gideon nav’s first words had been from the noniad, which is something nobody but ortus nigenad bothered to pay attention to.
he’d watched her, this bright-eyed, bright-haired toddler, because nobody else seemed to want to. they were the only survivors of what everybody else called the creche flu, and ortus had no interest in re-naming. he had a handful of guesses as to what had really gone down that day, and the baby reverend daughter’s birth nine months or so after the fact -
well. harrowhark had the dubious care of her parents, at least. the foundling had nobody. and all of ortus’s friends had died. it’s not like he had anybody else to talk to.
her bedtime stories were epic poetry. and then, later, when she was older, he found some of his old comics stacked up.
(the story ones. not the sexy ones.)
He’d kissed them all. Fucked most of them, too. Ten thousand years is a long time, and Ulysses had always been so keen on sexy parties. And it wasn’t bad.
Not Gideon, mind you. Or Pyrrha, or Cris, or Cassy or Nigella.
They were all so different - Mercymorn, demanding and never giving, but he liked that; Augustine, quick and efficient and sweet; Ulysses slow and lazy; Titania who’d complain if he spent too long eating her out; Cyth and Loveday who refused to come separately. Cyrus always wanted Valancy to be fucked, got off the hardest watching him eat her out. He always felt a little bad taking Alfred into his mouth, thinking of how Augustine would hate to know what was going on here, but never bad enough to stop.
Anastasia preferred Annabel, but she’d consent to him being in the room.
His saints. His Hands and Fingers and Gestures.
They were all so fucking good at it, too.
It was this he thought about afterwards, heart hurting as he considered the betrayals. Mercy’s tongue in his ear whilst Augustine unbuttoned his shirt - a betrayal. Whilst Gideon had been fucking Wake, of all people.
Sarpedon was nothing on any of them. Wasn’t fair to compare; he’d not had ten thousand years to learn his preferences. And he wasn’t bad.
Ianthe was worse. That he’d regretted immediately, the stink of her twenty-three years seeping from her pores, her biting a little too sharp and her cunt a little too sweet. She wasn’t his type at all.
Harrowhark - he’d not had the opportunity. It felt like a transgression too far, young as she was; and he was sure she’d never consent. Her religion wouldn’t allow for it. But God, something about that skull paint, the penitence, the fierceness in her little soul.
But then there was the matter of his actual daughter. Which made it all much more complicated.
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