#St. Edward's Crown | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

szasfuckingwife · 1 year

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SELFISH

HOBIE BROWN X BLACK CAT!READER

WARNINGS: smut, black cat is white in comics but there’s no mention of race here, black reader in mind tho, british slang, gwen stacy is mentioned but it’s the gwen in hobies earth NOT ghost spider gwen , royal family existence

a/n: wrote this for my black british ppl dem, hobies existence kinda made me proud. i put some british slang/phrases here n there. also, black cat is an underrated love interest i wish they put her in a movie.

It’s midnight, what better time to steal the crown jewels? Yes, it’s heavily guarded and there’s a slim chance you’ll even make it out alive but you needed them more than some overrated family. They don’t even belong to the royals, right?

You navigate through the tower of London, looking for something worthy of taking and risking your life for. Last time, you took (what was apparently) Queen Victoria’s robe and one of those fancy looking crowns. This is light work to you, but since you know the guards will be changing shifts in fifteen minutes, all you want to do is get the big one and leave.

Oh, what’s the big one you ask? St Edwards crown.

Yes, it’s not entirely ethical, robbing something from the most notorious robbers in history but it’s better off them and in someone elses hands, you figure.

Someone reliable, honest and responsible like you

Plus, your not greedy, the charity organisations were frequently shocked when ‘Anonymous’ donated $1,000,000 every month or so.

When you come face to face with with St Edwards Crown, your eyes widen behind your black goggles in amusement. The diamonds looked so…big.

After you fawned over the gleam of all the rubies and diamonds, you took out your laser and, carefully, cut a circle into the glass. Slowly, and gently, you pulled the cut glass away from the rest of the box.

Once your gloved hands touched the crown, you felt an odd chill in your spine.

“Oh, don’t mind me, love, just enjoying the show..” That familiar voice causes a smirk to appear on your face. When you turn around, you see that same patriotic red and blue covered by silver spikes. He’s leaning on the wall, arms crossed. You wonder how long he’s been standing there.

Or if he even cares that you’re stealing from his beloved monarchy.

“Spidey, strange to see you here…” You smirk before quickly replacing the real crown with a replica so no weight detectors could go off. Hobie smirked behind his spiked mask, “Strange to see me ‘ere? In my city?”

You loudly roll your eyes, putting your new souvenir in your bag. “Y’know what I mean. Did you see what I got this time?”

“The big one…Look at you! A year ago you were robbing the richest men in Dubai..” He chuckled as you smiled at his compliment. His heavy boots almost scare you when he walks up to you, he could alarm a guard.

Not wanting to cause a breach in security, you took out your grappler and shot up to the ceiling, “I’d love to stay with you, Bee, but a new apartment is calling my name!”

Bee. He smiled at the nickname as he remembered the many times you’d say it.

He stares at your every move, and how every one of your movements makes your body look so damn sexy. Your latex black suit giving you that perfect silhouette, not to mention the fluffy white fur on your calf and chest that ultimately made you look regal.

“For fuck sake..” He sighed. He remember what Miguel commanded.

‘Stop being an anarchist or whatever you call yourself and actually try capture the bad guys!’

Suddenly, five bright flashes shone into Hobies eyes, blinding the man as security guards rushed into the room. They had their tasers in one hand and flashlights in the other, analysing the room and the shattered glass from the glass roof. All Hobie could do in response was kiss his teeth.

“Took you lot long enough…” He raised his hands, surrendering as if he was trying to make them think that they had control.

They stepped closer to him, “What are you doin ‘ere, Spider?”

Hobie groaned again. The fact that this was the useless security the stupid government spent so much on made him sick, “Tryna catch the cat that’s been stealing shit from all around the world, you donut!”

One of the security guards looked at the missing artefacts and looked back at Hobie.

Hobie scoffed, “I knew you man were racist, but you’re really gonna accuse a black man for stealing these fucking jewels that don’t even belong to that bloke in the castle?!”

The security men didn’t know what to think, looking at each other to answer spiderman. They didn’t even know spiderman was black! “N-No! I would never-”

“Shut up, just shut up.” Under his mask, Hobie smirked. He webbed up to the ceiling, leaving the security guards gobsmacked. “If I ever see you again, it’s wraps, understand?”

They all nod.

“Wasteman…” he muttered, before chasing after you.

You ran along London rooftops, your movements a little slow due to the heaviness of your bag. This stealing shit was tiring, you hoped once you sold the jewels, you’d be able to live comfortably for the rest of your life.

After a few more leaps, you rested on the top of the shard, overlooking London and it’s nightlife. From here, you could see Leicester square and almost smell the food. You sighed, taking in the city.

Dreams of getting rich might’ve blinded your vision, but the rush feels exhilarating.

“You dropped this..” You turn around seeing Hobie, without his mask. He held a shiny ruby in between his fingers. “Come get it, kitty.”

You rolled your eyes at his banter and stood, walking towards him. As much as you tried to get him out of your head, his smile alone sent thousands of butterflies to your stomach. “Why are you following me so much, hm? Thought your big bad boss made it clear there’s a Gwen Stacy here that you have to be with-”

“And when have I ever listened to him?” He steps closer, placing the ruby in your hand. You watched him as he carefully removed your mask from your face, finally seeing your face.

You recall the time when he told you about this Gwen Stacy and how Miguel clearly expressed his disappointment that someone as smart as Hobie would ruin the multiverse due to his selfishness and some ‘petty thief’. As much as you understood all this about canon events and the multiverses, you loved Hobie too much to let him go to that fashion designer, Gwen Stacy.

However, after a lot of thinking, you decided it was best if you left him, not wanting him to face any problems with Miguel.

But, you miss him. You miss the smell of his cigarettes, the sound of his guitar, the feel of his naked skin pressed against yours.

It was for the best.

“Hobie, go away.” You try to snatch your back from him but he moved his arm above your head. His smile deepens as you cross your arms, looking up at you.

God, he missed you.

“Me and Gwen? It’s like watching paint dry. It’s boring. And most importantly, she’s not you!” His callous hands stroke your cheek, has he ever been this soft? “All I want is you.”

“You can’t have me. Miguel will have your head-” “Let him have it!” Hobie exclaims, as if that is a reasonable answer. You curse under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Hobie chuckles slightly because he knows you, and he knows his love for you. But when he sees you look at him sternly, all smiles stop.

“Why can’t you just understand that I want you to be safe, fuckin idiot..” You sigh. Hobie sighs too, but out of frustration. The two of you were like immovable object meets unstoppable force. Both as stubborn as each other.

He grabs your face and rests his forehead against yours. You cringe slightly at the feeling of his eyebrow piercing but look into his eyes anyway, “Fuck Miguel. I’m safe with you, I want you.”

Bastard, you thought before planting a kiss on his lips. He held you tightly, gripping onto your hip before deepening the kiss. Hobie’s kisses are something you’ve missed, especially the horny, sloppy kisses like the one you share now.

His hands search for a zip or any easy way to undress you as remove his punkish denim jacket. The feeling of you two undressing each other whilst standing on top of a tower is inexplicable. All you want right now is him, all of him.

He finally finds the zip to your suit and he marvels at the reveal of your chest, it almost makes him stain his trousers. It also didn’t help that you were wearing only your panties underneath.

Hobie would pay thousands, millions if he could see you dressed in nothing but the many jewellery you stole.

You’re just so badass.

“Lay…down..” He whispered in between kisses. You did as he said and lowered yourself to the floor. You stay mindful of your bag of opulence, trying not to knock it off the tower and bash someones head in.

He follows you down, not breaking his steamy kiss. By now, you both are half naked, staring at each other with nothing but pure ecstasy. “Ya gonna let me make you feel good?”

Whilst Hobie males you feel oh so good, you decide it’s time to make him feel just as good. You flip him over and straddle his crotch, staring down at your ex.

No, your boyfriend.

Hobie was already hard just by looking at you, but you grinding on his lap and leaving wet kisses on his torso may send him to a whole different dimension.

You let your fingers travel until you find the hem of his boxers, batting your lashes at him when you pull them down.

Now, Hobie was huge, you know this, but after months of your short lived ‘break up’ you truly forgot how big he felt inside you.

“F-fuckin hell..”, He groans, you figure he must’ve forgotten how good your gummy walls feel when he thrusts up into you. You instantly feel his hands grip onto your hips, rocking you back n’ forth while he feels you nipping at his ear. “Fuck sake, Y/N.”

After a few small movements, you begin to ride him. Your ass bounces off his pelvis as you moan in satisfaction. Hobie looks at you as if you were an angel, but then he sees your claws scratching his chest and he realises you are anything but.

“I missed this..”, You breathed, trying to uphold your dominant side. But it felt too good. “I missed you..”

You’re achingly close to your orgasm just when Hobie flips you around on your back. He looks beautiful with the stars behind him. “Missed you too, kitty.”

Wet, breathless kisses are left on your breasts as if Hobie wants to take you all in just incase something happens. You feel his cock slide inside you again as he whispers into your ear, “You’re so fuckin tight.”

His thrusts speed up as he builds up that sensation again, he wants to decorate your insides with his cum and there’s nothing you want more but for him to do so.

If anyone walked onto the roof and saw the sight of Spiderman fucking the Black Cat so roughly, they’d either faint or run to the newspaper agencies, claiming insanities. But, you wouldn’t mind if someone caught the two of you.

I mean, by the way you’re moaning, you must want someone to find you.

“I’m gonna…cum..” You mewled, gripping onto Hobie’s arms He closed your open mouth with a kiss, letting your moans fall onto his tongue. “Hobiee…fuck!”

“Wait f’ me…I’m so close, babe!” He nipped at your neck as you moaned for the whole city to hear. “Fuckin shit!”

With one more thrust, both of you shook as you climaxed, Hobie kissing your forehead repeatedly. The moans were gone, and replaced with panting. You quickly found your panties and suit and dressed yourself.

You heard Hobie whistle, then chuckle, “Got to do that more often, love.”

“We can after we take this to your place. I’m fuckin freezing, I need hot chocolate!”

“The way I make it?”

You look at his cocky smile, “Duh?”

BONUS:

The next morning, you find yourself clad in Hobie’s Sex Pistol tee, sipping hot chocolate opposite Hobie who’s leaning in his chair, tickling his guitar strings.

“What are your plans for today?” You ask, resting your head on your hand.

“Nuffin..” He sighs as he concocts a new melody with his instrument. “You?”

“Nuffin..”, You sip your drink once more and stare off to the distance.

There is a gentle moment of silence before a blue hexagon appears in Hobie’s living room. You look at Hobie in confusion, why would his spider society choose to come this early?

From the portal, Gwen and a brown haired man holding a ginger haired baby walk in. You’ve met Gwen a couple of time but not the middle aged man.

“Hobie, we need your help with this spiderman called Miles- WOAH!” The man spoke before notcing you, someone he’s never seen before, in Hobies apartment, in Hobies shirts.

“Uhhh…Hobie, there’s somebody in your-” “Peter..” Hobie began, before taking the baby from Peter.

“That ain’t somebody..” He gave you the baby in his hands.

The cute baby looked up at you curiously as you smiled down at her.

“That’s my gyal.”

#spiderman across the spider verse spoilers #spider man: across the spider verse #hobie brown x reader #hobie spiderverse #hobie x reader #hobie smut #astv hobie #black cat #so glad we have this black british representation

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thepastisalreadywritten · 1 year

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In London during the late spring of 1953, preparations for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II’s Coronation were reaching their denouement.

Couturier Norman Hartnell was completing a dress to outshine any other.

Tucked away at the back of Hartnell’s lavish Mayfair townhouse, a team of embroiderers were finishing stitching a floral garland on the ivory silk bodice and crinoline.

Pastel thread, jewels, sequins, beads and 10,000 seed pearls were sewn as Commonwealth emblems and British flora around an English Tudor rose scattered with diamond dewdrops.

Six young, aristocratic maids of honour, including 19-year-old Lady Anne Coke – best-selling author Anne Glenconner – were being drilled like guardsmen by The Duke of Norfolk, responsible for organising the coronation, as they rehearsed the walk to the Abbey altar, with his wife, the Duchess, standing in for The Queen.

“If the Bishops don’t learn to walk in step,” he remonstrated, “we’ll be here all night.”

The photographer Cecil Beaton, well-versed in photographing crowned heads and aristocrats in the Vogue studios, was prepping a vantage point in Westminster Abbey, high up by the organ pipes, as the best location from which to capture the ceremony.

It would be a long day; he’d fill his top hat with sandwiches to sustain him.

Nearby, at Garrard, the Crown Jeweller and his team of master craftsmen were hunched over workbenches altering the Imperial State Crown to fit the young Queen’s head.

Garrard had made the Crown in 1937 for King George VI – a replica of the crown designed and crafted for Queen Victoria, which contained virtually all the same stones symbolic of centuries of Royal history, fitted around a purple velvet cap and ermine band.

Clusters of diamond-set crosses and fleurs-de-lis linked by swags of diamonds, supported by sapphires, emeralds and pearls in the form of oak leaves and acorns, dazzled around the massive 317.40 carat Cullinan II diamond, the Second Star of Africa, cut from the largest diamond ever discovered.

Above it sat the Black Prince’s Ruby – in fact, a spinel, worn by Henry V at Agincourt – while the 104 carat oval Stuart sapphire gleamed at the rear of the band, with the cross atop the orb set with the sapphire from Edward the Confessor’s ring.

King George VI requested Garrard create an inner “hammock” style fitting, like a guard’s officer’s bearskin, to distribute the nearly three pounds of weight evenly on his head.

Reshaping the circlet for Queen Elizabeth II involved remounting the stones and motifs of which it is composed, as well as repositioning and lowering the arches, all of which required craftsmanship of the highest skill.

The aim was to improve the strength of the crown with lightness of weight, which isn’t easy with large stones, and those which were cut nearly 300 years ago.

They were working against the clock. The new Queen required time before the ceremony to become accustomed to the crown’s feel and weight.

“There are some disadvantages to crowns, but otherwise they are very important things,” said Her Majesty, recalling its heaviness on the 65th anniversary of the coronation.

“Fortunately, my father and I have roughly the same shaped head, so once you put it on, it stays.”

The media demanded constant updates on Garrard’s work, with the coronation making broadcasting history as the first service to be televised, adding to the sense of pressure.

In addition, two gold Armill bracelets of sincerity and wisdom, symbolic of the monarch’s bond with the people needed to be finished, which were replacing the 17th-century enamel bracelets dating from the coronation of King Charles II.

In previous ceremonies, the Armills had been carried, but these were made for the Queen to wear, decorated with two rows of engraving and Tudor rose clasps with red velvet linings.

Garrard was also inundated with cleaning requests.

“No one had worn their jewellery or tiaras during the war,” explains Lady Anne.

“People were queuing to have their tiaras, which were like great fenders of diamonds, stomachers and necklaces cleaned.”

On the day, 2 June 1953, it poured with rain.

Lady Anne remembers arriving at the Abbey:

“It was pretty dark and cold. Our dresses weren’t lined, there were clothing coupons after the war you see.

A tiny thread of blue cotton had been placed on the floor in the Abbey, so the Queen knew where to stand.

When the procession began, we walked past row upon row of tiaras, as well as people in their National dress.

The Queen walked a bit faster than the Duchess had in rehearsals, so we had to adjust our steps.”

The ceremony ended at 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

Hartnell left after watching his historic dress sweep down the aisle followed by the procession of royal pages, maids of honour, peers and peeresses sparkling with diamonds, looking, he remarked:

“Like a lovely hunk of fruitcake, the damson jam of velvet bordered with clotted cream of ermine and sprinkled with the sugar of diamonds.”

Beaton rushed to Buckingham Palace to photograph the Queen theatrically against a painted backdrop, holding the orb and sceptre and wearing the Imperial State Crown.

The Crown Jeweller Garrard remained until The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh had taken lunch in the Abbey annex, in case any last-minute adjustments to the diamond-encrusted Crown were needed.

“Cecil was waiting when we all returned from the Abbey,” Lady Anne continues.

“He had everything set up for the photographs, and that’s when I really noticed the Crown and jewels glittering under the bright lights and took note of it all.

The Queen looked so young, beautiful and vulnerable, so the contrast of seeing her crowned with all the regalia was extraordinary.

She was weighted down a bit, but I remember thinking it was terribly poignant.”

A tense moment followed.

“The Duke of Edinburgh was fussing around, and Cecil got irritated, put his camera down and said, ‘Oh Sir, would you prefer to take the photographs?’” Lady Anne laughs.

“The Queen looked a bit horrified, and The Duke wandered off. You see, The Duke would have liked the photographer Baron, but it was The Queen Mother who adored Cecil.”

Later, it was still rainy and dark outside.

When the gleaming, crowned figure of The Queen appeared on the Buckingham Palace balcony, she shone with a sense of tradition and permanence.

With the Imperial State Crown, she wore the Coronation necklace and earrings, made in 1858 by Garrard and worn by Queen Alexandra and Queen Mary, including 25 brilliants suspending the Lahore diamond drop.

Time will tell if the Armills will return to being carried at the Coronation of HRH The Prince of Wales, and if he has inherited the Windsor head shape, but should substantial adjustments be required, the crown will appear once more unchanged.

The historical continuity of the regalia, and the fact the crown is still in constant use, makes these jewels created in the Garrard workshop the most potent in the world.

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violettduchess · 7 months

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Hello Vi! I have a request for you, only if it inspires

Tutor AU! With one or more of your fave suitors tutoring you for your upcoming exams;

Leonardo, Comte, Gilbert, Leon, Silvio and Clavis!

I'd love to see what you come up with ❤️❤️❤️

A/N: I had a very immediate idea for Comte so I went with him for this request!

Comte x Reader, Tutor AU/ Modern AU

WC: ~1.9k

The library looms large as you hurry up the wide, slate-colored steps under a sky exhaling its last breath of evening color. The stars are slowly blinking into existence, determined to shine before they are hidden behind the slow-moving blanket of clouds heading their way. You would pause to enjoy the ephemeral moment when dusk ebbs into night.....

Except Comte is inside, waiting for you.

You’re still not sure how it’s come to this. Comte as your tutor. Your mind travels back several weeks….

Several weeks ago:

One minute you're balancing an armful of books along with your backpack and several bags of uneven groceries that are seriously testing your stubborn decision to do it all in ONE trip. The next, however, everything is falling onto the polished grey tile floor of your building’s lobby, the objects seeming to leap like lemmings out of your arms. As you stand there, staring defeatedly at the scattered mess, lost in the gravity of your poor decision, the elevator doors you were originally trying to reach slide open and like the pearly gates unveiling an angel, Comte de St Germain steps out, in the process of buttoning his elegant camel-colored coat with one hand.

Before you can say a word, he takes in your forlorn expression, the embarrassing pile of your things at your feet, and he is by your side, kneeling, helping you gather up your stray apples and the mini-boxes of cereal you are probably way too old for but love anyway. Your cheeks flush as you stammer a thank you.

You know him more by reputation than actual acquaintance. He lives in the sprawling penthouse at the apex of your building, the crowning glory of the gothic structure, and is usually spoken about in whispers and sighs by the other residents:

“Comte? He’s a museum director downtown.”

“I hear he is a world-famous antique dealer who has made millions.”

“He’s gotta be a tech-millionaire with all that dough.”

“Well I know someone who knows someone who swears he’s a member of the royal family of some tiny European country.”

“I don’t care what he does. He’s got to be loaded to live up there.”

“I hear he’s never been married.”

“My cousin’s best friend’s neighbor's babysitter says he’s divorced from someone super famous.”

“You know what he is? I'll tell ya. Drop dead gorgeous.”

This mysterious man with eyes the color of desert sands is on the ground in his expensive suit and coat, helping you gather your plebeian things and oh, do you want to melt into the floor and disappear.

Until……

He stops, holding one of the books you had been juggling, a surprised expression crossing his classically beautiful face.

“‘The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire’ by Edward Gibbon. Fourth edition.” He seems impressed, curiosity flaring to life in the mesmerizing gold of his eyes.

And you take that lifeline, words stumbling over themselves across the knot of your tied tongue as you explain you are a graduate student, majoring in history, mentally preparing yourself for the avalanche of final exams heading your way.

And how he smiles, his long fingers tracing the embossed lettering along the spine of your book, borrowed from the local library. Entranced by the movement, you can't look away from his hand, reverence hushing his voice as he explains how he works for a museum (Points to the woman in Apartment 15B for getting that one), how he also studied history.

And then one thing leads to another and your rambling about the stress of your exams and crunch for time has evolved into Comte St. Germain, the mysterious Bruce Wayne of your building, offering to tutor you.

The Present:

And now here you stand, the night of your final session, heart prowling, turning circles in your chest like an unruly feline.

Taking a steadying breath, you continue up the steps and head inside, enjoying the sound of your heeled boots across the polished wooden floor. Past towering shelves filled with books you go until you reach the narrow iron staircase in the back, the one that spirals upwards to the second floor. Your feet follow the path they have gotten used to over the last few weeks, through the racks, down a narrow gangway until you reach the small cluster of tables at the western corner of the library, the ones underneath the imposing arched window that allows you a clear view of the darkening sky and the pale orange glow of the streetlamp across the street.

Comte looks up from the book he has been reading and offers you a smile, at once familiar and exotic.

“Ah, there you are, chérie. Ready for our final session?”

Something inside you constricts at the thought that this is the last time you will be here with him like this, tucked away in the surprising intimacy of a large public library, listening to his honeyed voice as you discuss not only history, but also the mundane: what music he listens to when he goes on long drives, his favorite type of wine, the best tea for a rainy Sunday morning. And it isn't just his speaking….Comte listens. He really listens when you talk, when you ask questions, when you give an opinion. He rests his chin on his hand, head tilted ever so slightly, his entire attention focused on you, whether you are explaining the fine points of one of the many Treaties of Paris or doing your best to convince him that dipping your French fries in your milkshake really does make them taste better.

With the glow of remembrance in your smile, you slide into the seat next to him, running your fingers along the soft grain of the elegant wooden chair as you settle in.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” you say, returning his smile while looking at the array of books he has spread out across the table. “Let’s do this.”

“Oui,” he says as his smile curves into a grin. “Tonight we’re focusing on art for your art history final. You already sent me the list of pieces your professor wants you to know for your exam so we can work our way through those.”

You breathe in, trying not to get distracted by the warm, earthy scent of his cologne.

“Professor Leonardo is great but it’s such a long list….” Your shoulders slump at the thought of tackling everything on it. And then you feel Comte’s hand there, on your forearm, warm even through the soft material of your blouse.

“Then let us begin.”

He spends hours, guiding you through Girl with the Pearl Earring, The Birth of Venus, Las Meninas, and Water Lillies. You wander through the great masters like an enamored visitor in an enchanted garden, listening as Comte helps you to remember what you have learned about the paintings as well as unlocking secrets you have never heard before. He leads you through the design of the Colosseum, the Parthenon, Hagia Sofia, Notre Dame, his voice a golden thread that spins you across the architectural wonders. And now, in your final hour of study, he opens the book of sculptures. You visit Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David, the Venus de Milo. And finally, you come to the last sculpture on your list: Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss by Antonio Canova.

“Ah…” He pulls the book closer, the photograph of the sculpture filling the page. “This….is a masterpiece of….” He glances over at you, brow lifted as he waits for the answer.

“Neoclassicism…but with strong elements of the Romantic, given the subject matter.”

“Bien joué.” The praise falls from his lips softly, slides over you like melting wax, sends a jolt of heat across your skin. He doesn’t seem to notice as he flattens down the pages with both hands, his bright eyes roaming over the image.

“So you know the story of Cupid and Psyche?”

You try to remember what Professor Leonardo explained in class when he had introduced the sculpture. “She opened a forbidden jar and was put to sleep as punishment?”

Comte nods. “Venus forbid Psyche from opening the jar. It supposedly held Divine Beauty. Psyche could not resist temptation and instead of beauty, she was overcome by the Sleep of Innermost Darkness.” He grins slowly. “Very dramatic. Cupid sees his lover unconscious and pricks her with an arrow, awakening her. This sculpture captures that moment.”

Outside the library window, the streetlamp glows a soft orange. A light rain is now falling, making the light seem as if it is dancing, shimmering against the night.

“Just look at the lines,” he murmurs. He takes his index finger and slowly begins tracing the line of Psyche’s body. It follows the curve of her torso as she stretches up towards Cupid. “Her arms reach back for him.”

You lean in, closer to Comte, watching the path his finger makes along the glossy page. Your heart is suddenly hammering a woodpecker’s song against your breastbone.

“Her hands are in her lover’s hair, the gesture so familiar, so loving.” He traces down the line of Psyche's neck. “And here….she is bent back to him, so exposed and vulnerable, tilting to look up into his face. What do you see there?”

His voice winds itself around you, wrapping you in golden vines of warmth and want. You need a moment to find your own. When you do, it is only capable of expressing itself in a breathless whisper.

“Tenderness. Joy.”

He nods slowly, trailing his finger down Cupid’s strong arm. “And what do you see in him?”

Your thoughts are bright butterflies, sparks that fly up into the haze of your mind and explode in little pinpricks of light. Blinking, trying to control the overwhelming wave of attraction that threatens to pull you under, you reach out and touch the same page, your fingers scant centimeters from his.

“He’s…..adoring. The way he holds her head, his fingers touching her face. And he’s smiling at her, affectionately. Openly.” Your gaze drops down to where Comte’s finger points to Cupid’s left arm. You clear your throat and continue. “He covers her breasts with his arm, shielding her from the viewer, and yet that one hand holds her in a way that’s….it’s so intimate. It feels somehow more intimate than if we would see her bare.” Your voice is a whisper, soft and woven through with delicate wisps of yearning. “He touches her as if he’s done it a hundred times and still revels in it…..” You trail off, pressing your lips together, unable to go on.

Comte’s fingers brush against yours and you turn your head, startled to find that your faces are so very close. Outside the rain gently rolls down the massive glass window. The streetlamp flickers. Comte’s gaze is a steady golden sun.

“He adores her,” he murmurs, his voice rolling through you. You feel his fingers move, covering yours on the page.

“She marvels at him,” you answer quietly, your fingers curling around his in response.

He leans down ever so slightly, his mouth so close you can feel the warmth of his words on your lips. “He dreams of her……”

“.....and he is what makes her waking sublime…” The words are hardly more than the breaths between heartbeats.

His mouth brushes faintly against yours, the softest touch, a silken feather, a velvet caress.

“....He wants nothing more…..” His hand tightens around yours, his chest rising and falling with the contained power of his emotion. “...than to kiss her….”

“He should,” you say, soft as a nightingale welcoming a summer evening. "He should kiss her."

And he does, pressing his lips against yours as the wave that has been looming ever closer pours down upon you both. One hand rises, gripping the nape of your neck with tender ardor. You plunge your free hand into the soft wilderness of his tawny hair, opening your mouth to taste him.

Your other hand? It is still tightly holding onto his, a promise you won’t let go.

An echo of Cupid and his beloved Psyche.

Pysche Revived by Cupid's Kiss- Antonio Canova, 1793

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