuddered in his embrace, stuttering into his shoulder, “yes, yes, yes…like that…”

“You like that, my beauty?” he pumped harder now, knowing that the discomfort and pain were gone and she stretched wonderfully around him, taking him to the balls.

“Yes, yes,” she nodded, eyes shut, pleasure settling and growing somewhere inside of her. She milked and squeezed his cock frantically, urging him to move and give her more, and he did, pounding deeper into that marvelous tightness, against the lush silkiness of her quivering, trembling behind.

“Azriel,” she almost screamed, and then turned and swiftly straddled him, impaling herself with unstoppable determination, her wet, gleaming sex played widely in front of him, her other opening swollen and bursting around him.

Her plump tits bounced as she rode him, unconcerned about anything at this moment, her hair hanging limply over her body, her nails dug into his chest, her hips undulating on his cock.

“Baby, come for me,” he urged her, mesmerized by the wantonness of her creamy, pale body atop of him, the rhythmic bounce of her beautiful ass on his thighs, her determination to take what she needed from him.

With a roar that awoke the beasts, she shuddered and trembled over him, her rectum twitching and squeezing him so hard that he was unable to even work her through her climax, as he arched beneath her and his ecstasy was complete, as he spurted hot and thick inside of her. She went limp and he caught her in his arms, gently squeezing her against his chest and then waiting until the waves subsided for both of them, before kissing her hungrily.

He lay her down and then carefully withdrew, dragging his seed out of her with one long pull.

“Happy Calanmai,” she giggled and kissed him.

“Happy Calanmai, my love,” he stroked her damp hair.

He took her to the bathing chamber then, and they cleaned each other up quickly, for even the stoic Azriel was tired and all he wanted was to snuggle with his love and sleep. With her, he slept. She was his miracle.

By the time they returned to the bedroom, the bed was remade, the sheets changed and the subtle scent of jasmine perfumed the air. The wraiths who served at their court were nothing but efficient.

Elain’s beasts, two creatures who sat in stone for millennia, while Hewn City awaited its true master, and slumbered in its decadence, under the rule of the Night Court’s High Lords, awoke when the magic and power descended upon Azriel.

The creatures, and there were many of them here, awoke. But two, the ones who guarded the entrance to the City, were touched by Elain’s hand and released first. She freed them all, though some she put back to slumber, to be awoken when needed, though unlike before, they fed regularly, as opposed to once a decade.

But the two—Asterin and Sorrel—were Elain’s perpetual companions. The great fanged beasts, with powerful slithering bodies clad in impenetrable scales and with massive claws, not to mention keen intelligence and perfect understanding of language had made even Azriel a bit uneasy at first. Asterin was more physically powerful, but also playful, if volatile and temperamental, while Sorrel was calmer, if more brutal, and extremely overprotective of Elain.

Hewn City, especially during the transition of power, was not the friendliest of places, its new Lord well-known, disliked, feared and resented by a swath of its population. Even Elain, with her kindness and good-natured character, was not immediately successful in turning the tide of public opinion. Therefore, Azriel was more than concerned about leaving her here, if he had business elsewhere, but with Asterin and Sorrel, even his worries were put to rest.

The beasts were not exactly wyverns, or dragons, but creatures of their own. Like Rhys, they were able to summon their wings at will, which was perhaps something specific to Rhys’s bloodline, or somehow connected to Hewn City, but whatever the reason was, it was very, very useful. Elain had noted that having not one, but three winged creatures in the bedroom would be…excessive. Hence, when she and Azriel went to their palace atop the Court of Nightmares’ mountain, the beasts were free to fly and frolic about as much as they wanted. They also offered winged transportation to Elain.

At last, all three sisters were able to fly. Feyre simply summoned wings just like she always did. Nesta received her white mare pegasus, which she named Marena, from Helion (who still held out hope that she and Cassian would join him in some erotic escapade), as a mating gift. And lastly, Elain flew on her fanged beasts. Their three males could barely keep up.

Luckily, the beasts also went into hibernation when ordered, becoming stone-like, just like the sculptures that they once were. Because they insisted on sharing the quarters here, it was rather imperative that there was some privacy—because Azriel did not need to suddenly glance at a pair of slanted green eyes while licking Elain’s pussy.

Azriel deposited Elain on the bed and she wrapped her arms around him, giving him a hearty hug.

The shadows had returned—they left when they sensed that their master was about to engage in something private with the mistress—while Asterin and Sorrel coiled around the bed.

Even though their private apartment was located far inside the Hewn City Night Palace, they could still hear the partying occupants of the underworld Court. Azriel rolled his eyes and Elain laughed in return. He threw a shield over the bedroom, blocking the noise.

“Who knew that you’d fit right in, with Calanmai becoming your favourite holiday?” he muttered, squeezing her behind.

“I suppose the Cauldron doesn’t only make stupid mistakes,” she shrugged. “And once in a while gets something right.’

 Part II

The Heirs of Shadow

 Spring was in full bloom across the Night Court territory, slowly but surely crossing into summer.

The wind in Elain’s hair was sweet and scented with roses and pine. Asterin was like an enormous scaly snake-like puppy, swooshing through the air, making all sorts of unnecessary maneuvers beneath Elain’s saddle. “Hey! I will be going on Sorrel when we return,” she warned her beast and Asterin gave her a petulant snarl, but slowed down. The flight made Elain queasy and she was glad to see the cypress and pine-covered hills, and beyond them, a flower-covered meadow and a glittering, turquoise lake.

The stucco-covered villa stretched along the banks of the lake, one wall covered in ivy, and the other, in pink and white roses. As Asterin and Sorrel approached the villa, two children rushed out of the wrought iron gates, waving their arms in the air, jumping and yelling. Elain smiled at them, waving back.

“Elain, Elain,” the children rushed towards her the moment Asterin touched down, “we missed you so much! You came! Can we play with the wyverns? Can we go flying?”

Elain dismounted and squatted in the grass, opening her arms and then getting tackled onto her back, once the two children slid into her arms, hands and legs flailing about, smiles and at least one mouth with missing teeth grinning at her. She kissed soft cheeks and thick black hair, so alike to that of their oldest brother—Azriel.

“You two are such hooligans!” she laughed, finally managing to sit up, but they wouldn’t let get up, so they remained in the grass.

“Where is Az?” asked Nataliya, playing with Elain’s braid and closely inspecting her emerald earrings. “These are pretty! Do you have presents for me?”

“Nat, it’s rude to ask that!” at nine years of age, her brother Riad was the voice of reason and propriety. More than any other child, he reminded Elain of Azriel—a uniquely handsome boy, with a contemplative and scholarly attitude and yet remarkably swift, agile and fast. She’d watched him climb the old oak tree that grew on the property in under a minute. Sometimes, he and Azriel would go for a run, and the boy would keep up the entire time, without complaint, steadfast and determined, just like his brother.

“Why it’s rude if I want a present?” demanded Nataliya, shrugging. Elain kissed her head and said, “Lucky for you, I do have presents for everyone!”

The girl squealed, her round face breaking into a happy smile. “That’s good. I want them! You wanna see our baby?”

“Of course,” Elain nodded and then gave each one of them a hand and they tugged her upwards.

“Come on, Elain! You can do it,” Nat encouraged her, grunting.

“Is Az gonna come?” asked Riad quietly, once Elain was up, and they walked towards the villa, holding hands.

“Not right now, my loves. He is very busy,”

“He is High Lord!” exclaimed Nat, squeezing her chubby hands in delight. “He is busy, Riad!” she added confidently, “so he can’t come visit.”

“Maybe you can come and visit us in Velaris?” proposed Elain.

“Be careful what you ask for, darling!” a laughing voice interrupted their conversation.

Azriel’s stunningly beautiful mother was smiling at them, standing by the gate. Her lustrous black hair cascaded in rich, ebony waves around her, and the bright green eyes were in fine contrast to her dark golden skin. Her eldest son inherited her sensuous full mouth and every time Elain laid eyes on the woman, she could see Azriel’s visage in her face.

“We’d love to have you all,” insisted Elain, throwing her arms around her mother-in-law.

“Ma, we gonna go play with the wyverns!” announced Riad.

“Yes, with wyverns!” Nat nodded immediately. She was not yet five, and basically repeated everything that Riad did and said. “Which one is good?”

Elain chuckled, “they are both good. Asterin, the green one, likes to swim, so maybe you can go to the lake with her. And Sorrel, the gray one, she may even fly you about, if your mother permits,”

“Ma!”

“Ma!”

Rosamunde winced a bit, but Elain murmured, “they’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Alright, but,”

Before she could even finish her sentence the two ran off towards the beasts.

“Ellie, you look wonderful,” Rosamunde locked arms with Elain and they slowly made their way inside Rosehall. A riot of flower beds greeted them and Elain sighed with delight. Who would have thought that she and her mother-in-law possessed the same interest and passion? Though Elain felt that Rosamunde’s gardens put hers to shame.

“Thank you,” she smiled, looking around.

The villa was a tranquil and stunning place, nestled in a valley, surrounded by low mountains and crystal-clear waterfalls. Azriel had purchased the estate long ago, while he was in love with Mor and had hoped that they would have a blissful future together. While he knew that they would always be tied to Velaris and Hewn City, he had imagined that Rosehall would be their escape, their private place to enjoy.

It was stunningly picturesque, with a mild tempered climate year-round, and a town a few leagues away, which supplied the estate with everything that it needed. However, things did not go as planned and instead, Azriel gifted the house and the lands around it to his mother, for her wedding to her life-long and long-suffering lover, partner, friend and the male who had waited for her for a century, and ultimately helped to rescue her from the clutches of Azriel’s father. The male was now an elected mayor of the town—a long way to come for a humble hunter who had once fallen in love with an Illyrian laundress and loved her for all the days of his life.

“So do you!” exclaimed Elain, breathing in the fragrant air and smiling widely. She loved Rosehall. It was a serene and gorgeous place, full of delightful smells and exquisitely stunning scenery.

“Come, come,” Rosamunde pulled her by the hand and they entered the house. It was cool and dim, but once they made their way down the terracotta-tiled hallway and stepped into the opulently enormous kitchen, light flooded the place. This kitchen was Elain’s inspiration for her own home—grand and open on three sides to take advantage of the glorious views outside, it was also homey and cozy, a place to accommodate a bustling, busy family. All the doors were open and a pleasant breeze wafted in and out, bringing in the scent of flowers and mingling with the smell of freshly baked tarts.

“Sit, sit,” Rosamunde offered and immediately sat a tall glass of lemonade before Elain.

“How’s my Azzie?” the mother asked, joining her at the long butcher block that stretched in the middle of the kitchen. A mother’s privilege, to call the famed shadowsinger, the feared spymaster, and now Lord—Azzie. Even Elain didn’t dare, though she teased him with it at times, causing many dramatic eyerolls in response.

“He is good,” Elain smiled a happy, satisfied smile which did not escape Rosamunde’s notice. Her charming daughter-in-law looked blissful and for some reason, it made Rosamunde’s heart ache with joy and pride. “Works too much,” Elain continued, sipping her lemonade, and helping herself to a peach cake which Rosamunde supplied promptly. Like all mothers, Rosamunde was convinced that both Azriel and Elain were too thin and did not eat enough. Hence, each time they visited, they returned laden with bushels of food, treats, jars of preserves and gods only knew what else. Now that there were two wyverns to carry the care packages, Elain couldn’t imagine how much she’d be given. Not that she minded.

Azriel had introduced Elain to his mother just after the betrothal and they had come here and spent a few days getting to know each other. Rosamunde had four children then, besides Azriel—Enid, who was over three hundred years old, and who was married to an Illyrian General (not an asshole, as Azriel explained), and then, hundreds of years later, she birthed four children almost in a row—unheard of in Fae society—Rafael, Riad, Nataliya and finally Ellena, with whom she was pregnant when she and Elain met.

Ellena now sat up groggily in a little play crib that stood in the corner and looked around, having just awoken from her nap. Seeing Elain, she immediately stood up and extended her arms to her.

Family. Elain had loved her father, but…family…

There used to be a family, but it was never quite normal, cohesive. Her mother only doted on Nesta, their father was frequently absent, Feyre was a solitary, quiet, dreamy child and Nesta was a formidable creature of her own. Elain learned how to navigate the dynamics early on, floating quietly between all of them, playing the peacemaker, being the good daughter. And while her sisters, and her nephew were her blood family, this—this was her new family, the one she loved. Her Azriel and all her new little nieces and nephews, and her mother-in-law, who was both a mother and a friend, and her father-in-law—an enormous, gregarious male who reminded her of Cassian, but who was even larger than the Illyrian General. When she came here, she felt in place, happy and cared for.

Rosamunde watched from the corner of her eye how Elain and Ellena hugged and cooed at each other, giggling and whispering, and she already knew that Elain wouldn’t let the baby go until it was time to leave. The three of them, well two, since Ellena mostly stuck her hands into things and smooshed food around, prepared lunch and then went outside, slowly walking down the path that led to the lake. Riad and Nat were using Sorrel as a slide, climbing on top of her and then sliding down her scaled back into the water, shrieking and screaming with joy and excitement, while Asterin lounged next to them, sunning her hide, watching them with lazy amusement.

“You smell like Az,” Rosamunde murmured suddenly, as they took off their dresses and waded into the water, because Ellena was throwing a fit and wanted to slide off Sorrel as well. Elain only allowed her a little jump off the wyvern’s tail, but Ellena loved it and screamed with delight, falling all over the place, while to two of them tried to catch her.

Elain, her shift irreversibly soaked, glanced at the female, as she helped Ellena climb up Sorrel’s tail. It was an unusual comment for Rosamunde to make. They were very close, and even though Rosamunde was over 700 years old, she looked like a woman in her early 30s, which made it easy for them to become friends, because on the surface they looked like they were almost the same age. And Azriel was born so, so long ago that Elain hardly ever thought of them as a mother and son. However, some conversations were off limits, and they certainly never discussed her and Azriel’s intimate relationship, even when they talked about males and their ways around the bedroom, giggling and joking over a few glasses of wine.

“Well, I,” Elain began saying, feeling a blush spreading over her chest and neck. “We…”

Yes, of course they’d made love in the morning, before she came here. They made love every morning. Every evening.

Rosamunde waved her hand at her, laughing, “Oh Cauldron! Please spare me the details!”

“Oh,”

“All I am saying is that your scents—they’ve amalgamated. I,” she sniffed delicately, “recognize him within you…Not just on your skin,”

“Really?”

Something passed across the female’s face, a small smile of recognition. Then she nodded, her face remaining unreadable, much like her son’s.

She nodded, “Yes. The cedar and the jasmine. A lovely scent indeed.”

“You smell good Elain?” Nat barreled into Elain’s arms, wrapping her arms around her neck.

Elain kissed her wet hair and said, “I guess I do. Are you ready to go and eat lunch?”

“No! I want to do this more!”

“Why don’t we come back after lunch and you can play more?” Elain proposed, somehow managing to convince the unruly bunch to actually get back into the house. While they walked, Nataliya declared, “I wanna be High Lady!”

Elain chuckled, “Yes? Why? What will you do as High Lady?”

Nat thought for a second and then said, “Gonna wear pretty dresses,”

“You already wear pretty dresses,” countered Elain.

“More pretty,” insisted the girl. “And eat cake!”

“So as a High Lady you’ll be wearing pretty dresses and eating cake?”

Nodding, the budding High Lady hooked her little finger over Elain’s bracelet and added, “Will wear this too! And crowns.”

“Well, well,” Elain laughed, “all good things.”

Nat seemed pleased by the prospect of her High Ladyship and skipped ahead, dreaming of crowns and cake.

“You know,” Rosamunde’s voice was thoughtful and quiet, “she may sound silly,”

“I think she is adorable,”

“She is, but even if she is only dreaming of nice dresses and cakes now, I am glad that she is able to dream like this at all. It wasn’t available to us—females—before. There were no High Ladies—not for a very, very long time. So much so, we’d forgotten that we could be one. It’s ironic that it took a human woman to bring the practice back to the Fae world. Now it’s you, and Lady Feyre, and Lady Viviane…I never thought I’d see this.”

“But your son is also a Lord,” reminded her Elain, gently pressing her lips to Ellena’s damp curls. “Was it a surprise?”

They’d never discussed the power transfer—not at any length. It was all very sudden and there hasn’t been time or perhaps even desire to talk about it.

“No,” Rosamunde shook her head, “not exactly a surprise. We hail from an ancient race of Fae—from a Court that no longer in existence,”

“Dusk?”

“Yes. They say that when Dusk was destroyed a few hundred families managed to survive and escape. They were the original inhabitants and builders of Hewn City. Over the centuries, bloodlines thinned, some mixed with other Fae, some with Illyrians…My bloodline is pure,”

Elain shot her a surprised look. Azriel had never mentioned this before.

“Azriel is a true and direct descendant of the Dusk Court nobility—through me—and perhaps even their High Lords…So, no, I was not particularly surprised. That’s why Keir and that family were always ‘stewards’, and not Lords.”

She sighed and looked ahead, as they approached the villa.

“My son,” she said softly, “has had a difficult life. An unhappy life. A life of incredible violence and heartache. A life without childhood, or love, or anything positive or any light…That he is a shadowsinger is not a good thing, you know…It’s a curse, not a blessing. But,” and she glanced at Elain, her sad, soft face, “now he has you. Gods, Elain, you have no idea how happy you make him.”

Elain blushed, a tear-touched smile on her face. “I,”

“Elain, love, you will never know,” Rosamunde wrapped her arm around Elain’s shoulder. “He isn’t a man of many words, but believe me when I say this—I would have been heartbroken if he was granted this burden of power without you at his side. It would just be another weight added onto his shoulders, and I wouldn’t want that for my son. But you came along, and everything fell into place…You and him, and how the Power chose both of you,”

“We aren’t mates,” Elain reminded her quietly, knowing how much importance the Fae placed on the bond.

“And? Perhaps you are even more than that?” Rosamunde shrugged. “Believe me—I’ve seen some happy matings, Rhys and Feyre, for example, but I’ve seen some bad ones as well—Rhys’s parents come to mind. Your own mate bond ended up being faulty…What if you have more than a bond? Not just a bond of love, but that of power? Think about it…” she cocked her brow.

Elain hadn’t considered that option, but now she pondered the suggestion, the implication of it all.

“And you?” she asked instead.

Rosamunde smiled and looked back, towards the town which nestled under the mountains, leagues away.

“And I am an example that bonds don’t matter. No one can possibly love me more than Finrod does, and seven hundred years later, I still get weak in the knees at the sight of him—just like I did when I beheld him the first time, when he won an axe throwing competition and then flared his wings with more gusto than Cassian would,” Rosamunde began to laugh and then Elain joined. But then, her brow furrowed and she asked,

“Wait—Finrod doesn’t have wings!”

“I have wings!” yelled Nat, as she entered the house, and Rosamunde called after her and Riad to go and dry themselves and change.

Surely Elain wasn’t losing her mind. None of the family had wings. Her expression must have been so apparent that Rosamunde chuckled and clapped her on the shoulder, “We do,”

“But…what?”

“Do you know how Rhys can summon his at will? As does Lady Feyre?”

Elain nodded, so confused she felt like she was in some kind of out-of-body experience.

“That’s because Rhys has Hewn City blood. From his father. His mother was fully Illyrian. Us—we are the opposite. I am of Hewn City stock, but Azriel’s…father…” she grimaced, “was Illyrian. So Azriel has permanent wings. We—my children, and Finrod—can summon them at will. I don’t use them much, though they could be useful. Mine are mostly vestigial—I can hardly fly and,” her beautiful face darkened with sorrow, “and…”

Elain squeezed her hand in support and acknowledgement.

“I couldn’t save my baby,” Rosamunde choked, tears filling her eyes, “I couldn’t save Az…They probably would’ve caught me anyway, but I might have had a chance…But, but,” she sobbed and stopped, burying her face in her hands, “I couldn’t…I can’t fly. I couldn’t save him…I couldn’t save my boy…”

“Mam, ma,” Ellena babbled, seeing her mother in distress, and Elain brough her arms around the two of them, kissing both of them, the three of them crying together. For a little boy who couldn’t have a childhood and couldn’t be saved.

 …The rest of the day wasn’t as eventful. They had lunch, with Nataliya demonstrating how to summon her wings and ripping her dress in the process, which caused a flood of tears, and laughter from Riad, and then Nataliya smacking her brother in retribution, and him scowling and pouting for the rest of the meal.

“You two are clearing the table,” ordered Rosamunde, and Elain had to hide her smile at their indignation.

“Az mentioned that he works with wood and that you have some pieces that he’d made,” she remembered. “Do you mind showing them to me?”

“Of course! Come,” they grabbed Ellena, who wouldn’t let go of Elain anyway, and walked through the house, with Rosamunde pointing out beautiful pieces of carved wooden furniture and decorative pieces.

“After Az was sent to the camp,” she recalled, “they allowed him to apprentice with the carpenter there…Because of his hands and his inability to fly, the Commanders didn’t think he’d be useful, and would ever be able to fight. So they figured that he should learn some kind of trade, if he didn’t make it as a shadowsinger for the High Lord, and it also allowed him to work with his hands and fingers, because he still had trouble with them even after 3-4 years after…” her voice faded and she didn’t finish her thought.

Elain ran her fingers along a beautifully carved mirror frame and murmured, “he is truly talented…”

He mother nodded. Then said, “I think he might carve something for you soon…”

“What?”

“Something for the house, I am sure.”

 Azriel landed in the front lawn of his estate.

It was a large, rambling cottage that became available after the war—the family that lived there moved to a smaller place and the house sat unoccupied for a year. Azriel’s been eyeing it ever since it became vacant, but he didn’t need a place that big for himself and back then, he didn’t think that he ever stood a chance with Elain.

Asterin and Sorrel were lounging on the grass, lazily chewing on Elain’s roses, pretending to smell them. At seeing Azriel they immediately shifted, feigning innocence and acting like they weren’t gnashing on the bulbs just now. He shook his finger at them and they turned away, ignoring him.

He was forever thankful that unlike Hewn City, the cottage, while large, couldn’t contain two enormous, fanged beasts. So, they stayed outside. He reckoned that everything fell into place when Elain entered his life, including the location of this house—far away from everyone, secluded in brambles and weeping willows, it was just outside of Velaris, with stunning views all around—the city on one side, and the sea on the other. His presence made people nervous enough, even back when he was just a shadowsinger and spymaster of the High Lord, and an Illyrian with seven siphons. Now, as Lord of Hewn City, with a Cauldron-made betrothed, two fanged beasts in tow, and Bryaxis who loved visiting as well, having befriended Elain a while back (since two monsters as friends weren’t enough), Azriel did not make for a desirable neighbour. Thankfully, there were no neighbours around. Therefore, if Bryaxis felt like sitting in the garden, wrapped in dark shadow of terror, it didn’t result in a pile of bodies who died of pure fear.

“My love, are you home?” he called out, shucking off his jacket and weapons, and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

“I am here!” Elain’s voice sang back and instantly his heart gladdened. That voice was like a balm on his soul, sweet and welcoming, and Azriel had to mentally pinch himself to remind himself that this was real. This was his life. This was his home, the one he built with the only woman that he ever truly ever loved and who loved him unconditionally and with an undimming, everlasting passion. His Elain. His Elain who chose him against all odds, and who promised to walk with him side by side, regardless of what befell them in this life. And with her next to him, he felt no fear.

“Holy gods, what are you doing?” he cried, when he entered their vast kitchen and saw Elain balance herself precariously on her toes, on the top step of a stepladder, reaching for something on the top shelf of their pantry. “You couldn’t have waited for me?!”

She laughed at him, kissing the air in greeting and said, “You are fussier than your mom!”

“What are you doing?” he came closer, and crossed his arms on his chest.

“She gave me so much food, I am trying to arrange it all,” Elain giggled, “I think she thinks that we are starving.”

He snorted a laugh.

“I felt bad for Sorrel who had to haul all these baskets on her back,”

“I imagine that Sorrel managed just fine.”

He came closer and playfully pecked her bottom through her gauzy skirt, and she squirmed with enjoyment.

“My Lord Azriel!” she admonished him playfully.

“Lady Elain,” he slapped her buttock lightly and said, “get off that stool and give me a kiss! What smells so good?”

“Dinner!”

He went to the cupboard and started pulling out plates and wine glasses and setting the table.

“Six jars of pickles! Three jars of jam,” she was counting out loud, “Three jars of marinated peppers. Six baskets of dried mushrooms…Azriel, if I see you tucking into those blackberry tarts before dinner, I swear,”

In the next moment, she was swept off her feet and into a pair of strong arms, his mouth descending on hers in a savage kiss. She screeched and laughed, clutching at his shoulders, before softening against him and draping her arms around his neck. Her lips opened in invitation and he swept his tongue inside, gently overpowering her with his kiss.

“I love you,” she moaned into his mouth, running her hands through his hair.

“I’d like to hear the rest of your threat,” he invited with a chuckle, “about the blackberry tarts,”

“I’d make love to you,” she whispered into his ear, lightly biting his earlobe, “if you eat a blackberry tart,”

“Then perhaps I should have two?”

“Perhaps…”

“And if I eat a pickle?” he proposed, returning to her lips, placing small, loving kisses on her mouth and her eyes.

“The punishment remains the same,” she breathed.

He breathed in deeply, with satisfaction.

Then stilled, abruptly.

Elain looked at him in surprise when he pulled away from her mouth.

His hazel eyes blazed—blazed like the green forests of Illyria, like the obsidian of Hewn City, like the stars of the Night Court. Those eyes devoured her. His perfect, beautiful face, usually so tanned and golden, paled. She’d never seen him pale.

“Az?”

Confusion and fear were written on her face.

“El,” he sobbed.

He…sobbed.

Azriel’s gorgeous eyes filled with tears, huge and thick, the eyes brimmed with them before spilling onto his face.

“Azriel,” she cried in alarm, cupping his cheek.

“Elain,” he gasped, his voice so choked with emotion, so raspy, she could barely hear him, “my love. Elain. My love,” he kept repeating, as if in shock, as if he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Az, I love you, please, my darling, what is,”

“We are going to have a baby,” he blurted out.

Her eyes widened and his hand instinctively went to her stomach. He lay his heavy scarred palm on her belly, setting her down on the floor, and dropped on his knees before her.

She pressed her hand over his, still disbelieving his words, as they stared at each other, both in some kind of stupor of complete elation and doubt.

“Are you certain?” she begged softly, her eyes pleading with him for confirmation, for this to be true.

“I smell it…it’s so clear,” he inhaled again, and then again, “you and I and someone else in there,”

“Oh, by the Cauldron,” she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, “you mother…Oh…”

“What?” he pressed his cheek to her stomach, wrapping his arms around her hips.

“She knew. I think she knew…She commented on our smell,”

“What did she say?”

“That we amalgamated into one scent,”

He chuckled softly, kissing her hands, her stomach, whatever his lips could reach, “We certainly amalgamated. I think it’s a bit more than just a scent though,”

Suddenly it dawned on Elain. It all came crushing at once and she wept, squeezing her face, a smile on her face so wide, it hurt her cheeks.

“We’ve made a baby?” she gasped, “Az, we’ve made a baby.”

“We’ve made a life together,” he murmured, awed. For a male who was so used to taking life, whose very existence was dedicated to war and blood, the thought of creating one, of creating something pure and good along with this female that he loved beyond reason, was simply magical.

“On Calanmai, you think?” she marveled, remembering the Great Rite, and everything that they did that night.

“I am certain,” he nodded.

“Our magical baby,” she grinned through her tears, looking down at him, at her stomach, and their hands, cradling it together.

  It was a warm summer day, with the sky of the clearest blue and the sun beating down.

Azriel had worked up a sweat, but he loved it. It was quiet around their house, other than for the chirping birds and the rustling of leaves. Out as far as the eye could see stretched the azure sea—this view was one of the reasons Azriel bought this specific house. It was absolutely glorious and he loved the gleaming amethyst brilliance of the water, the smell of salt and brine in the air. One side of the house overlooked the city skyline, in the back, the towering mountains, and ahead, the vast expanse of the sea. When he was old and gray, he imagined that he’d be sitting out on the terrace, with Elain on his lap, and never tire of the view or of her. Not a Lord, not a spymaster or an Illyrian with too many siphons, but Azriel. He’d never tell her, but he already knew what he’d have written on his tombstone, if he ever had one ‘Here lies Azriel. He loved Elain, who made him happy’.

He looked up from the piece of wood that he was polishing. In their beautiful garden, the whole menagerie of their creatures napped or lounged. Deep in the shadows of the two weeping willows was a smudge of impenetrable darkness—Bryaxis came to look at the sun and smell the flowers. Around it, Azriel’s own shadows fluttered and floated. It was a little too bright for them out here, so they hid alongside Bryaxis, nestled in his darkness. Azriel figured that they could talk with each other, though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what the topic of their conversation would be. Asterin was cooling off in the pond, while Sorrel was sleeping on the grassy bank, sunning her wings. He supposed that he was also a strange creature, just like them, with his wings, that he was also presently sunning and his unnatural power. Perhaps, only Elain was the normal one amongst them, though probably not.

Elain was crouched in the flower bed, a wide-brimmed hat obscuring her face, even if her thin sleeveless shirt allowed a very generous and tempting glimpse of her unbound breasts under the unbuttoned collar.

“You look like a cat who just drank all the cream,” she noted, without moving her head or looking at him.

“And you are acting like an expert little spy,” he laughed, and walked over to her.

His scarred hand crawled under her hat and he squeezed the back of her neck, massaging gently.

“Mmm, that feels good,” she hummed, leaning into his hand.

Then, with a smirk, she complained, “I am hot.”

He chuckled and stooped over her, his palm migrating from the back of her neck to the front, squeezing her throat lightly and tilting her head back. The hat tumbled on the grass.

“Can I help you remove some of this offending clothing?” he offered, leaning deeper over her, his face ghosting hers in the barest of touches. He whispered and her tongue darted out and licked on his lips quickly.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please…”

He snapped his fingers, without taking his eyes off her and then said, loudly, “Hey! All of you! Find somewhere else to be!”

The monster, the beasts and shadows all made an indignant noise, and attempted to turn around, but Azriel shook his head, “No. No. Go. Leave. Come back later. All of you.”

His shadows flew closer to him, in hopes of being spared, but he flicked his wrist at them.

Elain was laughing.

“You are a terrible host!” she murmured, when he slid on the grass next to her.

“I am a stupendous host,” he countered, stroking her throat, before tilting her head the way he wanted to and placing his lips on the thin, smooth skin. He kissed. Softly. Unhurriedly. Up and down, from her ear to her shoulder, while his deft fingers unbuttoned the few buttons of her shirt.

“Stupendous, huh?”

“Uh-uh,” he breathed against her neck, and parted her blouse, sliding it down her arms and then arranging it so she could lay her head on it. “They lounge on my lawn. They swim in our pond. They eat your flowers. They terrify the neighbors,”

“We don’t have any neighbors,” she reminded him with a chuckle. “You hate people,”

“I don’t hate people,” he corrected, kissing her nose and then her lips, “I care about people. That’s why I don’t have them around, so they don’t die of terror should they come upon Bry or your sweet beasties,”

“You are my sweet beastie,” she whispered, stroking his face.

Azriel smiled, and agreed, “That I am. And, you’ve been very naughty, tempting me with these all morning long,” he cupped her bare breasts, which always fit so well within his palms and rubbed his thumbs over the nipples. Now, a month and a half into her pregnancy, they began to fill out, growing just a bit heavier and fuller almost daily. It fascinated him and, well, he couldn’t deny that it made him quite happy as well.

“You can play with them,” she offered.

“Yeah?” he leaned into her and wrapped his mouth over the nipple, pulling hard and deep, teeth and lips clamping on the sensitive tip. A violent shudder rushed through her, and she tugged on his hair, pushing his face into her soft breast…and if he was going to suffocate now, he’d die a happy male. But she released her hold on his head a bit and he sucked deeply and steadily, while working her out of her skirt.  She wiggled out of it and kicked it with her foot, while going for the ties on his trousers, pulling on them impatiently. He laughed over her breast and then looked up at her, “eager, are we?”

Elain flipped him on his back and muttered, panting lightly, “Az, I need you,”

“You have me, love,” he assured her, as he pulled out his cock and stroked it a few times. She looked down, hunger in her beautiful brown eyes, her lower lip between her teeth, body almost shaking with anticipation.

He wrapped his hand over her hips and nudged her forward, murmuring, “come, my baby, take what you need.”

Elain didn’t have to be asked twice. The horrible ache in her core was becoming unbearable and there was only way to soothe it. While Azriel slid his trousers down his legs, finally getting naked beneath her, she straddled him and guided his thick cock inside of her.

“Oh gods,” she moaned, her eyes closing and head lolling to the side, pure, ravenous bliss written all over her face. She sunk on him slowly, for no matter how aroused she was, how wet and ready, his size did not allow for a singular initial thrust. It always had to be a tempered, gradual push, which they both loved, for it only heightened their senses, the anticipation of what was about to happen.

His fingers dug deeply into her thigh probably adding to an existing bruise, but Elain loved carrying his bruises on her body. Beneath her gauzy dresses, or the more daring, risqué outfits that she wore in Hewn City, or her gardening dungarees, or the simple skirts and shirts that she wore at home, her lovely, curvy body bore the marks of Azriel’s love. It was their secret, just like the bargain tattoo that was hidden on her thigh—only for him to know.

The moment he was situated in her, he set an ambitious pace, his hips working almost against his rational inclination, but the way the walls of her sex gripped him with such sublime strength and clenched and pulled him in every time he made a move was so overwhelmingly pleasurable, he stopped, just to gather his thoughts for a moment.

“You take me so well, my girl,” he grunted, “so tight,”

“Az, move,” she pleaded desperately, her palms pressing into his chest, her hips grinding onto him. “Faster…”

He sat up, biting his lower lip, his palm gripping her breast almost painfully, as he squeezed her nipple between his fingers, twisting it harshly. She panted loudly, the bit of pain always being something she craved, something he offered and she chased.

“Anything you want, baby,” he finally calmed himself enough to begin thrusting into her in earnest. Even when she was on top, she liked for him to do most of the work, and he did not object whatsoever. He lay back down, letting his eyes roam over her gorgeously lush body, mesmerized by her bouncing breasts, as they bopped and swayed with every thrust of his hips. He cupped her soft, pert ass and gently spread the cheeks, mashing them in his palms, his fingers pushing occasionally against and around her other little hole, eliciting pleased moans and cries from her parted lips.

“Az, my love, you feel so amazing,” she breathed. “Why does it feel so good?”

“Because you were made for me and I was made for you,” he said simply.

“Yes,” she nodded, “yes,”

His eyes drifted down her body and he buried himself inside of her, thrusting to the hilt and holding still. She moaned loudly, her head rolling back, unbound hair ticking his thighs. He ran his hand over her torso, her throat and her breasts and then paused at her stomach, pressing lightly to her lower belly. He could feel and see the small bump—not that of their baby—but his cock that was so deep, it pushed out from inside of her.

Azriel groaned loudly, wondering if he’s ever been so hard before. He has. But every time it felt new and different, the sense of possession almost indescribable.

He grabbed her hand and pressed it to the same spot. Her eyes widened with lust mixed with amazement and she rubbed the cock that was pocking her stomach.

“El, fuck,” he swore low and hissing, “fuck it feels nice, baby…” he held her hand right there, and she moved and stroked her stomach. “You are so tiny, I can see myself moving inside of you,”

She grinned, “You like that, bad boy?”

“Yes, my sweet, this boy really, really likes seeing you take my cock!”

 Cassian could barely breathe.

He loved Elain, but the flowers…Her garden was gorgeous, a feast for the eyes, a work of art—and torture for his nose and eyes and throat.

Azriel and Elain had been holed up in their luxurious secluded cottage for over a month.

He saw them here and there, they visited once, maybe twice, and then there was the dinner at the River House, which they declined to attend, citing Hewn City business.

“Go check on them!” ordered Nesta.

“Why don’t we go together?” proposed Cassian, but she said, “I don’t want to ambush them. Just…it’s casual if it’s just you.”

So here he was, being casual.

Somehow even Rhys found out that he was going to visit them, and the High Lord ordered him to report on their well-being.

The two wyverns, or whatever they were, flew over the sea, flipping and diving into the water.

Cassian landed in front of the house and knocked. No one answered. He knocked again, harder this time, but was greeted with silence.

It was a nice day, so he figured that the two of them being in the garden was very probable. Elain with her flowers or berry bushes, and Azriel just watching over her like a hungry wolf in love. The male was so obsessively in love, Cassian figured that if he could spend eternity watching Elain garden, Azriel would be perfectly satisfied with his life.

Rounding the corner, Cassian was faced with the most disturbing scene that his 543-year-old eyes had seen—naked Elain, grinding on Azriel…riding his cock.

Oh gods. Oh gods.

His sister. His little sister. That’s who Elain was to him. She was his little petal, his sweet flower girl. Riding Azriel’s enormous cock. How that thing even fit into her was a miracle.

Oh gods. His eyes. He pressed his palms over his face and ran back. He slammed into something, refused to open his eyes, and ran until he was well out on the front law on the house.

Mother’s tits! Why were they outside? He knew why they were, because it was a nice day and it was perfect time for lovemaking, but gods, did Azriel have to do it with her?

Breathing heavily, Cassian shot up in the air. He’d fly around, for a few hours. A few hours should be long enough, right? Maybe a few days?

Yes, theoretically, Cassian knew that Elain and Azriel were lovers. They were betrothed and swore their love and loyalty to each other before a priestess, and one day, planned to perhaps marry, as humans married—Elain’s idea, though she was cooling off to it, no longer concerned about the human rituals and their ways. But they were both reserved people, rarely displaying overt affection towards each other and somehow, it was difficult to imagine them in more intimate situations.

 Azriel had scented his brother nearby.

Elain was whimpering atop of him, as he was pounding into her and right then, his brother was of no concern to him. He wanted to bring his girl over the edge, and she was close if the fluttering of the walls of her pussy around his cock were anything to go by. Her breath came out in deep, hoarse sighs and she stretched over him, her hair draping over her breasts and his chest, swooshing and tickling his chest. She squeezed her breast in her hand, rolling her nipple, as she plunged down on him, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“Close, sweetheart?” he held her hips tightly, angling her so that her clit ribbed against his pelvis, while kissing her mouth. She nodded breathlessly and fell atop of him, sinking her teeth into his neck and sucking, as she thrashed and moaned into his shoulder, whispering how much she loved him.

“I love you too, my beautiful girl,” he murmured into her hair.

 Azriel was working on an intricate carving in the piece of wood, chiseling slowly and carefully into the plank. He might have planned too complex a design, if he had to admit it, but he had eight months to complete it, so with some perseverance he figured that he’d be done just in time.

“I know you are there,” he said without raising his eyes from his chisel, “stop being weird.”

Cassian stepped in front of him, sniffling and hacking, rubbing his eyes with his fingers.

“Were you hiding there long?”

“You know I wasn’t hiding,” Cassian sneezed, “I just flew in.”

“Flew back in,” corrected Azriel, smirking.

“My eyes did not need to see what they saw earlier,” Cassian sat heavily on a bench, shaking his head. “And stop smiling!”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for someone so modest and easily perturbed,”

“Umm, I am not easily perturbed at all,” he interrupted, “unless I see my sister doing all those things with you,”

“Well, she is my betrothed female and my Lady,” Azriel reminded him casually, “so we do ‘do those things’ as you call them,”

“I don’t need to be reminded!”

Elain appeared—thankfully dressed—with a smile on her face, and exclaimed, “Cass! I didn’t hear you come in!”

She skipped towards him and threw herself into his embrace. He swung her around in his arms, and kissed her head.

“I’ve missed you, petal!”

“I’ve missed you too!”

“You look—stunning,” he had to admit, giving her a once over. “Gods…you are glowing!”

She smiled shyly, ducking her head and then playfully slapped his shoulder, murmuring, “such a flatterer,”

Azriel was observing them silently, still carving the wood, though Cassian sensed some tension in his brother. Azriel was never jealous, especially not of him, but just in case, Cassian stepped away from Elain and sat back down on the bench. Azriel reminded him of a newly mated male, and for a moment, he wondered if they had a mate bond snap for them, which would explain their absences and secrecy.

He watched them exchange a quick glance, but a bout of sneezes interrupted his puzzlement at all of this cagey behaviour. Could Elain have been given two bonds? Elain was mysterious, her power still not entirely revealed, her Cauldron-given abilities developing and unraveling bit by bit. Her power matched Azriel’s in many different, intricate ways, most of which Cassian could not understand. Even Rhys had trouble comprehending what the two of them were capable of, and how vast that power reserve actually was.

“Cass, let me get you something for your allergies,” Elain offered. “Do you want lemonade?”

“Don’t fuss Lainey,” he began, but she waved him off. “Lemonade for my brother is not fussing. I have an ointment that will help you,”

She went back into the house and Cassian draped his arms over his knees, looking out at the sea. This was a damn nice view! No wonder they didn’t want to leave. They split their time between their four residences—Hewn City palace, Azriel’s apartment in Velaris, occasionally they used the palace on the mountain, but typically only for formal meetings, but this—this was their home.

“You are quiet,” Cassian noted, glancing at Azriel.

His brother seemed to have relaxed a bit, even his wings snapped not as tightly as before, and he shrugged in his usual Azriel way, saying nothing.

Cassian finally glanced at the wood that Azriel was working on and he nodded towards the fine carvings, “it’s beautiful…what is it?”

Azriel drew his scarred finger over the wood, and after a moment, said, “it’s headboard for a crib.”

“A crib? Really? Who asked you to make a crib?” wondered Cassian, cocking his brow.

Then he stilled, his eyes widening, “Shit?! Rhys and Feyre? Are they having another baby?”

“I don’t know,” Azriel chuckled, amusement in his eyes, “they haven’t told me.”

“Who else?” pondered Cassian. “Don’t be an asshole! Tell me!” he whined.

“Maybe you?” Azriel winked at him.

“What?” Cassian paled, “wha-…Nes,”

“Oh gods, no!” groaned Azriel, laughing, “I am kidding. Can’t you smell anything?”

“I can’t smell shit!” Cassian wiped his nose, “I am all stuffed up. What am I supposed to be smelling?”

“Elain.”

“What about Elain?”

In the next moment, Cassian tackled Azriel in his hug, both of them landing in the grass, a scream of joy ripping from Cassian’s chest.

“Elain?” he cried, tears springing in his eyes, “a baby…a baby for you,” he rocked Azriel against his chest, and for once, Azriel gently, easily embraced him back.

“Az, I…” Cassian, for once, was speechless. ‘”I am so happy…I am so happy for you,”

Azriel grinned, emotional again, his chest heavy and tight with joy.

“Actually, I need to make two cribs,” he said. “Care to help, uncle?”

[lionofchaeronea]

A Hymn to Artemis

To amuse myself while I translate the Homeric Hymns, I decided to try writing my own Hymns in a similar style. Here’s one to Artemis that I whipped up this morning. I hope you enjoy it. (Next is Poseidon.)

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sing, Pierian Muses - for you are able - Of Artemis, the shining goddess, pourer of arrows, Mistress of beasts, with her tunic drawn up Above her knees, who runs through the rocky glades And mountain dells, a train of nymphs at her heels: Sometimes at noon she runs, when the Sun Showers its brilliant rays from overhead; Sometimes at night she runs, exulting In the Moon’s silver gleam, and her arrows gleam silver as well. Sister from the same womb to Apollo she is- Daughter of glorious Leto and Zeus who delights in thunder. Goddess of three faces, called by some Artemis, By some Selene, and by others still Hecate - You will be the subject of my song, if the Muses grant it. But how best to sing of you, beast-slaying maiden? I could sing perhaps of your birth in hidden Ortygia, When you sprang forth from Leto into the light And all the assembled women, nymphs and goddesses, Raised a cry of joy. Or I could sing Of the day the dread Giants took up arms against Olympus - On that day your bow and quiver were never still, Fast and thickly your arrows sang from the string And not a one that did not find its mark In the chest of some Earth-born monster, laying him low In his hubris. Then, too, I could sing, As many have before, of Actaeon, ill-starred hunter, Who stumbled on you bathing - his eyes Saw things forbidden, and in justice You punished him. Turned to a stag, hooves For hands and feet, antlers from his brow, He fell prey to his own greedy hounds. But no, Artemis pourer of arrows, I have a greater song in mind. Evoke now, Muses, The proud Achaeans, thousands upon thousands, Chieftains and spear-bearing men, assembled On Aulis’ shore, eager to sail for Troy Where godlike Paris had secreted Helen Unmatched in beauty. But they did not sail, Not at first, for Agamemnon full of folly Had slain a swift hind consecrated to you, o Artemis. Your wrath was great. You pressed your hand Upon the winds - it was easy for you, a goddess - And penned them in their cave, feeble, helpless. The East Wind could not blow; the black ships Could not make their way over the watery deep To Troy’s high walls. Such anger, goddess, Among the bronze-helmeted Achaeans! How they raged at Agamemnon, cursed The lord of Mycenae for his blindness In offending you, Artemis, haunter of the lonely hills. Blood called for blood; and so Atreus’ son Led his own offspring, white-browed Iphigenia, To the altar. High he raised the knife… And then what, Muses? Tell me unerringly. Did he slay her? So some say, But others - theirs is the truer account - Sing of a wonder: that mighty Artemis placed A deer beneath the blade, and bore Iphigenia, All unseen, far from the shores of Hellas, To the Euxine hateful to sailors, there to dwell Among the stone-hearted Taurians. Then the winds blew forth, whipping the gray sea to froth, And they sailed, the uncountable Achaeans, To bronze-gated Ilium - many sailed but few Returned, through the will of Zeus, Cronus’ invincible son. But they did not forget you, swift-footed lady, For on Aulis’ sandy shore Agamemnon set up Your form in wood, and still today the rustic Boeotians Journey there, by foot and wagon, over long roads, All to fall at your feet and chant the name of Artemis Who delights in the hunt and spurns the works of Eros. Hear me, goddess - grant me prosperous works And health; defend me with your gleaming arrows. And in return I shall pray to you as I wander The wilds, the hollows where no man lives. But never shall I forget you, Even as I pass on now to another song.

[winter-came]

okay, Sleeping at last exists, and they produced songs that are titled with numbers. (you know where i am going). and because I am obssesed with TUA, of course I saw possibility. I picked out lyrics out of each song that,in my opinion, do fit quite well with the characters.

One (Luther) -> I, I want to sing a song worth singing, I'll write an anthem worth repeating I, I want to feel the transformation, A melody of reformation, The list goes on forever, Of all the ways I could be better, in my mind, As if I could earn God's favour, given time, Or at least congratulations, Now, I have learned my lesson, The price of this so called perfection is everything, I've spent my whole life searching desperately, To find out that grace requires nothing of me

Two (Diego) -> my note: this one is sweet one but i still think it fits because we all know that Diego is big softie under all of his attitude. -> Tell me, is something wrong? If something's wrong, you can count on me, You know I'll take my heart clean apart if it helps yours beat, I will love you with every single thing I have, Like a tidal wave, I'll make a mess or calm waters, if that serves you best, I will love you without any strings attached, You can take the oxygen straight out of my own chest, And maybe one day I will get around to fixing myself too, I don't even know where to start, Already tired of trying to recall when it all fell apart, I just want to love you, to love you, to love you well, I just want to learn how, somehow, to be loved myself

Three (Allison) -> my note: this is basically entire song, sorry -> Maybe I've done enough, And your golden child grew up, Maybe this trophy isn't real love, And with or without it I'm good enough, And I finally see myself, Through the eyes of no one else, It's so exhausting on this silver screen, Where I play the role of anyone but me, And I finally see myself, Unabridged and overwhelmed, A mess of a story I'm ashamed to tell, But I'm slowly learning how to break this spell, And I finally see myself, Now I only want what's real, To let my heart feel what it feels, Gold, silver, or bronze hold no value here, Where work and rest are equally revered, I only want what's real, I set aside the highlight reel, And leave my greatest failures on display with an asterisk, Worthy of love anyway

Four (Klaus) -> I'm turning out the lights, To remember how to see, Until a renaissance takes place, And resuscitates the color of paint and divinity, Bodies fashioned out of dirt and dust, For a moment we get to be glorious, Maybe my heart needs to break to be sure, One day I'll wear it all on my sleeve, But I've fallen in love with a ghost, I lost my balance when I needed it most, And this blurry photograph is proof, Who, what I'm not sure, but it feels like truth, I'm stuck swimming in shadows down here, It's been forever, since I came up for air

Five (Five) -> this was the first one i stumbled upon and here we are -> I want to watch the universe expand, I want to break it into pieces small enough to understand, And put it all back together again, It feels like an out of body experience, But something gets lost from a safe distance, Now I can't put my mind to rest, And I can't help but second guess, A white flag waves in the dark between my head and my heart, My armor falls apart, As if I could let myself be seen, even deeply known, Like I was already brave enough to let go, And now I want to generously lose this energy, That I've been hanging onto so desperately, I finally feel the universe expand, It's hidden in heartbeats, Exhales and in the hope of open hands

Six (Ben) -> my note: Also almost entire thing, but I couldn't help it. And the whole time I imagined THAT scene with him and vanya soo don't do that :) -> I had the most vivid dream, My feet had left the ground, I was floating to heaven, But I could only look down, My mind was heavy, Running ragged with worst case scenarios, Emergency exits and the distance below, I woke up so worried that the angels let go, Oh God I'm so tired of being afraid, What would it feel like to put this baggage down? If I'm being honest, I'm not sure I'd know how, I want to believe, No, I choose to believe that I was made to become a sanctuary, With a vigilant heart, I'll push into the dark, But I'll learn to breathe deep, And make peace with the stars, Is it courage or faith to show up every day? To trust that there will be light, Always waiting behind, Even the darkest of nights, And no matter what, Somehow we'll be okay, Don't be afraid

Seven (Vanya) -> tbh I was a bit disappointed in this one ( my poor girl) but I was too deep into this, soo -> How wonderful to see a smile on your face, It costs farewell tears for a welcome-home parade, A secret handshake between me and my one life, I'll find the silver lining no matter what the price, But I want to be here, Truly be here, To watch the ones that I love bloom, And I want to make room, To love them through and through and through, And through the slow and barren seasons too, I feel hope, Deep in my bones, Tomorrow will be beautiful

and that's it. idk if I finally became insane or what but here is the post. enjoy!

[whereflowersbloom]

Shadows and thorns

Part IV.

Ahsan Manzil, the main residence of the royal family had been silent and mostly empty after welcoming the visitor, royals and nobles last night. The silence had been as comforting then as it was now as Damian did not want this conversation to be heard by the wrong ears. Even in his own chamber they had to be cautious so the Prince had given orders to the servants that he and Jon were not to be bothered. Not even Timothy Drake who had helped come up with this plan in the first place, was there. Damian did not wish to catch the eyes of his grandfather’s spies.

Richard Grayson watched his good friend and Prince pace restlessly in his royal chambers for what it seemed like an hour. Damian had to announce the betrothal to his Grandfather and the whole kingdom before the tourney ended. Yet, the man stuck himself in deep thoughts, instead of actions. That was unusual. It was the first seeing his friend grossly unsettled.

Damian felt his pulse elevating slightly, there was a dull pounding in his head. His plans for the day included persuade Jon to join his cause, with the house of El by his side and the Shadows,he was positive his strategy could assure the other a noble houses, the coup endeavor would succeed. Here he was, ready to tell his best friend, the man he trusted with his own life, the ploy to overthrow his grandfather who was no longer in condition to rule. Damian was aware that his words could be considered treasonous if anyone else heard them, and anyone who knew his grandfather, Ra’s wouldn't bat an eye to order his own flesh, his only grandson’s execution.

He also admitted to himself, he felt conflicted for what he was about to ask Jon as it shamed him a bit. It was an unbecoming and unfair task to put to Jonathan when the man only ever strived to be as honorable as possible. But the Al Ghul house had to do what was necessary, the security of his nation was in danger. Damian would not disappoint his people, letting them suffer the King’s ruthless cruelty. It was enough.

“May I enter, your Grace?” The soft and gentle voice of Jonathan El resonated, pounding on the copper covering Damian’s chamber massive wood door. The door opened a crack, revealing the imposing figure of Richard. The servant step aside and let Jon inside the room, handsomely dressed, with a shy half-hidden smile. Damian stopped wandering around the room instantly, standing next to a ormolu mounted, ebony and fruitwood table, several rolls of paper lying there. Damian gave his friend a serious look before speaking.

"I urge you to keep the words from this room secret for the nonce.” The crown Prince continued. "In time, I will reach out to other houses, but for now I would rather my plan be of the utmost secrecy." The somber expression on Damian’s expression made an impression on his friend, for the characteristic smile on Jon’s friend disappeared as he frowned. Jon looked shocked, but composed himself after a few seconds, confusion in his expression was an obvious thing, but who could blame him.

Both Richard and Jonathan. Each man nodded solemnly, aware of the implications of their actions. If the prince asked for their silence, it meant even speaking with the prince about this, was possibly considered an act of high treason, punishable by death or any other punishment the King saw fit.

"The King is paranoid. He thinks the other Nations are plotting against him and he is preparing for the battle before they take action first." The heir of house El’s frowns as he takes a seat, his mind completely muddled. Damian continued after giving him several seconds to process the information. "I believe the King is no longer apt for the Al Ghul throne. You know what they call him, Jon. The demon King. And each day it's worst. I'm deeply concerned for the realm.”

He saw the dark haired man's face turn to stone, an understandable reaction considering who his grandfather was, the Demon King commoners and nobles equally called him, and when a cruel King as Ra’s was, sends a party to your lands, it is a reason to be concerned.

“Damian, you understand what it means. My house..” Jon muttered severely. His sapphire eyes widened at the revelation, frozen in his seat. The words that just left his Prince’s mouth were dangerous if listened by the wrong person. He had a clue were the conversation was going and a chill climbed up his spine. What his friend wished to ask him. Treason, was the word crossing his mind incessantly.

“I need you Jon.” His old friend said a harder note coming into his voice.

"What will you do?" he asked in a serious tone, staring expectantly at the young heir, man in front of him, and Damian had never felt so pressured before in his entire life. He did not want his friend to be severely punished, bring dishonor to his house name. It was a matter of life and death now. Theirs and his people.

“I’m sorry Jon. It must be you. You’re my only trusted friend from a high-born house I can share my idea with.” He continued, giving Jon an apologetic glance, asking silently for his help when he needed it most. “For reasons I can’t say, we must be wary now. We may have enemies in the realm.” He breathed darkly, his green eyes narrowed.

Jon considered carefully and wisely the prince’s petition. Treason was involved. A coup was required for Damian to take the throne. He had chosen his friend as his king, he had sworn him his sword and his support in his attempts at ushering change in the Kingdom. Damian wanted to call a Great Council, members from the most influential noble houses of Nanda Parbat, who would speak on behalf of the others, considering their needs and interests. Jonathan was resolved to stay by his friend and prince side whatever may come.

“When the time comes, you’ll have my support, my friend.” Jon exhaled in agreement, promising his word and sword to his friend, feeling a pressure in his chest and head built to new heights. But he was willing to risk his head for his friend and the future of Nanda Parbat. “Now all you must do is marry and have a heir as soon as possible. Have you chosen a bride already?” He stood and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, smiling warmly at him, with genuine affection.

A vivid image of his lovely Rhachel’s slender waist curved with pregnancy came to his mind. He closed his eyes, remembering, feeling the sudden urge to see her and hear her daring, charming voice, touch her flawless fair and silky skin. “I have. There’s some arrangements to be discussed before I can announce it publicly.” He took a deep breath, changing direction for a moment. "I hope to take the throne with as little bloodshed as possible.” He sighed as he thought of the battle to come, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. Only then he noticed just how tired he was, his fatigue mounting considerably. Exhausted of his grandfather’s madness, his wickedness. The things he did to his father.

“Now you must tell the details about this Lady. Who’s the bride to be of Damian Al Ghul?” Jon asked curiously, a perky and boyish smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he began patting on his boyhood friend’s back. "Rhachel Roth from Azarath.” Damian breathed with a broad smile on his lips. She was a beauty, truly stunning with those moonlight locks and amethyst eyes on fire, but he knew what hid under that beautiful exterior. He let out a musical, wholehearted chuckle the moments Jon’s eyes were wide open by the surprise, and proceeded to delineate with precise details the situation to his cheerful, gentle friend, who was overwhelming him with numerous questions.

The corner of his eyes catching a glimpse of Richard’s face, trying his best to repress a mocking chortle.

Rhachel Roth was a storm and Damian Al Ghul was unexpectedly and helplessly falling for her.

~~~

A hot bath was already waiting for her, when she reached her chambers, a bed full of pillows in silk covers that seemed so tempting after her long day were calling her in. A mound of different bright colored fruits rested upon a bronze recipient in a wooden table next to the balcony. She walked to the balcony and looked out. She could see the night sky adorned with ancient and brilliant stars. The wilderness stretched before her in a never ending landscape of dense forests and rolling hills. It was as if the was discovering a whole new world, her eyes roaming across mysterious lands that would take her weeks to ride through with Melchior. If only she could stay. But she couldn’t. At least she could't complain of her accommodations. It was a glorious and majestic palace.

The single thought of her wedding made her sick, thinking of all the people that would be attending, people she didn’t know expecting her to act like the princess she was supposed to be, a dutiful, committed wife and queen. After that, her old life would be gone. She’d say goodbye to her home and Constantine. Everything she knew would be left behind and a new beginning awaited her in Westland. With Wallace West. Not Prince Damian. She did. She was struck breathless the moment he saw him but she didn’t allow her lips confess the truth. It didn’t matter how much they longed for each other.

She lowered her body underneath the covers of the enormous bed, curling up on a pillow. Her mind filled with thoughts of Damian. Damian sleeping beside her, his hands circling her waist, holding her heart-shaped face, her legs entangled inhis manly ones, her hands tenderly wrapped around him, his vivid eyes looking deeply into her violet ones. Her rational mind stopping her deep romantic nature from demanding what she wanted, from asking for that quenching. She wanted it to come freely, like flowers that are given and not requested. She fell asleep gradually, dreaming of his dark haired prince, with olive skin and emerald eyes, his lips wandering every inch of her pale skin.

~~~

“My Lady Roth. It is time to wake up.” A young was shaking her shoulders gently. “Lady Rhachel, please. I brought a present from the Prince, for you. “ The woman continued shaking her shoulder with more strength now. She finally blinked open her amethyst eyes,wincing at the sunlight streaming through the windows. The woman she did not recognize sighed with relief and smiled at her enthusiastically. “Oh finally! My Lady, I’ve brought a present from the crown Prince. You must wear it for the tourney.” The unknown woman tmurmured as she pulled back the dark duvet.

“You look dreadful, my lady.” The maid told her blatantly. Rhachel blinked at her words. This lady was evidently brutally honest. “Apologies, Princess. I am your maid in waiting, Korinna Anders.” She covered her mouth when she realized she had spoken out of term and bowed to greet her formally.

“My maid in waiting? A present?” She sat up on the bed, studying the woman in first of her. The had bronze complexion, dark red locks and green eyes that remind her of limes. She seemed to be a candid and good-natured woman, someone she could trust she hoped.

“The prince ordered me to come here and serve only you. I apologize for disturbing your sleep, my Lady.” The red-haired woman said calmly, curtsying low as she opened the box she had been carrying. Out of it she pulled the most splendid gown she had ever seen.

“I found myself utterly exhausted after the feast.” She told her new maid in waiting as she almost stumbled getting out of the bed. The maid passed her a robe and a basin of cold water. She splashed it over her face. It was revitalizing, the weather was too hot for her liking today. “It’s exquisite. Will you help me put it on?” She asked softly.

Kori as she called her in her head fetched her breakfast while she cleaned herself up, and by the time she was finished, there was freshly made bread and fruit waiting for her.

Eventually she had to stand to get dressed, and the cloth came away. She shook her head in bewilderment. What were Damian’s intentions sending her a gown? Hidden motives she thought. The maid laced her up into a heavy magnificent gown.

The bodice, embroidered with pearls and diamond-like shiny stones, tightened her already small waist in a way that accentuated her curves, the cleavage seemed to adapt to the form of her breasts, leaving a little uncovered area at the center of them in a way that it almost made her blush, her shoulders were bare and left her back free of any fabric in a V shape. The skirts were a vision in shades of pink and light lavender silks.

Her long white hair had been braided in several braids down her back, adorned with small white roses and lilac flowers. Wisps of loose hair fell around her face, tendrils wild and romantic-looking. Her reflection in the mirror astonished her. She felt beautiful. Desirable. Was that really her?

“You’re a beautiful sight to behold, my Lady. You’ll take the breath away from all the Lords and Knights.” Kori’s words assured, speaking incessantly about her blinding, unique beauty.

She was ready to attend the grand tournament. If Damian wanted to play with fire, both could play it.

Im back with a new chapter 🙈🙈🙈🙈😂😂💜💜💜💜❤️❤️

@deep-in-mind67 @chromium7sky @ravenfan1242 @andthendk

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

youthfully felt

the wench and the witcher

“youthfully felt”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader, plus some platonic love between Jaskier and our reader.

Summary: The reader and Jaskier finally meet; Geralt momentarily regrets his life choices.

Warnings: None, surprisingly, save for Geralt’s foul mouth.

A/N: This turned into fluffy bullshit, and I kind of like it. I promise, one of these days I’ll give y’all something deep and angsty, or whatever, but it is not this day! Title and lyrics swiped from Hozier’s “Jackie and Wilson”.

@coconutxraikage​; @onyour-right​; @kingniazx​; @c-s-stars​; @pantrashtic​; @ly-canthrope​; @gczanetti1​; @alwaysnatz​; @kianya-loves​

She blows outta nowhere, roman candle of the wild Laughing away through my feeble disguise No other version of me I would rather be tonight And, Lord, she found me just in time 'Cause with my mid-youth crisis all said and done I need to be youthfully felt 'cause, God, I never felt young

“Mistress! My dear mistress!”

  It actually takes you a moment to realize that the bard is referring to you. That certainly wasn’t a title anyone else had seen fit to bestow upon you – you weren’t sure whether to be insulted or amused. You raise a brow in his direction and hand off the tankard of mead you were pouring. “I never married,” you tell him, wiping your hands on your apron before you lean against the bar. “But I’ll take ‘mistress’ over ‘oy, wench’. How can I help you, sir bard?”

  The bard gives you a once-over that is just shy of inappropriate, but the smile that flashes across his sweet face is almost enough for you to overlook it.

  “Never married?” he gasps. “Impossible! Lady, with that lovely face, you should be courted by ever noble from here to Nilfgaard. Skin like polished bronze, those silken curls, and those dark, fathomless heartbreaking eyes – “

  You laugh at that – cackle almost. “Gods, but you do lay it on thick, don’t you?”

  “What can I say? I find beautiful women inspire me to wax poetical.”

  He takes your hand decorously, and you allow it if only because there is no hint of a leer on his face. His clear blue eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins at you. With a low laugh, you shake your head. “Speak your peace, dear bard,” you tell him over the noise of the tavern. “You are very sweet, but I’m a little busy at the moment.”

  “Mistress! You cut me to the quick – “

  He actually kisses your hand and with the way you’re fighting a guffaw, you might break a rib.

  “Very well, I’ll be brief,” he continues. “I find myself a little short on coin tonight, but with your permission, I thought I might entertain your patrons?”

  He lays a few more light kisses on the back of your hand, the incorrigible little shit. “You can try,” you say with a smirk. “But we aren’t much for high-brow ballads around here.”

  “My darling mistress,” he croons. “I am a bard of many talents.”

  You’re not sure what breaks you, but you snort and can’t keep the stopper on your laughter any longer. It’s made worse as the grinning bard starts to drop overdone kisses in circles over the back of your hand; when he starts to make his way playfully up your wrist, you give a giggling yelp, “Leave off, you shameless bastard!”

  He does no such thing and you are about to start crying with laughter when you hear a bark of, “Jaskier!”

  Jaskier drops your hand as if it’s burned him, which only makes you worse. The poor man whirls to face the scowling witcher as you try to collect yourself, tears of mirth spilling over even as Geralt looms menacingly. “A lady tells you to leave off,” he growls. “And you fucking well listen.”

  Stormy gold eyes meet yours over the bard’s head, but you see his scowl go soft as he takes in your utterly ridiculous smile. One last giggle squeaks its way free as you wipe at your face.

  “My hero,” you wheeze. “Valiant rescue from the overzealous flirt.”

  Geralt glowers at you, unamused. Jaskier looks at you, then Geralt, then back to you before you see something like amazement flash over his face. “Oh my gods,” he gushes. “You! It’s you – you’re the reason this crabapple’s been nearly tolerable these past few months! Dear, sweet lady, I owe you a life debt. What may I call you, you glorious creature?”

  With a snicker, you introduce yourself. A muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitches. Jaskier leans over the bar with a conspiratorial stage whisper, “What’s your secret?!”

  You bark out a laugh. “That is none of your business, bard, but it’s good to finally meet you.”

  Jaskier grins toothily, and if Geralt rolls his eyes any harder, you’re fairly certain they’ll get stuck. With a shake of your head and smile, you produce three clean mugs and a pitcher of ale before informing your barman that you’ll be stepping away for a time. If it gets unruly, you’ll always be able to step up and lend a hand. You duck under the bar to join the witcher and the troubadour, pouring a draft for each of them and one for yourself.

  “I’ll strike a deal with you, Jaskier,” you offer. “Ply your trade tonight. Don’t insult anyone or incite a riot – you keep everything you make, and there may even be a meal in it for you. On the house.”

  The blue-eyed bard’s face splits into a winning smile as he snatches up his ale and darts in to smack a noisy kiss to your cheek that starts you laughing all over again. You aim a swat at his shoulder – one that he dodges easily – as Geralt grumbles into his ale. 

“My lady,” Jaskier beams. “I swear upon my lute to provide nothing but the most delightful entertainment for the duration of the evening.”

  You take a sip of your ale, batting your eyelashes at the grumpy witcher when you reply, “Any annoyance of Geralt’s is a friend of mine.”

Geralt meets your gazes with a deadpan stare; you nearly snort ale up your nose. Gods, he’s going to throttle you one of these days.

Jaskier grins, bows with a flourish, and zips through the crowd. It takes almost no time for him to begin a rousing chorus that has most of the tavern singing along, and the rest of them clapping and laughing as they watch. You snicker to yourself; the witcher at your side gives a long-suffering groan and gulps down a very large mouthful of ale.

  “Oh, pipe down. I think he’s sweet,” you muse.

  Geralt chokes. “He’s a menace.”

  “Mmmhm, I can see that,” you tease dryly. “Must be why you keep letting him tag along with you.”

  The witcher mutters something impolite into his ale as he finishes it off. He sets one huge arm around your shoulders and tugs, over-balancing you against his side and making you yip in surprise. You dig the knuckle of your forefinger into his armpit in retaliation; he jumps with a grunt and you cackle. When you jab him again, he growls and squeezes you tight against his chest to keep you basically immobile.

  “Stop that,” he warns you. It would be more threatening if he wasn’t grinning fondly down at you. “You are pain in the ass, you know that?”

  “Hmm, aye,” you purr, then pop up on tiptoe to bite at the witcher’s earlobe. “But I’m your pain in the ass, dear witcher.”

  Geralt glares, and swiftly pinches your backside hard enough to make you squeal with laughter.

[bijackkellys]

there’s something about you that i know (started centuries ago, though)

Fandom: Newsies (All Media Types) Relationships: Jack Kelly/David Jacobs Word Count: 3,122 Dedications: i’d like to give a huge huge shoutout to @glasscherrycoke for being a fantastic beta, and also to @mistyw273 and @ginger--binger for being wonderful and supporting me! (if you’d like to be tagged in future works, drop me an ask or a dm!) Author’s Note: i had to repost this because tumblr likes hiding stuff with links from the tags, so sorry about that! this is my first newsies fic; i hope you guys enjoy it! the title is from past lives by kesha, and you can find this on my ao3 (somethingdivine) as well. Tags: Past Lives, Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Ancient Greece, Revolutionary War, World War II, Present Day, Love, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Period Typical Attitudes, other people show up but only kind of, so much botched history, but it's fine?, they kiss a lot so...there

Those are the nights when Jack thinks he’s known this forever. He doesn’t believe in fate or fairy tales, but the first time that Davey kisses him, raw and desperate and loving, the warmth that courses through him is so achingly familiar that he wonders if maybe this is all he’s ever known—Davey’s hands and Davey’s eyes and Davey’s mouth against his in the dark.

/ or, time after time, Jack and Davey always find each other again.

i. around 730 BCE

The first time they meet—or the fourth, or maybe the hundredth—it is midsummer, and they are sixteen.

In those days, the world seems doused in gold. Sunlight spills over the grassy cliffs, drags its fingertips across the sea and leaves glittering trails behind, and this is where Jonas—who will one day, centuries from now, be called Jack—finds himself dreaming.

Below him, the waves crest and break over the rocks, a steady rhythm like a song. Above him the sky is blue and bright, and here he can taste the salt in the air and lay spread-eagled in the grass and listen for the call of birds. He’s never had a place to call his own, but this, he thinks, on those golden summer days, could be something like it.

So when the stranger comes, footsteps soft against the ground, and the two of them lock eyes, the world falls suddenly still.

The other boy breaks the silence first. “Hello,” he says, all at once tentative and bright as he holds out an open hand. “I’m Damen.” In this life he is, anyway.

And then he smiles, and whatever hesitation had brimmed within Jonas before leaches out of him fast and abruptly. He pushes himself to his elbows and takes the offered hand. “I’m Jonas,” he replies, and really, that’s all that it takes.

In the weeks after, Jonas holds his breath and waits for the day when Damen will stop coming. It seems like only a matter of time, like soon, this lovely, quick-mouthed boy will find another stretch of sea and leave these cliffs behind. He doesn’t, though. He comes back, over and over, and somehow it becomes natural to find the two of them sprawled out beside each other while the sun sinks behind the horizon and paints the whole sky.

Damen, he learns quickly, is smart. Smarter than anyone that Jonas has ever known. He has this animated way of speaking, his hands always moving in tandem with his mouth as he relays the stories of Homer and the lessons he’s learned in school. Jonas carves into stones with a bronze blade and listens; he doesn’t care much for tales of the gods, but he likes the magic weaved into Damen’s voice. He likes the glimmer of Damen’s eyes as he retells the epics he knows by heart.

“I’ve never known anyone like you,” Jonas says one night. They’ve stayed out past dark, their laughter pouring over the edge of the cliff and into the water, and the two of them have built something here, a fleeting temple made from stories and fingers laced together and the sound of the sea.

Damen looks at him, drenched in silver from the moonlight. “I’m so glad I met you, Jonas,” he says, his voice like a ghosting breath, and then their lips slot together, Jonas’ fingers curling in the rough fabric of Damen’s tunic, Damen tugging a hand through his hair. It’s raw and heavenly and it’s true.

And oh, he has never believed in the gods, but there under the stars, tasting a boy who will one day, centuries from now, be called David, Jonas thinks he’s found something divine. -

ii. 1781

The war isn’t as glorious as the pamphlets make it out to be.

David knows what he’s fighting for, knows that their cause is just. He’s read all of the papers, attended the rallies in New York where men stand on upturned crates and strain to be heard over the crowds, speaking of taxes and freedom and revolution. He believes in this. Believes that they can build a new nation up from the ground.

But this part is different. Here, the tents stink of sweat and dirt and blood, and when he closes his eyes, he watches bodies fall, watches bullets rain down over the earth like hellfire. The battle is over and they’ve come out victorious, but he doesn’t feel any more free. He feels tired and wracked with grief, and empty.

“You should get that wrapped,” a soft voice says above him, and David looks up.

He knows Jack in the vague, limited way that he knows the others in their contingent: by name and face and not much else. The man—boy, he amends, because he can’t be any older than David is—stares at the still-bleeding gash on David’s arm. “Could get infected.”

“I know,” he says, and then winces at the sharpness in his own voice and shakes his head. “You’re right. I will.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and distantly, they can hear the chirping of crickets and the screams from the medicine tents. David clenches his fist in the grimy cloth of his uniform. Then Jack is kneeling in front of him, grabbing a roll of bandages from beside the low cot. “Let me,” he says, and David doesn’t know what compels him to extend his injured arm, but he does anyway.

Jack’s hands are careful, careful, like David is something made of glass instead of a bruised and bloodied soldier. He pours water over a clean cloth and wipes the blood away, and while he does this he says, “Davey, right?” David nods, and Jack smiles just a little. “What’s your story?”

As Jack winds the bandage around his arm, David tells him about school, and Sarah and Les and his family. He tells him about the things that he’s read, and Jack just listens, nodding every so often and staying even when he’s finished dressing the wound.

“I didn’t expect it to be like this,” David confesses finally, the bone-deep ache of the memories from the battle bleeding into his voice. “I’m not naive, I knew there would be death, but not…” he swallows hard, “not like this.”

When Jack looks at him, there’s something strained and quiet behind his gaze. “It’s not like it is in the papers,” he agrees, half-hurt, half-bitter. “It doesn’t seem so honorable out here. Just seems like dying.”

David draws a shuddering breath, and that’s when Jack takes his hand. “We’ll make it out of this, alright?” he says, suddenly fierce. “We’ll win this war, and you’ll see your family again.”

It’s not a promise he can keep. They won’t live long enough to love each other, not this time. They’ll both be dead in a matter of days, miles apart from one another, and something in them knows it—that’s the way that war ends. Bloody and gruesome and tragic.

For now, though, Jack’s calloused fingers are cool as they brush against his, and David nods. “Yeah,” he says, daring, in the moment, to hope. “We’ll get through it.”

Jack stays beside him until exhaustion tugs at their eyelids, and when he leaves, he passes a hand over David’s forehead, the gesture strangely familiar and so, so tender. Warmth pushes past the hurt to bloom softly in David’s chest. They’ll live, at least, long enough to see another morning.

“‘Night, Davey,” Jack breathes, and then blows out the candle, and the world plunges into darkness. -

iii. 1899

In the months after the strike ends, Jack always ends up here.

He’ll tuck the little ones into bed and then he’ll cross the Manhattan streets in the dark, make his way to the fire escape and climb the ladder and the stairs until he’s beside Davey’s window. He’ll knock twice on the glass, and then Davey will come, will always come—sometimes carrying something warm to drink, tea or milk sweetened with honey, and always with those bright, bright eyes.

Those are the nights when Jack thinks he’s known this forever. He doesn’t believe in fate or fairy tales, but the first time that Davey kisses him, raw and desperate and loving, the warmth that courses through him is so achingly familiar that he wonders if maybe this is all he’s ever known—Davey’s hands and Davey’s eyes and Davey’s mouth against his in the dark.

Jack thinks he will burst from it, sometimes. Like remembering will split open his seams and all the love will come spilling out of his chest at once. So it surprises him when Davey is the first to say it.

“We’ve done this before, haven’t we,” he says, quiet, a little desperate, their mouths already close enough that Jack would hardly have to move to bridge the distance. It’s not a question, really, and suddenly he is overwhelmed with the knowledge that Davey remembers too.

Jack finds Davey’s hands on his waist, where he’s tracing the scar on Jack’s hip, and laces their fingers together. “Seems like,” he breathes. Davey exhales with him, their lungs moving in time with each other. “I think we’s known each other a long time.”

“Do you think it’s always been like this?” Davey asks, and Jack wonders. Wonders if there was ever a time when things were different, when they were made for something more than dark corners and stolen kisses. Wonders if they’ll ever be able to love with the sun on their faces.

“I dunno,” Jack says, truthful, searches for Davey’s eyes in the dark and finds them already latched on his. “I hope we always found each other, though.”

When Davey kisses him this time, it’s soft and reverent, something like a prayer or maybe Jack’s name on his lips. “Me too,” he says quietly, and Jack is breathless. “I don’t know what I’d do if we didn’t.” -

iv. 1942

This town might’ve been beautiful, once.

Davey thinks, if he closes his eyes, he can picture the way it was before the bombs fell—bright colors and curving archways and laughter in the streets. Most everything is rubble now. They’re hidden behind the ruins of what used to be a church, the stone cracked and dirty beneath their feet, and it feels like this is where the world has ended. Like the sky fell, right here, and now they’re standing at the site of the apocalypse.

In the deathly silence, Jack reaches for his hand and laces their fingers together. Davey’s thumb traces the curve of his wrist, seeking his pulse, and finds it beating there, strong and fast. It’s enough to ground him. Enough to remind him that they’re still alive.

There’s a cruel sort of irony in the fact that the middle of a war zone is the only place they can be like this, open palmed, their affection splayed out in front of them. The only others who have been with them since the dust settled are Kit and Race, who are maybe the only people besides Jack that Davey trusts here. When Race had discovered them for the first time, he’d just grinned and told them he was happy they’d found each other. Kit had pulled his cap low over his auburn curls and said vaguely, “We all have secrets,” and left it at that. Like there was nothing more to be said.

Davey is sort of selfishly relieved that it’s the four of them together at the end of it, if it has to end at all.

He can’t see any other way out of this. It’s hard to know how long they’ve been holding their breath, but they can’t do this forever; sooner or later one of the German soldiers who have taken hold of the city will find the shallow crevice in the wall where they’re hidden, and then it will all at once be over. Their lives extinguished with as much fanfare as a match plunged into snow.

“What are we going to do?” Race says desperately, voice barely above an exhale. “We can’t die like this.”

“We’re not gonna.” Jack’s eyes are moving. Davey follows them, watches them dart across rubble and crumpling buildings to finally land upon a break in the formation of guards that lines the stone wall across from the church. Beyond it is woods—cover—but in between the four of them and the opening are half a dozen or so soldiers. Jack nods towards it anyway. “There’s our out.”

Kit shakes his head. “We’ll never make it. They’ll be on us before we’re halfway across.”

“Not if someone draws their fire.”

Davey’s stomach bottoms out. Jack is already slinging his gun into his hands, mouth fixated in this sharp, determined line, ignoring Kit’s quiet hiss of, “Jack, no.” It’s clear what’s running through his head and Davey can’t, won’t let it happen, not after everything—he seizes Jack’s collar and pushes him back against the wall.

“Jeez, Davey, I was gonna kiss you goodbye—” Jack starts, half-laughing under his breath, and Davey doesn’t let him finish.

“Don’t,” he spits, surprising himself as much as Jack with the venom in his voice. “Don’t be an idiot, Kelly, you can’t—I’m not gonna let you do this. We all get out together or none of us do.”

Jack puts his hands over Davey’s, astonishingly gentle in sharp contrast to the hard, flinty look in his eyes. It’s only then that Davey realizes he’s shaking. “There’s not a lot of options here, sweetheart,” he says, and his lips around the pet name are loving and soft instead of teasing and Davey’s heart stammers despite it all. “You’s got a family, ‘n I told you I’d get you home to them—”

“You’re my family too,” Davey breathes. “I can’t lose you.”

And then Jack kisses him, fervent, and the air between them is suddenly this searing, volatile thing. Davey knots his fingers in Jack’s uniform, tastes smoke and sweat and a boy he’s loved for a lifetime and longer. He thinks, I love him and we found each other and please, god, don’t let this be it, and then it is over and Jack is crying. Davey is, too, but he’s only aware of this when Jack brushes his thumbs under his eyes and presses their foreheads together.

“I love you, Davey,” he says, with a smile filled with heartbreak. “And I promise you, I’ll find you again.”

And then suddenly Davey is the one shoved against the wall and Jack is running, and Davey watches Race make a desperate grab for his arm and miss, watches Jack barrel blindly into open air. Kit’s hand is over his mouth before the scream rips from his throat. He claws at it wildly, animalistic as Kit drags him towards the cracked stone wall and his ears ring with the sound of gunfire. He feels half-drowned and burning, the earth crumbling under his feet, the sky caving in above him.

“Jack, Jack—” he’s still saying when Kit lets him go on the other side, his voice high and empty and already doomed.

“I know,” Kit hushes him, tears cutting tracks in the dirt on his face. Race clutches his cap against his chest with white knuckles. “David, I know. We have to keep moving.”

He thinks he will shatter if he tries. “Jack,” Davey chokes out once more, like it’ll save him, and then the shots cease and everything ends at once. -

v. 2020

Drawing the boy from his dreams is muscle memory, by now.

Jack thinks he could do it with his eyes screwed shut, that even blind, his hands would know the straight line of the boy’s nose, the curve of his mouth, the softness behind his eyes. There’s not a name to go with the face, just the sound of a laugh and a feeling—a taste like honey and sunlight and home. A weight in his chest like he’s missing something.

Kath teases him relentlessly for being in love with someone that he’s never met. In the end, though, she’s the one who compiles the drawings in a portfolio and lands him a university scholarship, and in doing so she’s the one to start it all.

The campus seems to exist separately from everything else, tucked away in a bright little corner of the city. It’s greener here than anywhere that Jack has ever been. Everything is vivid, painted with watercolors, and he loves it instantly, thinks this is the kind of place for new beginnings. Where he can shed the heavy coat of all the things he’s collected through his life and start again.

Everything changes like this: he’s caught up in staring at the mural on the side of a nearby building, and the boy two paces in front of him is lost in a book, and neither of them know what’s about to happen. Neither of them know that in just moments, the world will pause for a breath and there will be this great crescendo in the music and nothing will ever be the same again—not, at least, until they collide.

It’s fate and it’s destiny and it’s a mess of Jack’s art supplies scattered on the sidewalk. A combination of swear words and apologies tumble from both their mouths as they bend down to shove everything back into the case, and then the boy hands him a tube of paint the color of the sea and Jack looks up and his breath catches in his throat.

“Jack?”

“It’s you,” he says, and that’s all that it takes, really.

Davey half-tackles him into the grass and Jack is laughing and sure that he’s only just learned how to breathe. Like he’s gone his whole life without oxygen and is tasting it now, suddenly, in the smell of Davey’s detergent and the sound of his voice and the feeling of Davey’s hands in his hair.

Everything comes rushing back.

“Is this real? Are you real?” Davey demands, his eyes shining.

“I’m here, Davey.” He lifts a hand to cup Davey’s jaw. “I’m real.”

Davey gives this strangled sort of noise, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You found me,” he says, and then he smiles, and Jack can’t help but think that his drawings could never do this justice. The boy in front of him is bright and holy and wonderfully, wonderfully present, his eyes the kind of color that all the paints in the world couldn’t capture.

Jack grins up at him, feeling warmth take over his chest and run down to the tips of his fingers. “I keep my promises,” he says, and Davey is still laughing when he kisses him.

And if Jack has spent his whole life yearning, it was worth it. Centuries of light burst behind his eyes, and there’s a whole future laid out in front of them—this is not the one where they’ll be left bruised and battered by streets or by war, no—this life will be kinder to them. Softer.

August sunlight bathes them in gold, and they’ve found each other. They’ve loved and lost but now they’re here, together, with their hands intertwined again—and oh, this time, they won’t ever let go.

[thotsonthebible]

I Am Not Ashamed

Romans 1.16

For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes, to the Jew first and also to the Greek.

Sometimes a verse of Scripture just grabs you and won't let go.  I had just started re-reading Romans, which is a book chock-full of meaty passages, when this verse grabbed me.  It's been on my mind all week.

I even found the slow chant by The Liberated Wailing Wall bobbing to the surface of my mind, causing me to make my own declaration in song at odd moments.

Think about the words: 'I'm ashamed of my sins and the sins of my people—but I am not ashamed of the gospel…'  Shouldn't that be the fervent declaration of our hearts!  Or do we try to blend in with the world and hide our faith so as not to draw ridicule and scorn?

Jesus had a few things to say about that.

'You are the light of the world.  A city set on a hill cannot be hidden; nor does anyone light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house.  Let your light shine before men in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.'  —Matthew 5.14-16 (NASB)

Notice the purpose of practicing your faith openly: not so men might admire you, but so they will glorify the Father!

Jesus also spoke about those who were ashamed to be associated with Him.

'For whoever is ashamed of Me and My words in this adulterous and sinful generation, the Son of Man will also be ashamed of him when He comes in the glory of His Father with the holy angels.'  —Mark 8.38 (NASB)

In His letter to Timothy, the apostle Paul emphasizes the importance of acknowledging our Lord and the gifts God has given us.

For God has not given us a spirit of timidity, but of power and love and discipline.  Therefore do not be ashamed of our Lord or of me, His prisoner, but join with me in suffering for the gospel according to the power of God… For this reason I also suffer these things, but I am not ashamed; for I know Whom I have believed and I am convinced that He is able to guard what I have entrusted to Him until that day.  —2 Timothy 1.7-8, 12 (NASB)

John wrote of His appearance:

And in the middle of the lampstands I saw one like a Son of Man, clothed in a robe reaching to the feet, and girded across His chest with a golden sash.  His head and hair were white like white wool, like snow; and His eyes were like a flame of fire.  His feet were like burnished bronze, when it has been made to glow in a furnace, and His voice was like the sound of many waters.  In His right hand, He held seven stars, and out of His mouth came a sharp two-edged sword; and His face was like the sun shining in its strength.  When I saw Him, I fell at His feet like a dead man. And He placed His right hand on me, saying, 'Do not be afraid; I am the first and the last, and the living One; I was dead and, behold, I am alive forevermore; and I have the keys of death and of Hades.'  —Revelation 1.13-18 (NASB)

God told the prophet Isaiah:

'Before Me there was no god formed, and there will be none after Me.  I, even I, am the LORD, and there is no savior besides Me.'  —Isaiah 43.10-11 (NASB)

Jesus Himself said that after the Tribulation, He will return in power and glory.

'And then the sign of the Son of Man will appear in the sky, and then all the tribes of the earth will mourn, and they will see the Son of Man coming on the clouds of the sky with power and great glory.'  —Matthew 24.30 (NASB)

John wrote:

Behold, He is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see Him, even those who pierced Him; and all the tribes of the earth will mourn over him.  So it is to be.  Amen.  —Revelation 1.7 (NASB)

Of His return in glory, Matthew Henry had this to say:  'What a figure the blessed Jesus will make in that day!  Did we believe it, we should never be ashamed of Him or His words now.'

We serve the Lord of lords!  We serve the soon-returning King!  How, then, can we be ashamed of our glorious Lord or of His words?!

[dfroza]

A written book from an eyewitness

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 1st chapter of the book of Revelation:

[Prologue]

This is the revelation of Jesus the Anointed, the Liberating King: an account of visions and a heavenly journey. God granted this to Him so He would show His followers the realities that are already breaking into the world and soon will be fulfilled. Through His heavenly messenger, He revealed to His servant John signs and insight into these mysteries. John, in turn, gave witness to the word of God and to the glorious truth revealed about Jesus, the Anointed One, the Chosen Ruler, by carefully describing everything he saw.

Blessings come to those who read and proclaim these words aloud; blessings come to those who listen closely and put the prophetic words recorded here into practice. The finale is approaching.

I, John, to the seven churches in Asia:

May you experience God’s favor and rest in the peace that comes from the One who is, the One who was, and the One who is coming; from the seven Spirits, the Perfect Spirit, constantly before God’s throne; and from Jesus the Anointed, the Witness who is true and faithful, the first to emerge from death’s cold womb, the chosen Ruler over all the kings and rulers of the earth.

To the One who loves us and liberated us from the grip of our evil deeds through His very own blood and who established us to be His kingdom and priests for God, His Father. May glory and power be His throughout all the ages. Amen.

Look! He is coming with the clouds, in glory.

He will capture every eye,

Even of those who pierced Him through.

All the nations of the earth will be pierced with grief when He appears.

Yes, may all this be done according to His plan. Amen.

Lord God: I am the Alpha and the Omega, [the very beginning and the very end,] the One who is, the One who was, and the One who is coming: the All Powerful.

I, John, your brother who shares with you this journey in persecution and the establishment of the Kingdom and endurance in Jesus, was on the island called Patmos because of the ministry of the word of God and my testimony about Jesus. I was in the Spirit on the Lord’s Day (the first day of the week), and I heard a voice behind me. It sounded like the blast of a trumpet.

A Voice: [I am the Alpha and the Omega, the very beginning and the very end.] Make a book of what you see, write it down, and send it to the seven churches [which are in Asia]: Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia, and Laodicea.

When I turned around to see what sort of voice this was that was addressing me, I saw seven golden lampstands. And among the lampstands, I saw One like the Son of Man right in front of me dressed in a long robe. Across His chest was draped a golden sash. His head and hair were pure white, white as wool and white as snow; His eyes blazed like a fiery flame; His feet gleamed like brightly polished bronze, purified to perfection in a furnace; His voice filled the air and sounded like a roaring waterfall. He held seven stars in His right hand, from His mouth darted a sharp double-edged sword, and His face shone a brilliant light, like the blinding sun.

When I saw Him, I fell at His feet. It was as though I were dead. But He reached down and placed His right hand on me.

The One: This is not the time for fear; I am the First and the Last, and I am the living One. I entered the realm of the dead; but see, I am alive now and for all the ages—even ages to come. [Amen.] I possess the keys to open the prison of death and hades.

Now write down all you have seen—all that is and all that will be. Regarding the mystery of the seven stars you saw in My right hand and of the seven golden lampstands: the seven stars are the heavenly messengers who preside over the seven churches, and the seven lampstands are the seven churches themselves.

The Book of Revelation, Chapter 1 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 8th chapter of the book of Ezra that documents the journey to Jerusalem:

These are the tribal leaders and the genealogies of those who traveled with me from Babylon to Jerusalem in the reign of King Artaxerxes:

From the priestly families: Gershom of the Phinehas family and Daniel of the Ithamar family. From the royal family: Hattush of the David family from the line of Shecaniah. From the lay families: Zechariah of the Parosh family and 150 men from that line, Eliehoenai (son of Zerahiah) of the Pahath-moab family and 200 men, Shecaniah (son of Jahaziel) of the Zattu family and 300 men, Ebed (son of Jonathan) of the Adin family and 50 men, Jeshaiah (son of Athaliah) of the Elam family and 70 men, Zebadiah (son of Michael) of the Shephatiah family and 80 men, Obadiah (son of Jehiel) of the Joab family and 218 men, Shelomith (son of Josiphiah) of the Bani family and 160 men, Zechariah (son of Bebai) of the Bebai family and 28 men, Johanan (son of Hakkatan) of the Azgad family and 110 men, Eliphelet, Jeuel, and Shemaiah of the Adonikam family and 60 men, Uthai and Zabbud of the Bigvai family and 70 men.

I gathered everyone together on the banks of the river to Ahava, and we camped there for 3 days. As I reviewed the people and the priests, I noticed that no Levites had joined our group. I sent 9 tribal leaders (Eliezer, Ariel, Shemaiah, Elnathan, Jarib, Elnathan, Nathan, Zechariah, and Meshullam) and 2 teachers (Joiarib and Elnathan) to Iddo, the tribal leader in Casiphia, with instructions for Iddo, his coworkers, and the temple servants in Casiphia to bring ministers to join our caravan and work in the True God’s temple. Just as the True God intended, they brought Sherebiah and 17 of his sons and brothers, all of whom were descendants of Mahli (son of Levi, son of Israel); Hashabiah and Jeshaiah and 18 of their sons and brothers, all of whom were descendants of Merari; and 220 temple servants, a position David and the princes had created to serve the Levites, who are listed.

I declared that the whole caravan should fast by the river of Ahava, humbling ourselves before our True God and asking for a safe journey for ourselves, our children, and our possessions. We needed His protection more than ever since I had been ashamed to ask the king for a military escort of soldiers and horses on our journey after telling him, “Our True God takes care of anyone who follows Him, but He uses His power and anger against anyone who abandons Him.” We knew fasting and following our True God would ensure that He helped us travel safely to Jerusalem—and He did.

I designated 12 priests and Levites, including Sherebiah and Hashabiah, to care for the freewill offerings during our trip. I measured the silver and gold and counted the vessels, which King Artaxerxes, his cabinet, his princes, and the Jews in Babylon had sent to offer at our True God’s house, so no one could be accused of stealing the riches. We carried a tremendous offering back to Jerusalem: 25 tons of silver coins; 7,500 pounds of silver vessels; 7,500 pounds of gold coins; 20 gold bowls weighing 19 pounds; and 2 shiny copper vessels (as valuable as gold).

Ezra (commissioning the priests and Levites): Everything dedicated to Him is holy to the Eternal: you, the vessels for the temple, and the silver and gold for the freewill offering to the Eternal God of our ancestors. Guard these things until you reach the rooms of the Eternal’s temple. There, the head priests, the Levites, and the tribal leaders already living in Jerusalem will weigh them and make sure the same amount reached the temple as left Babylon.

The priests and Levites accepted their commission and carried the carefully measured goods to our True God’s temple in Jerusalem. We left the banks of the Ahava River on the 12th day of the 1st month. On our 4-month journey to Jerusalem, the True God did indeed protect us—He saved us from any enemies or skirmishes along our journey.

Once we reached Jerusalem, we rested 3 days. On the 4th day, we took the measured silver, gold, and vessels to our True God’s house. There, Meremoth (son of Uriah the priest), Eleazer (son of Phineas the priest), and the Levites Jozabad (son of Jeshua) and Noadiah (son of Binnui) counted, weighed, and inventoried everything. Then the exiles who had joined our caravan and left their captivity gave these burnt offerings to the Eternal God of Israel: 12 bulls (1 for each tribe of Israel), 96 rams, 77 lambs, and 12 male goats (as a sin offering for each tribe of Israel).

Meanwhile, they delivered the king’s command that the leaders of the provinces west of the Euphrates should fully support the Jews and the True God’s temple. Those governors obeyed the command.

The Book of Ezra, Chapter 8 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for friday, march 31 of 2023 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about prayer & patience:

If you have earnestly prayed but are tempted to think that God is not responding, remind yourself that every prayer uttered to God from a heart that trusts in His redemptive love given in Messiah is indeed answered, and not a syllable goes unheeded or will be lost before heaven (Psalm 145:18; Matt. 7:7; Matt. 21:22). Just as we earnestly believe that justice will eventually be manifest and all wrongs fully redressed at the bar of Eternal Judgment -- so we understand that every utterance of the heart of faith finds compassionate response from the heart of heaven. Indeed the essence of teshuvah (return, “repentance”) is heartfelt prayer, and therefore when we bring honest words and turn back to accept the truth, God’s mercy and compassion are decisively evoked (1 John 1:9). The most important thing is not to lose faith, however, but to believe that God hears you and will indeed answer the cry of your heart. Decide to believe and settle your expectation. Never give up hope. God is faithful; He will do it (1 Thess. 5:24).

King David asked for God’s direct and miraculous intervention to heal his soul: “Cause me to me hear your lovingkindness in the morning, for in You do I trust. Cause me to know the way I should go, for I lift up my soul to you” (Psalm 143:8). David’s request was that he would be empowered to hear God’s loving voice calling to his heart at the start the day, to be assured of God’s kindness and favor. Note that the Hebrew verbs used in this verse are both hiphal imperatives, implying that God is the agent or cause of the action. We lift up our heart in expectation, understanding that the LORD alone is the One who is able to draw us near to Him: “You [God] cause me to hear... You [God] cause me to know...”

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

========

Psalm 143:8 reading:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm143-8-jjp.mp3

Hebrew page pdf:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm143-8-lesson.pdf

3.30.23 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

March 31, 2023

Crucified and Alive

“I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God.” (Galatians 2:20)

This verse gives us two principles concerning the fleshly nature and our new life in Christ. First, we are admonished to consider ourselves “crucified with Christ.” The verb crucified (synestauromai) is in the perfect tense, indicating a past event with an ongoing action. In other words, we were crucified with Christ at the new birth and, as one theologian said, are “in the state of being crucified with Christ.” Thus, we are to consider our fleshly nature as in a position of being put to death. Romans 6:6 says, “Our old man is crucified with him, that the body of sin might be destroyed, that henceforth we should not serve sin.”

But the miracle of new birth and ongoing sanctification involve much more than the death of our sinful nature. Paul noted previously in Romans 6:5, “For if we have been planted together in the likeness of his death, we shall be also in the likeness of his resurrection.” Indeed, believers are new creations in Christ Jesus. “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new” (2 Corinthians 5:17). In regard to this new creation, Paul admonishes us to “put on the new man, which after God is created in righteousness and true holiness” (Ephesians 4:24).

These gospel mysteries and empowering truths should be at the core of our theological convictions. Our spiritual state is our identification with Christ in the redemptive truths of His crucifixion, burial, and resurrection. JPT

[madpanda75]

“The Honeymooners” Part of The Romantics Series

I’m back, my loves! The incredible @thatesqcrush requested the prompt: "I could just pull your bikini bottoms to the side, no one would even notice.” for my Romantics Series from this deliciously smutty list. Forgive me if my writing is a little rusty. ❤️

NSFW (a little sex on the beach, anyone? 😜😉)

“Becks, I’m going to murder you,” you growled, opening your suitcase only to discover your trusty basic black one piece bathing suit had been replaced by the tiniest white string bikini you had ever seen. In fact, with the exception of your toothbrush, you didn’t recognize any of the items in your suitcase. It quickly became apparent that your oldest friend had swapped out all of your clothes with skimpy skin-tight dresses and lingerie that would make a porn star blush. This was the first and last time you would ever ask Becks to help you pack. On the inside pocket of your suitcase there was a note:

If you want to let them know that there is steak for dinner, you gotta let them hear it sizzle. Enjoy St. Barts! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! XOXOXO Becks

You couldn’t help but snort a laugh after reading her words of wisdom. Holding the itsy bitsy swimwear up to your body, you looked yourself over in the mirror. A soft smile tugged at your lips when you spied the wedding ring on your finger.

It took twenty years to finally bring you and Rafael together. To say it was a whirlwind romance would be an understatement. A month after you reconnected at your fateful college reunion, Rafael proposed. It wasn’t too much later that a priest was pronouncing you man and wife in front of family and friends. When deciding on where to spend your honeymoon, your husband suggested St. Barts and you were all too eager to agree, wanting nothing more than to sip cocktails and lounge around in paradise with the love of your life. Of course at the time, you hadn’t envisioned doing all that dressed in two napkins and dental floss.

You let out a long sigh, trying to decide how you were going to pull this off when a knock interrupted your thoughts. “Mi amor? Everything ok in there?” Rafael asked through the door.

“Everything’s fine,” you lied. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Figuring that you didn’t have any other choice other than going to the beach naked, you changed into the swimsuit. Much to your surprise, the bikini didn’t look half bad on you. The white mesh top had a sun floral applique which strategically covered your nipples while the cheeky Brazilian bottom accentuated your ass. You thought you looked pretty sexy in it. Sure having your bare butt cheeks almost all out on display was stepping way out of your comfort zone, but wasn’t Becks always telling you to show off your body more and after all you were on your honeymoon. If there was ever an appropriate time for sexy revealing outfits, this would be it.

Looking yourself over one more time in the mirror, you spritzed some beach spray in your hair, put on your cover up, and left, anxious to see what Rafael’s reaction would be with your choice of swimwear.

*****

You plopped your bag down on one of the hotel lounge chairs overlooking the sandy white beach. “This is the perfect spot.”

Rafael sat down on the seat next to you and shed his shirt, glancing wistfully between you and the brilliant turquoise ocean that lay before him. “I know that I was the one talking up the beautiful St. Barts beaches but now that I’m here with you.” He reached out and pulled you down onto his lap causing you to squeal in surprise. “I’d much rather be naked, laying in bed with you and worshipping every square inch of your body,” Rafael practically growled in your ear, planting a kiss on the crook of your neck.

You whimpered, unable to resist his touch. “I promise we will but right now I want to spend an afternoon at the beach with my husband. Besides, you can still touch me,” you purred, reaching your arm back to wrap around his neck. “Why do you think I picked a spot away from all the other guests?”

“I love the way your mind works,” Rafael whispered, planting a searing hot kiss on you, teasingly tracing your lips with his tongue before reluctantly letting you go. “It is a gorgeous day though.” He laid back and relaxed, looking up at the sky, the bright sun warming his skin when he spied you taking off your coverup, revealing your sexy swimsuit. Rafael popped up out of his chair, his jaw all but dropping into the sand. “Wow,” he breathed.

“See something you like,” you replied nonchalantly with a wicked grin on your face.

“You could say that.” Rafael removed his sunglasses, drinking you in from head to toe, every drop of blood in his body pooling in his groin. “Is...is that a new swimsuit?” He stammered.

You blushed. “Yeah, Becks repacked my suitcase. What do you think, Papi?” You slowly twirled, showing off your scantily clad body.

Rafael was mesmerized. He shook his head in disbelief, unable to fathom that this seductive temptress standing before him was his wife. “I think I should send Becks a thank you card.”

“I’m happy you approve.” You reached into your bag and pulled out the sunscreen, handing it over to Rafael. “You know, counselor. I think I need some help with my sunscreen. I just can’t get to those hard to reach places.” You pouted, glancing up at him from beneath your lashes.

“I think I can lend a hand,” Rafael replied with a smirk, motioning to the chair for you to lay down. You happily obliged, rolling over on your stomach, exposing your cheeky backside.

Rafael softly groaned at the sight. He squirted some lotion onto your back and began massaging it in. Now it was your turn to groan, feeling him work out knots you didn’t even know you had. You were literally putty in his hands. “Mmmm, did anyone ever tell you that you’ve got magic fingers.”

Before Rafael could respond, the cabana waiter approached you both. “Good afternoon, can I get you two something to drink?”

You turned towards the young man and smiled. “Can I get a glass of scotch with a teeny umbrella in it?”  

Rafael snorted a laugh at your frilly accoutrement. “I’ll also have a scotch, minus the umbrella.”

Once the waiter left to get your drinks, Rafael continued to massage you, his big hands moving to caress the backs of your thighs, slowly inching towards your center. “You’re so sexy. Do you have any idea how bad I want you right now?” He said in a husky voice. “I could just pull your bikini bottoms to the side, no one would even notice.”

You softly moaned in response, feeling his index finger brush up against your slit, already you were beginning to get wet. Tilting your head up, you captured his lips with yours, turning your body around and pulling him down on top of you. Rafael growled against your mouth, his tongue brushing up against yours, deepening the kiss. It was out of character for both of you to be this blatant about PDA, especially in broad daylight in front of random strangers. Perhaps it was the gorgeous beach setting or maybe it was the new alluring swimsuit. Whatever the reason, neither of you could keep your hands off each other and you didn’t care who saw.

Just when you were about to kick it up to an R-rated lip lock, the waiter came back with your order, clearing his throat to get your attention. Rafael sat up, covering himself with a towel to hide his growing erection. “Thank you,” he grumbled, not appreciating the interruption. Taking both drinks, he handed over yours.

The waiter stood there, his eyes glued to your chest while you happily sipped on your drink. “Will...will...you be needing anything else?” He asked.

“Nothing comes to mind,” Rafael curtly replied, blocking you from the waiter’s prying eyes. “You can charge the drinks to the honeymoon villa. The name is under Barba. Mr. and Mrs. Barba,” he emphasized, protectively winding an arm around your neck.

“Yes, sir.” The waiter blushed from being caught ogling you and quickly scampered away.

“Babe, behave,” you playfully scolded.

“That guy was practically leering at you.” Rafael glanced between you and where the waiter had run off to.

You shrugged and adjusted your bikini top in case of a potential nip slip. “Well to be fair, I’m practically naked. Besides, you know there's no one I would rather be with than you,” you softly said, running your fingers through his hair. “You’re my world, Mr. Barba.”

“And you’re mine, Mrs. Barba.” He cupped your face and kissed you soft and sweet.

You rested your forehead against his, letting out a contented sigh before getting a mischievous glint in your eye. “Race you to the water!” You jumped up and ran to the beach, splashing in the surf.

Rafael ran after you, grabbing you by the waist and twirling you around. The sound of your laughter took him back twenty years, making him feel like a teenager in love all over again.

*****

Your eyes fluttered open, a cool breeze whipping across your tanned skin. You stretched your limbs, feeling relaxed and rested from your nap after spending a glorious afternoon with your husband. The sun was just beginning to set. With the exception of a few beach stragglers, everyone had gone, leaving you both alone.

Glancing next to you was Rafael, still fast asleep in his lounge chair, the book he had been reading lay abandoned on his chest. You couldn’t help but stare, taking in the slight definition of his arms, his soft belly, all the way down to his muscular calves. He was bronzed by the sun and absolutely beautiful, strong yet so cuddly. The perfect man. Your perfect man. You almost had to pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

Sliding off your chair, you moved to straddle him, gently leaving a trail of soft open-mouthed kisses on his neck, while your fingers ran through the smattering of hair across his chest. You inhaled deeply, the fresh earthy smell of the beach combined with a scent that was uniquely him drove you mad with lust. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” you whispered in his ear, playfully biting down on his lobe.

Rafael stirred and opened his eyes, meeting your gaze. “Hi,” he said, giving you a sleepy smile.

“Hi,” you smiled back and nuzzled your nose against his.

He sat up and stared at you, gently running his hands over your body. The sunset almost made it look like you were glowing, brilliant hues of yellow, orange, and red streaked your skin. Your hair wild and wavy. You were like a goddess and Rafael was all too willing to worship at your feet.

Moving his hands to the back of your neck, he pulled you down for a passion-fueled kiss, his tongue parting your lips, caressing your own. You sighed against his mouth, matching his intensity as you kissed him back.

Threading his fingers in your hair, Rafael tugged your head to the side, exposing your neck, painting your skin with his tongue, You tasted sweet and salty, the ocean still clinging to your body. With his free hand, he exposed one of your breasts. His mouth hovered over it, tracing your nipple with his tongue before sucking on the hardened bud. “Oh, Rafael,” you gasped, arching into his touch.

He pulled your bikini bottoms to the side, trailing a single digit against your slit. “Wanna finish what we started earlier?” He purred, slowly circling your clit.

“Yes, please,” you whimpered.

Rafael teased your entrance, smirking while you squirmed against him before sliding a finger inside your dripping sex. “Fuck,” he groaned. “You have the hottest pussy, mi amor.”

You moaned, feeling Rafael stroke your walls. Adding a second finger, he thrusted them in and out of your sheath, rubbing your clit with his thumb. You squeezed your eyes shut, your head rolling forward, already being pulled to the edge.

Rafael lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His sea-foam green eyes were practically black. “Look at me,” he growled. “I wanna watch you come for me.” You nodded your head, struggling to keep your focus on him. Rafael began to move faster, crooking his fingers every time he plunged inside you. He was transfixed, watching you fall apart from his hand, your face completely wrecked.

You grabbed his left hand and brought his ring finger up to your mouth, your tongue sliding over the cool metal of his wedding band, your eyes never leaving his. One final crook had you shuddering and moaning around his digit.

“That’s it, baby girl. Come hard for me.” Rafael felt a surge of wetness around his fingers, stroking you through your release. Your body fell slack against him, your breathing labored as you pulled his ring finger out of your mouth. He slowly removed his fingers from you and slid his digits across your lips, glossing them with your essence. You stared at him with hooded lust-filled eyes, licking your lips, your taste flooding your mouth.

Rafael groaned at the sight. “Eres tan sabroso,” he whispered, sucking the rest of your juices off his hand. He kissed you hard, your tongues battling for dominance. His erection pressed between your bodies.

You freed his hard hot cock and dragged your wet folds against his length, whining when you felt his crown brush up against your swollen clit, his precum mixing with the remnants of your orgasm. Aligning his member with your sheath, you sank down on him, both of you groaning when your hips made contact.

After a moment, you lifted off him until just the tip remained before impaling yourself on him again. His thrusts were slow and deep. Your slick muscles gripping him tight, giving you the fullness you craved. Rafael tugged you down for a kiss, both of you moaning and grunting with effort into each other’s mouths, your breaths mingling, desperate to be as close as humanly possible. You were each other’s soulmates. Each other’s everything. You pulled back, watching how his face contorted in pleasure matching the expression on your own face.

“I love you,” you breathed, kissing any part of him you could reach.

“I love you too,” he replied in a strained voice.

Having had enough of the exquisite torture of long languid strokes, he grabbed your ass, urging you to ride him more insistently. You bounced up and down on his cock, his fingertips digging into your flesh as he guided you down on him. The sounds of the waves crashing against the shore drowned out your collective moans.

“Raf, I’m so close. Come with me. I wanna feel you come inside me. Please,” you begged, grinding down on him harder.

He shuddered, feeling your walls begin their tell-tale dance against his shaft. Planting a foot on the sand, he bucked up into your sheath, driving into you over and over again. “Raf….Raf...I...I,” you sobbed, mumbling incoherently. The love you felt for Rafael combined with the ecstasy you were experiencing washed over you, consumed you. Your body about to explode.

Rafael held you tight, your bodies pressed together, rocking against one another. “I’m here. I’m right here. I have you,” he panted. You both came simultaneously, biting into each other’s shoulders, muffling your mingled rapturous cries. You lost track of how long you stayed wrapped around each other, your chests heaving from exertion, sweat dripping off your bodies.

“What a way to start our honeymoon,” you said after a while, tracing the bite mark on his shoulder.

“What a way to start our life together.” Rafael smiled and ran his fingers across a similar bite mark he had left on you. The marks you made on each other were almost primal, a way of claiming the other person as if to tell the world you were his and he was yours. “So are there anymore surprises I should know about?” Rafael asked, teasingly snapping your bikini strap.

You giggled. “I may have a few more pieces tucked away in my bag that I’ll model for you later on tonight. But right now, can you just hold me?”

“Always,” he replied, kissing the top of your head. You nestled against his chest, placing your hand over the spot where his heart lay. Rafael held you close, running his fingers up and down your spine. Knowing that he got to spend the rest of his life with you in his arms made him feel like the luckiest man alive. You both laid there watching the sun sink below the horizon, neither of you ready to let that perfect moment go.

@glimmerglittergirl @southern-magnolia @sweetcannolicarisi @delia26 @obfuscateyummy @sass-and-suspenders @eclecticminded @thatesqcrush @katmstanton @amirightcounsellor @beltzboys2015-blog @letty-o @sonnysdoll @lyssa1385 @sweetsummertime99 @burningsorr0ws @gibbs274 @izzythefanfreak @riodallas @babypink224221 @livxrafa @esparza-army @obsessionprofessional @ottosuricato @raulmonamour @tropes-and-tales @thecraziestcrayon @dreila03 @melsquared79

[notapaladin]

now i don’t take pleasure in a man’s pain

hi....did you know....regicide can actually be SO romantic and is a great way to confess your feelings to your crush? now you do! i had a fucking galaxy-brain idea based around the fact that uh...historically, we do not KNOW how tizoc died, but most historians blame his brother ahuizotl. me looking at the obsblood universe: It's Free Real Estate.

you do NOT know how hard it was to resist titling this “is this talk of love or regicide?”

on ao3

It had been so easy to make it look like an accident. Acatl thought he should probably be concerned about that—after all, if he could exploit this smallest crack in the Revered Speaker’s magical protections others surely could as well, and that would be a risk for Teomitl—but such feelings had fallen by the wayside long ago. Even if he hadn’t despised Tizoc-tzin beyond words for his own personal reasons (that peasant’s daughter burned in his heart like a coal), there was simply no other path left but this. Tizoc’s crimes had piled up like stones, and someone had to bury him under their weight before they broke the Empire’s back. There was only as much justice as he could make.

(One: the clergy of Tlaloc.)

(Two: the ghosts.)

(Three: the Great Temple, cracked open like a ribcage with—with things pouring out of it—)

The Empire wouldn’t hold. Not with a Revered Speaker barely able to channel a glimmer of Huitzilpochtli’s light, a man so callow and craven he was unable to even meet his god face-to-face and beg for his favor. Not with their enemies baying for blood, not with the stars still glinting in the sky at dawn. The boundaries slipped a little further every day, and when the Great Temple’s latest construction had begun to fill with blood and starlight Acatl had known what he had to do to keep them steady.

It was a small spell, a tiny drop of poison. Something barely noticeable. Something that greater and more powerful men, used to magic that lit up the sky, would never think to look for.

(Something that would grant Teomitl the crown he deserved.)

Tizoc’s long-overdue death was approaching fast—a matter of days, the healers said—and Acatl was free to make concerned noises at the right times, to pat Mihmatini’s shoulder when he saw her after another long shift of trying to halt the Revered Speaker’s slow decline (to feel a little bad about how much work it was making for her, but not much), to stand in front of Quenami and Acamapichtli with his face like stone. Yes, of course it was a shame. No, he couldn’t help, there was certainly nothing Mictlantecuhtli could do except hasten the Emperor’s end—oh, Acamapichtli’s spells weren’t having an effect either? How terribly unfortunate.

(Acamapichtli didn’t smile. He didn’t meet his eyes. But in the set of his jaw and the incline of his head, Acatl read Thank you.)

It would be soon. Acatl knew he’d feel it when it happened, and so he didn’t worry himself overmuch with keeping track. So long as he showed a placid face to the world, there was nothing to fear. An unworthy Revered Speaker would be dead and gone, and a far better one would take his place. He knew deep in his bones that Teomitl would be glorious, the radiance of Huitzilpochtli’s favor pulsing under his skin like a bright heartbeat. Time had polished his arrogance into calm authority and honed his edges like a Tarascan bronze knife; when he ascended the throne, the sun would shine brighter than it had even for his grandfather Itzcoatl. The Turquoise-and-Gold Crown would fit perfectly on his head, and Acatl would kneel with his heart full of joy.

(Full of—other emotions, too, which he would not name in daylight. Teomitl didn’t need to be burdened with that knowledge.)

And yet, for all that, the sound of his footsteps hurrying up the temple steps was the same as it had always been. Acatl took a breath and set his reed pen aside; he’d been noting down the names and clans of those lost to Tizoc’s latest folly, a mismanaged attempt at expanding the Great Temple that had come perilously close to cracking a set of very important wards. He could come back to it after he saw what Teomitl wanted. Maybe he misses me, breathed a hopeful part of his mind—it had been a few days since they’d had time to talk—but he quashed that line of thought before it could do any serious damage. He and his former student were friends, nothing else. Friends. If the merest touch settled on his skin like a brand, if he dreamed of something more, that was his own problem.

“Acatl-tzin.”

The entrance curtain shifted, less forcefully than it usually did, and Teomitl stood in the doorway. Backlit, he gleamed with the signs of his rank; his red cloak and loincloth shone like blood, his armbands like the sun, and he’d pulled his hair into a noble’s topknot with a headdress of quetzal feathers. It struck Acatl to the core. For a long moment all he could do was stare, but then he registered Teomitl’s serious expression and recalled himself. He hadn’t been Acatl-tzin in private for ages, unless matters were very important indeed. I should have known this wouldn’t be a social call. “What’s the matter?”

Teomitl let the curtain fall behind him. As he stepped inside, Acatl reflected that it really was a small room. “I…” His gaze flickered to the floor, briefly, and a muscle worked in his jaw as he met Acatl’s eyes again. “I have a question I hope you’d answer for me. Truthfully.”

Acatl swallowed. Something in his chest tightened nearly to the point of pain. Memories—a clasped hand, the heavy heat of a feverish body in his arms, the brush of fingers at a shared meal—zipped through his mind like thrown daggers. For years he’d barely even dared to look at Teomitl for too long, lest his thoughts show on his face. True, Teomitl was smart and observant, but he’d been careful. He forced words out past the hard knot of fear in his throat. “I’ll not lie to you, Teomitl. You know that.”

Teomitl took another step forward. The room was really too small. He made a motion as though to reach for Acatl before visibly drawing himself back, straightening his spine. “I do. But...you understand why I have to ask.”

Acatl held his ground. “I do.” I love you. I love you, and you’ll scorn me for it.

There was a long, slow breath and another flicker of averted eyes before Teomitl looked him in the face again. “Are you doing...all this...for the sake of the Fifth World?”

He had to make himself breathe. “I’m...not sure what you mean.”

Teomitl gestured, an angry, stabbing motion. “Tizoc.”

Oh. He was still breathing. His heart was still beating. But it was all feeling very, very far away. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands hard enough to draw blood; the pain grounded him enough to speak, though the words felt like they were being torn from his lungs. Don’t. Teomitl, please. “I.” Through supreme effort of will, he managed to keep his gaze focused in the general area of Teomitl’s face. “I don’t believe I ought to answer that. Why do you think I’m involved?”

“Oh, come on! You think I don’t know what even a trace of your magic feels like?!” It came out in an impatient huff. “You’ve taught me too well for that, Acatl-tzin. Quenami even asked me if I was doing it, and had the nerve to remind me that I wouldn’t gain the Southern Hummingbird’s favor that way, as though I’m not well aware of it! But of course, you wouldn’t have to worry about that. I only want to know—is this for the Fifth World, or not?”

He couldn’t speak. I promised never to lie to you. I promised you that. But for this… He could picture Teomitl’s reaction to the truth all too easily—the shock, the avoidance, the way their easy camaraderie would dissolve like mist.

Teomitl’s hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of his cloak by his shoulder; Acatl was too stunned to react as he stepped into his personal space, eyes dark and furious. “Is it, Acatl?!”

He closed his eyes, hating himself for it. Teomitl deserved Mihmatini, who spat in the face of fear; Acatl was too weak even to look at him while he held out his heart to be torn to shreds. My parents were right, after all. I’m a coward. But Teomitl had asked for the truth, and so he would give it to him. “Not—not only for the Fifth World, but for you.”

Silence descended, punctuated only by Teomitl’s harsh breathing and Acatl’s shaky ones. He felt more than heard his heart beat a frenetic tattoo in his chest.

He opened his mouth again—he knew he was rambling, but he couldn’t stop himself. Anything was better than this deadly void, and in any case Teomitl was between him and the nearest escape route. “He is a cruel, paranoid coward, and not fit to be Emperor. But you—you are. I know you; you’re brave and intelligent and your heart is so wide when you—when you love, and you’d lead the Empire to greatness. I’d—I would be so proud to serve you in any way you’d have me. I know it doesn’t excuse—“

“Acatl.”

Teomitl’s voice cracked halfway through his name, sounding more than a little desperate; he opened his eyes, and therefore he had a moment to brace himself as Teomitl breathed, “Shut up,” and pulled him into a hard, messy kiss.

The world stopped. There was Teomitl’s mouth on his—hot and wet and definitely with more teeth than Acatl had really imagined would be involved in kissing—and the faint shimmer of Huitzilpochtli’s magic that always accompanied him felt like sunlight on Acatl’s skin. Sunlight through the water, green as jade, some dizzy part of him thought with half a memory of Chalchiuhtlicue, but then Teomitl slid his tongue into his mouth and he forgot how to think entirely. If Teomitl hadn’t still had a deathgrip on his cloak, he might have reeled.

(He hadn’t dreamed about that.)

And then, very suddenly, Teomitl wrenched himself away. His mouth was very red, the working part of Acatl’s brain noted, and his eyes were wide as a deer’s. “I—I’m so sorry. Acatl-tzin, I wasn’t thinking…”

He should probably say something (Gods, I love you), or move (pull him into his arms, never let him go), but he couldn’t make himself do either one. He lived in a new world, one where Teomitl had just kissed him, and it needed some time to settle on its foundations. Teomitl. Life returned to his fingers first, twitching at his sides—then his arms, and he managed to lift a disbelieving hand and trace his own lips, marveling at the way they still tingled, the way he could still feel the impression of that mouth against his own—

Only to realize that Teomitl was stiffly drawing himself up and turning away, turning to leave. Acatl’s voice came back to him in a rush. “Wait!”

“So you can reject me kindly, is that it?” Teomitl’s voice shook, fists clenching as he fixed his gaze on the wall. Acatl watched as he flushed a deep red. “Scold me about how I shouldn’t have done that, how you have your vows and I have a loving wife and I’m breaking her heart? I’m not, you know. Your sister’s too smart and too relentless for that—she’s been telling me for years I should do something about it.” He snorted bitterly, shaking his head. “Well, I did something about it, and now I get to tell her how badly I’ve misjudged.”

He was walking away. Acatl couldn’t let him; there would never be another chance for him to say this. Shakily, he took what felt like his first breath in a thousand years. “No. That’s—that’s not it at all!”

Teomitl turned in the doorway, one hand at the curtain, and stared at him. The expression on his face shifted slowly from stubborn self-hatred to a sort of wary hope. “...What is it, then?”

He’d always been bad with words. People took what he said poorly, or just ignored him when he said something they disliked. So, in this instance, he decided not to rely on them. Duality, let me not be making a mistake, he prayed. His palms still stung where his nails had cut them, and he dedicated the pain of it to the gods.

(He’d never prayed or sacrificed to Xochipilli in his life. He resolved to start immediately.)

Carefully, he stepped forward. Just as carefully, he reached out and took Teomitl’s unresisting hand in both of his own. It was easiest to meet his eyes if he didn’t look away, and thus he saw them widen at the first touch. It made his heart flip over in his chest; he had to pause for a moment, drawing in another breath, to drink in the sight of Teomitl slowly softening and turning towards him. Oh, I love you. Let me show you.

He’d never kissed anyone in his life, but they were nearly of a height (Teomitl had gotten slightly taller than him since they’d met, which he probably shouldn’t have found appealing—but it had brought some rather interesting thoughts in the night) and so it was easy to lean in, tilt his head a bit so they didn’t bump noses, and brush his lips softly against Teomitl’s own. He kept it light and chaste, but it still sent shockwaves through him. This is what it’s like to kiss Teomitl. This is his mouth, this the shape of his lips and the line of his nose. This is what it feels like when he melts against me.

Because Teomitl was melting, gently tugging his hand free of Acatl’s to slide both arms around him and hold him like something precious and fragile. Fingers tangled lightly in the ends of his hair, weaving through the strands, and it sent a shiver through him. Acatl had had some vague idea of keeping the kiss brief—a way to make certain Teomitl knew of his feelings, nothing more—but Teomitl seemed inclined to linger over it. This one was soft and delicate and as unlike the previous attempt as it was possible to be, but the magic limning Teomitl’s skin still warmed him down to his bones. Helpless, all he could do was hold him close; it seemed the most natural thing in the world to cradle the base of his skull in one hand, burying his fingers in thick, soft hair. Teomitl sighed against his mouth, and he hummed in response.

When they finally parted, Teomitl’s voice was soft with wonder. “All this, for me?”

He thought of Tizoc slowly dying, his bones flaking to ash in the funeral pyre. He thought of his own hands red with the blood of an emperor. He thought of Teomitl crowned in turquoise and gold, with jade and precious feathers at his feet.

(For the first time, he allowed himself a place in the dream. In any way you’d have me, he’d blurted out, and meant it.)

“Always.”

Teomitl kissed him again. It was more careful and yet more passionate than the first time, with the sharp pressure of teeth turned to a simmering promise that lit his blood on fire. And this time, with Acatl knowing it was coming, he could adjust accordingly. His lips parted easily for Teomitl’s tongue, and he surprised himself with the soft, hungry sound that rose up from his throat. A shock ran up his spine when Teomitl’s grip tightened on his hair, and he realized in a rush that he wanted more, wanted to see how strong Teomitl really was.

Teomitl nipped lightly at his lower lip—oh, he liked that too—and pulled away, eyes dark and heated. “...Acatl.” His voice was rough around the edges. “You’ve no idea how much I want you, but...I won’t ask you to break your vows for me.”

My what? It took him a shamefully long time to realize what Teomitl was talking about; when it struck him, he had to smile even as a rush of embarrassed heat pulsed through his veins. “Teomitl.” Feeling suddenly bold, he settled his hands at Teomitl’s hips, pulling him closer. Like this, there was no possible way of hiding his desire. “If I planned to keep my vow of chastity, I would not be doing this.” Looking back, it had probably been a lost cause since the first time Teomitl had smiled at him, but when he’d begun to wake hard and trembling with lust he’d known that if Teomitl were to ask...well.

(He’d sworn his obedience to Tizoc, and look how well he was keeping to that. What was one more oath shattered on the ground so that he could dance amidst the shards?)

Teomitl surged forward to meet him, pressing their bodies together. Their cloaks were no obstacle at all; he could feel the heat of his skin through them, and when the fabric shifted, the bare skin on his own felt like Tlaloc’s lightning in his veins. He made a desperate noise that might have been pleading for a kiss, but Teomitl ignored him and lowered his head to mouth at his throat instead and his knees almost buckled. He was achingly hard already; when Teomitl dug his nails into his shoulderblades, he had to bite his lip to stifle a cry. Anyone could come in. It wasn’t safe here. He kept thinking that—they wouldn’t have much time, it wasn’t safe—but then Teomitl’s teeth scraped lightly over the juncture of neck and collarbone and his ability to think anything flew out the window.

Then he lifted his head—not by much, Acatl could still feel his breath on his skin—and murmured, “Gods, Acatl, can I…?“

It was enough to jar his brain into functioning again. “Not here,” he breathed. “Go change out of all that—“ he wouldn’t mind Teomitl keeping it on, actually, but all the gold and quetzal feathers were the farthest thing from discreet, “—and meet me at home. I’ll—I’ll be waiting for you.”

Teomitl took a shuddering breath and stepped away, passing a hand over his hair. “Gods. Gods. Alright.” The edge of his smile was shy, but radiant as the dawn of the Fifth Sun. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

This time, when he left, Acatl didn’t stop him. He knew they’d see each other again soon.

(Later—much, much later, when they were sweaty and sticky and spent—Teomitl twined a lock of Acatl’s hair through his fingers and grinned wickedly as he asked, “So, how are you dealing with Tizoc, anyway?” Acatl, smiling in return, told him.)

(Teomitl all but tackled him back onto the mat.)

[galfridus1]

Stargazing

Flashbang piece! Thanks @nerroart for collabing with me on this and for producing this amazing picture. You’re such fun to work with 😊.

Our prompt was sky. Hope you like this.

Laughter echoes, bouncing off stone and filling the cavernous space. Pressing his lips together, Zeldris strides down the hallway, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the noise that floats from the ballroom. He can hear clearly the shouts and calls which signal the party is in full swing. The vampire king Izraf has spared no expense for this occasion: an alliance with the powerful demon clan is something to celebrate, a treaty that will protect their race for centuries to come.

As the alcohol had flowed, representatives from both sides had visibly loosened, the stiff handshakes and careful small talk of those barely acquainted gradually morphing to giggles and jokes. Usually this sort of behaviour set his teeth on edge, but today he is thankful that the preoccupation of his brethren has allowed him to slip away unnoticed.

Eventually he reaches the carpeted interior at the entrance to the castle and Zeldris tenses, stretching out his powers to check he is alone. Detecting nothing of interest, his shoulders drop slightly, and he releases the breath he has not realised he is holding. He does not fear discovery on his own account - death is a given fate for a soldier - but he knows he must keep Gelda safe at all costs. Their clans may be allies, but her father is proud, Izraf’s prejudice placing the vampires above all other clans in his mind. This vision of the world extends to his daughter; Gelda will be beaten to within an inch of her life if she is found with a demon.

Biting his lip, he continues forward, passing ornate statues of glass which gleam in the candlelight. The obvious wealth of his clan’s new allies is staggering. Now that the treaty is signed and the vampires’ future is secure he should break things off, leave Britannia, return to his life as an unfeeling soldier. He can do Gelda nothing but harm with his continued presence. But the thought of her eyes, soft and full of affection, the way she clings to him, the way she feels in his arms, keeps him on his path towards their meeting place.

When he sees her he stops, overwhelmed. She is so beautiful, the way her golden tresses sweep over her shoulder, the smooth column of her neck and her flawless alabaster skin. Sensing his presence, Gelda turns, her face lighting instantly as their eyes finally meet and a moment later she is in his arms. Zeldris can feel his hearts pounding in his chest as she holds him to her: that this beautiful, determined woman returns his affections is too staggering to believe.

“I missed you,” she murmurs into his ear and Zeldris feels lava run through his veins. He swallows, his eyes sliding closed as he breathes in her scent, the fragrance of roses searing onto his memory. He will always remember these moments, these stolen snatches of time. He sighs. Even though they have just been reunited, Zeldris already feels the ache of impending loss, knowing that they have but a few hours until dawn when Gelda will have to return to her chambers and he will slink back to the demon realm.

The emotion is so strong he cannot respond. Instead he holds her, his cheek pressed to her hair. Then fear grips him. They are standing out in the open. Quickly he steps back, dropping his arms to his sides. “We should move,” he says gruffly, “find a room somewhere.”

“I was thinking we might go outside.” Gelda closes the gap he has created between them, taking his hand in hers. “It’s fine tonight, and we won’t be disturbed.”

Zeldris scoffs before he can catch himself. With an apologetic glance as Gelda looks at him curiously, he mutters, “This is Britannia, and not only that, northern Britannia. It is hardly known for the clemency of the weather.”

“Well, it’s fine now,” Gelda says with a chuckle. “There’s barely a cloud. We can look up at the sky.”

“Why would you wish to do that? It is pitch black outside,” exclaims Zeldris, his brow creased in genuine confusion.

Gelda stares at him, her violet eyes wide. “Because… well, because it’s a beautiful sight.” She cocks her head to one side. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? You fly all the time. You must have seen how breathtaking the sky is at night.”

“The stars are useful navigational aids,” Zeldris says with a shrug. “Beyond that, there is nothing of particular interest. When I fly I have a mission to undertake, it is hardly the time to focus on frivolities.”

The hand on his tightens. “That’s it, come with me.” Zeldris starts as Gelda pulls him towards the castle entrance, pressing her free hand against the great wooden structure and pushing against one of the doors, which slides open unprotesting on its hinges. “You demons are so… serious,” she says with some exasperation. “Too serious for your own good.”

A cold breeze hits his face as the door closes with a soft thud behind them. “There!” Gelda says with some finality as she gestures around. Demons can see well in the dark, and Zeldris can make out the shapes of the hills picked out in the silver moonlight, noting the slight movements of a fox as it slinks quietly through the bracken. The air is fresh, perfumed with dry grass and the earthy scent of the heather which covers the landscape. Edinburgh is still, peaceful, devoid of threat, but hardly the aesthetic paragon the princess has been promising.

“You really don’t see it?” Gelda asks incredulously, correctly interpreting the demon’s silence. “I can see that more drastic measures are necessary.” Before Zeldris can speak, her hand has left his and the vampire steps out into the night. “Follow me,” she calls over her shoulder as she very deliberately climbs into the air. The princess’s form rises serenely up into the dark and his jaw drops. He must have known that vampires flew, he supposes, but he had no notion it could be done with such grace.

Ridiculous as it is, he cannot deny her and besides dawn will be upon them soon. The vampires can stand the sunlight of course, but their power is eroded, severely weakened as night leeches to day. Feeling very self-conscious, the demon summons his darkness to build wings across his back, taking off into the night. As he too rises into the atmosphere, his eyes lock on the vision before him, the silk of Gelda’s dress glimmering in the light of the moon. Eventually she turns and her hands are outstretched as she beckons at him to join her.

“Look,” she urges as he flies to her side. “No, not at me!” she says with a laugh and, with a huff of annoyance at his ludicrous behaviour, Zeldris realises he is gazing into her eyes. Gelda takes his hand, the warmth seeping into his fingers, a contrast to the almost painful cold of the air. Noting the princess’s slight shiver, Zeldris is just on the point of insisting they return when he looks down and gasps. The ground is bathed in glorious silver, the expanse of land studded with tiny trees cast in moonlight. It is indeed beautiful, breathtaking in its loveliness, the calm of Britannia glowing as if with an eerie fire.

“Now look up,” Gelda breathes into his ear sending a shiver down his spine. Zeldris does as she commands and once more finds his throat runs dry. The black velvet of the night stretches before them, obsidian sparkling with gleaming diamonds. The stars shine bright, unobscured by cloud, too numerous to name or to count. It is indeed more alluring than anything he has seen, save for the woman who floats by his side.

He is dragged from his reverie when warm hands cup his face. “Zeldris,” she murmurs. He swallows thickly, trying to articulate his thoughts but Gelda seems to understand. He melts into her touch as her lips meet his, his pulse quickening as her fingers card into his hair. The cold is forgotten as they grasp at one another for what could be seconds or perhaps a lifetime, and the world shifts on its axis as the stars twinkle above.

Reluctantly he pulls away. Deep black has faded to a navy blue, the hint of birdsong drifting towards them on currents of air. The sun is peeking over the horizon, streaks of burnished bronze and blush pink gently illuminating the sky. “We should get back,” he suggests, his voice rasping slightly, and he feels the pull of his impending loss.

“Not yet.” Gelda once more takes his hands in hers, their fingers entwining and, instinctively, he wraps his darkness around them, pulling the princess into a warm embrace. “Is this not beautiful too?” she whispers. The violet of her eyes is picked out out before him as the light catches at wisps of cloud, and he wonders how he has never noticed the true depth of their colour before.

“It is… incredible,” Zeldris replies in a marvel as, all at once, the light of day floods into the world.