Lucien reached out and ran his fingers through the ends of Tamlin’s damp, silky strands. He wanted to say something, to express how he felt. He opened his mouth to say: I love you, but he hesitated. It had only been two days, and they had only made love once—well, twice, if he counted the shower—and he didn’t want to scare Tamlin off yet. Or ever. So, instead, he murmured it in Scythian. I love you. I think I always have. Stay with me.
For Day 4 of Tamlin Week: Happily Ever After. An edit for the AMAZING fic A Second Chance by @goforth-ladymidnight! I love both Tamlin/Lucien AND Jurian/Vassa in that fic, and had to make something to celebrate Tamlin and Lucien finally getting together! The fic isn't done yet BUT I have been assured that they will get their happily ever after!
@tamlinweek
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Elrohir: My top surgery went really well!
Arwen: That’s great! My bottom surgery is next week.
Elrohir: I cant believe we’re both gay and trans!
Elladan: I’m a communist
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I have an urge to play some hollow knight but solely just to like, hang out in greenpath.
just the vibes of greenpath would fix me I think.
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- Foreign Eyes 1: Empire -
(the first in a series of poems I wrote ages ago, freshman year of college. I might share the rest one day, but I liked this one.)
.
I open someone else’s eyes
In a narrow cot, just shy of the tent wall
Piled high with periwinkle blankets
And red sheets.
The floor is matted reed, laid in rows,
Richly carpeted with cerulean and cream,
Stained with old blood.
There are boots in the corner, beneath the rack
Where the weapons are kept perfectly clean.
They are caked with it,
Leather stained dark like the wood of the central table.
On it is a map, yellowed paper mountains,
Valleys, rivers,
Populated everywhere by little wooden men.
They match in careful navy lines against their scarlet foes,
Stand firm in adversity,
Charge parchment hills and hold sketched fortifications,
And die silently at the delivery of the hasty missives
Stacked in the corner.
His stride as I walk is long and purposeful,
His footsteps firm, silent, balanced,
but not quite perfect;
A hitch that tells of some old wound long-healed.
An arrow to the knee.
I look down. There is a narrow scar across his palm,
And though his fingers are calloused, his nails are clean.
His nails are clean.
‘This body is some petty warlord’s,’ I think, ‘scraping for glory.
‘An advisor, perhaps, or a strategist, told “Triumph, at all cost,”
‘Or some great Alexander.’
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