🙟 `WE WILL BE GODS !

" — i'm your dream guy, but you're just not my type."

—what is it supposed to say to that? he's keen to make a mockery of it, always : finding new and ever so creative ways to trample over its bruised and broken heart. and that's the worst of it, so it thinks, that he knows exactly what he does, right down to his cadence. the familiarity is painful. his tone, and that curl to his lip—even the way he squints was once far cheekier than it is now. it hurts. it knows he knows it does.

to that end, it figures he also expects the way it slumps forward—oh, its posture had always been horrid, but it's worse now!—and for as stony as its expression has always been, the scowl that twists its own lips and the soft growl that follows is all too predictable. " is this my punishment? " a rather tame one, for a singular moment ... but it's the longevity that pains it. a heart tortured for the plentiful it'd stopped.

" are you having fun? "

all gods have their angels ... even the empty dawn, in spite of his name, is no exception. his may just be a little different, nothing like the winged men draped in white feathers or beasts speckled with hundreds of eyes ; not since the disappearance of the egg unhatching had one of those among stars cared so strongly for what should be their servants. still none do, save for the coveted heart of one. however bitter the taste had left in the mouth of masters elsewise, perhaps the least deserving of its prayers answered is the singular among its kind so blessed. irony at its finest ... he is fond of the narrative it makes.

his weight 'pon its back is still miniscule, arms draped loosely over shoulders and legs tangled through the velvet of its star-speckled wings. he'd be mistaken the angel if looked 'pon by the neath's jaded public, draped himself in white that cascades far past his height — too, pristine wings long enough they drag 'long the ground even with mr fires' great height, mussed up by blood and lacre.

a new city fallen, stolen by bats in familiar flourish ... there is no public outside to witness its new masters as they take to its streets, not yet at least. they've an hour, maybe three, 'til residents of barcelona gathered bravery enough to stumble outdoors. some straight to work ... others —

"dulce murciélago ... did the montjuïc fountain survive?" an anomaly, still, how much of the city had itself survived the fall this time around. there is only one culprit, then, to thank for much of its condition ; certainly not the bats responsible for stealing it. no. its protection had been divine ... he's exhausted, reliant entirely 'pon how its wings position 'round him to keep him from falling off its back. dead weight ... living, still. far, far past the distant memory of caminus yards. "es mágico, todas las luces . . . "

he's never truly had a home perhaps outside of its spire, but he supposes this is as close to having pieces he will get. it is the first time he had seen it excited for this dreaded day, to welcome a new city after its love long lost. "there's never been a city so bright down here."

once had it sworn tooth and claw that it would never touch the stars again—and this, so far, has been true. the high wilderness has yet to welcome it home, the fury of the skies itself has not wound itself around it, nor the great chain and its shackles ; but the stars had come to it. in some manner of speaking. what an exciting tale they two make, how their fates crossed and their roles then always come into flux. he'd been beneath it, once upon—a pauper, then superior only to his lessers. that was so very long ago. before it had scorned the sun and been forgiven its debts by a new judgement's decree—it had been his superior back when, in cities long buried beneath their feet, master of fire ; now it kneels to him, disciple and favored to god made-anew. itself, a biblical beast.

the image now does little to suggest their history, however familiar it feels to it. maybe, to an untrained eye, it may still seem a harbinger for events greater than those it nurtures, to the small parts of their new city that still rumble 'neath its sluggish steps, but little would they know of its influence towards its preservation. as much as they might be able, anyway. no city sinks whole. none but one had ever been so blessed. even the first, divine gift it had been, had crumbled somewhat with the surface that once cradled it. the ninth is grander still.

it's no reason to be here, either, wandering as it does. its record is wiped clean. but it does so for him—making a new home together, sinful only for its selfishness.

" i believe so, " it's never quite so terrifying when it speaks—for something of such tremendous size, the manner and pitch of how it chirps and clicks is honestly quite cute. whistly and high-pitched, it makes itself seem nearly demure ; a gentle giant, devoid of such sharp things like talons and long teeth. even when it stretches up on its haunches, straining its neck to look some distance beyond and try to make sense of the flickering lights just shy from its view. everything looks brilliant compared to all that came before.

it quivers, the further it feels him sink into its back—face nestled in the thick scruff 'gainst its neck, and it is instinct alone that shifts to curl its wings more delicately around his frame—what all it's capable of, to let him rest comfortably as it continues on, " descansa, mi amada estrella, i'll keep you safe. " the soft rumble buried deep within its chest is a far more familiar thing—with him, alone, it's far rarer that it stops, so frequent does it purr when given the grace of his attention. this has always been the case, it's no different now, even when their status has shifted.

" es precioso… this is all i could have dreamed of, back when. the stars dancing among us. " this might as well be the closest it gets, with him snug 'gainst its body as lights flicker in and out of its view—for the depths they fell to, it does make for an incredible sight, real light crossing the shadows that sprawl 'long their path, weaving in and out of view. not just lanterns, pretty as they'd been, real, pure light. it doesn't stop walking, even when it tilts its head to glance over its shoulder, what little it's able, " does it please you? "

he'd dreamt of plenty since their ill-fated meeting ; that he'd ever sit 'cross from it amicably had been among those fantasies, desperate for a forgiveness he did not dare believe could come reality. he's been proven false on a great many of his doubts, when against all odds, mr fires had curled its claws into his palm and accepted him thus as he is — both cassius helsing and elysium alike having made space for himself in the heart of a creature lacking. of all his wiles, the prospect of marriage has ever been a dimly lit hope ... he's happy enough it would love him.

his pen stills itself where he scribbles in once upon's ledger, taking tally of the books stacked affront his desk which it had brought for him via mr pages' behest. he stares with parted lips and twitching ears, blinking not unlike he hadn't heard it at all!

" — what?" and how silly he must look, eyes wide with his rushing heartbeat! he'd start blushing if he weren't certain he'd just made something up. all his late nights spent penning all the love letters he needed to for aphrodite's upcoming column has gotten to him, his heart like a feverish maiden's ; he's losing his mind...! the curators don't practice marriage customs. even he shouldn't, for no mortal is he, and yet ... "did i mishear you? i — ... " suddenly, he looks around himself, as if it could be speaking to anyone else. "did mr pages send you here to make fun of me today...?"

kine traditions are below them both, in theory. but it cannot help its fascinations anymore than he, and it's been given a great amount of free time as of late to entertain itself as it so wished. the heights of their dramatic tale now far beyond settled, with it making frequent company of his home—oh, it really should be theirs, at the rate it attends ... it's started to become a rarer sight for it to not be stuck to his side, whenever the opportunity provided itself. which was often, if not near always. but all its time spent learning how to write an acceptable romance, then, had its benefits : it'd learned quite a bit more besides, all those pretty, romantic things that humans do, to set their love in record. curators as a whole really aren't so sweet, but it likes to think it knows better than the rest.

" i think i'd like to marry you, elysium—was i not clear? " it's only half paying him mind, at least at first : as it thumbs through the pages of one of the numerous novels he'd already sorted, its ears flick and quiver as it tuts, " feh—as if that old hag wouldn't sooner hang itself than entertain the thought! there's no jest. i was just thinking... " oh, but it could also be its own neck on the metaphorical block had it ever thought to voice the idea in front of its colleague! their history would make a tempting tragedy, but it doesn't see it that way. its found great comfort in their new routine, its and elysium's, as he's come to accept both its heart and forgiveness for wounds long past them both—but it's not so shocking then that monotony would have it start to stir. perhaps it had not been clear enough in its writings in kind? had it not penned enough sweet words to suggest itself a possible tender heart? what a shame ...

by time it looks up from the pages, his face is flushed such a brilliant red—the grin it bears is nearly wolfish itself, all the fangs it bears. but it's so soft on him ; sweeter, now. it sets the book aside on the countertop it rests against just to lean over it, reaching 'cross to tug gently on one of his bristling ears. he's always so cute, when he's this shy. " wouldn't it be nice? i think after all this time, it's really just the appropriate next step for us. "

what a cheeky thing it is. its mannerisms always leave him unimpressed ; with a predictable roll of his eyes and waving away of its theatrics, he oft settles into something more somber next to its own mirth. it's rarer that adrien doesn't try to argue against its feelings, but it's hardly the first time he's chosen not to address them. it's poking at him on purpose. it knows it too, and he won't give it the satisfaction. he just watches it plainly, how it handles his hair, strikingly red 'gainst its pale skin. twirling 'round its fingers almost makes it look like blood. he's almost disappointed to be relieved of its immediate attention, when its arms sprawl out underneath it instead, and he's left in silence.

well, he's right in that it acts like a preteen girl sometimes. he doesn't know how it could possibly be the same beast that parades 'round caminus yards ... if its employees knew the truth, maybe they'd all be less scared of it. or maybe he's just a fucking idiot.

"i don't know why you look so shocked. you said yourself you've slept with other kine, never mind your history with the other masters or disregard of monogamy. is it really so hard to believe that i would doubt you've never kissed anyone before at your ripe old age?" his voice is shockingly even - tempered despite knowing he is digging into uncomfortably intimate topics. he'd have never brought something like this up even a year ago, now he has to quickly grapple with why he'd do it now, while laying on its floor in strangely comforting harmony with it—! mind, he has hated this monster since karakorum. what is he doing? "so what? i kissed plenty of women without it being ' in my nature ' ... i just find it bizarre you would do so now."

he's not even negging it! or trying to. how genuinely strange for it to go so long without even a passing interest despite sleeping with so many humans, only to comment now that it had picked up the fascination. over him? he's squinting at it like he suspects it of lying, but eventually gives up and groans, pulling his hands back to run along his face.

"enjoyable ... yeah. okay." whatever. he can't think about this too hard or he'll start getting anxious. just let it go. it's lucky he doesn't swat it, when it leans forward to catch his hands falling and place kiss 'pon his nose. all it gets is an annoyed glare. it looks so smug. "it's not an intimacy, i was just asking." this is what he gets. he sighs loudly and rolls onto his back again, deciding he enjoyed staring at the ceiling better. "i don't know. i've never been in love." true enough, to a point. "time, i guess. touch. sometimes words, but they make me feel ill when spoken aloud." or guilty, like he should be ashamed to hear them. "i feel like i've never had a heart, only broken them."

it thinks he should be more used to its antics by now, if he's not already. there's not a soul in the neath—living or long dead—that knows it better. to such a degree, it suspects even the other masters then don't understand it in the way he does. and where it should be boring: the routine, and the mundane ... it only invigorates it. however restless it might be, nor whatever act it puts on, he sees right through, and sees it no lesser for acting so carelessly. it's just having fun! but more than that, it just feels ... comfortable, with him. there's no pretense nor expectation : just the two of them, and their time.

" while that's true, i suspect we've ourselves a little misunderstanding of sorts. allow me, " now he has it going. it's so easy to lull into tangents like this—always ready to talk to whoever might listen, though often is it the case that whoever is usually him. not that it complains for the company either way, but it's never exactly learned what is and isn't appropriate to share. it's embarrassment ebbs and flows, but not for cause of the topic at hand. sex really was just ... a simple thing—basal, a relief. or so it had been, until him. and it suspects that is the reason for its pause, the quivering, the moments between where its gaze drops to gather its confidence before acknowledging him again, " yes, my intimate history is considerably expansive. the who and the how hardly matter, but especially when it came to kine, i had come to understand that kissing as we do is something intended more for lovers. thus, why would i? i did not love them, just as i hold no affections for my peers. but i do love you. "

it anticipates his grumbling 'fore it even finishes the thought, so to that end, it can't be offended when it watches his expression scrunch 'neath its lesser affections, nor even the daggers he shoots in its direction, all it can think to do is snort, and tug itself even closer in the precious narrow inches left between after it lets him speak.

this is more like it, the purr that rumbles deep in its chest, the playful glint in its eye as it lifts itself up solely to bow over him—one hand next to his head to keep itself upright, the other 'pon his cheek just as it had before. " perhaps i spoke too tamely? " he can still slip free of it, if he'd really like to. its hold on him is not tight, nor does its weight bear down in any capacity—it steadies itself on purpose, just to draw his focus where its attention does linger. on its claw that delicately traces down his cheek, to where it ends rested 'gainst his lower lip, tugging just enough to catch a flash of fang. " it thrills me, kissing you. " creature of habit, it is; and being so, it's no surprise it falls into old tricks, bearing its own sharp teeth as it lets it speaks with a familiar, sultry drawl. " feeling the softness of your lips against mine, and i quite enjoy that it is often the one thing you seem eager to take charge. " it leans even closer, just 'til their lips barely brush, and only then when it teases the faintest hint of pressure does it release him—!

it likes the pretty bruising on both their lips, that they often leave behind these days. it's more pleasure than pain ; and when those kisses travel even lower, 'cross its neck or beyond, it's even better. but it won't beg.

" what i'd give, to have the time to kiss you endlessly ... " with the same dramatic flair, it mimics him! it releases him, just to flop over onto its back, lolling its head back to stare up at the flickering candlelight. " mm... " but it's a restless thing, even so; it never really can just lie still even when it really should. it's gaze gives first, falling back to him 'fore even a minute's passed, and the rest of it is soon to follow : a faint quiver, the occasional twitch of a claw or foot, and then it's back upright, legs tucked 'neath its weight as it pulls its hands back to settle into its lap. " —here's a query. do you believe my heart is broken? "

it's pure luck he'd not ascended to an empty spire ... whether bad or good, he doesn't even try to dwell on, but he's not sure if the company he hadn't expected is more shocking, or if it's all the tizzy it works itself into afterwards. it busies itself way more than necessary to gather up this and that, all whilst he lays there with his attention far off, more than content to just lay on the hard, cold floor. ironic, that a master of the bazaar would be the one so concerned for impressions on a guest ... a guest whom, it would seem, doesn't even care for the comforts it brings. adrien barely lifts his head to spare it a glance once it comes crawling back, promptly letting his head fall back to the ground with a quiet thud.

he doesn't make move to stop it, either, though, allowing it to do as it pleases in a rare shift of good behavior for him. "yippee," he comments, listlessly, to hear of its good tidings. at least one of them is having a nice holiday, he supposes. but he's always been something of a grinch. neither christmas nor new years called out to him ... and down here, the celebrations don't matter anyways. sacks had never visited the caitiffs prior to this year, and the calendar never changed ...

he's a ragdoll, letting it shift him this way and that as it sprawls out blankets, pillows, the like. he rolls his eyes, but doesn't make any commentary. after all, he's the one who'd come knocking on its door so late at night. it isn't until its claws curl 'round his cheek that he breaks his gaze 'way from the shadows, turning to look at it with a slight crinkle to his nose.

"stop that. i can see your ego swelling. your head is growing larger." he doesn't feel like arguing with the actual statements, and he knows he'll regret it come another day, but truthfully ... he didn't come here to fight with it. he doesn't know why he came here at all, actually. he just ... felt like it. "did you know you're possibly the only person in the history of the entire universe to imply you think of me warmly? what a special little bat you are." his sarcasm is still biting, of course, but if it weren't, fires may think he'd been possessed rather than softened. either way, he doesn't reject it. and how odd that is.

of course, he'd also expected no merriment. he sighs and brushes its hand off so he can roll over onto his side, tangled now in his own hair, but letting his arms rest curled in front of him. he stares at his palms, bruised and calloused, and shrugs. "i wasn't expecting a gift. why would i be?" he doesn't mean it to be a bitter statement. he's never gone to any master per tradition for gift giving. how dire that is, though, to imply then he had come to see it, with no other ulterior motive. he doesn't even notice it. that's for the best.

it flopping over is what startles him. he blinks, eyes wide, and stares at it taking up such room in his own personal space. they're face to face, no different from two young ladies sharing the floor at a sleeping party ; and it's so absurd, he almost makes comment 'til it cuts him off with its own voice. he stares at it in unimpressed silence for two, three beats, then sighs. "what are you, a twelve year old girl? lord have mercy." he doesn't move to pinch his nose, but the crinkle 'tween his brows speaks volume enough. "fine. whatever." his pause is shockingly brief, " — was i your first kiss?" bloody hell. he must have been ready with that one for god knows how long.

truth be told, it'd put aside anything had it mean it could have more time with him—to that end, it suspects he knows it too, how little mind he seems to have for the frenzy that follows in the wake of his arrival. but a warning would have been nice! at the very least, it could have tried to make it more comfortable to his standard, where their own comforts conflict. alas, it is what it is, and the miscellany works well enough for its purpose. doing anything more would just waste what precious moments it has to find.

and how precious it is, in ways it suspects only it could have the mind to appreciate. his sour look and general grouchy demeanor charms it plenty, and had it the foresight to light a candle prior on the off chance this exact scene occurred, it'd know its heart would skip a beat or three, how easily he makes it flutter with the slightest crease in his brow or lip. it can't feel offended for it : he looks miserable, but then, he said it himself more or less, that it's of considerable comfort for him. enough to come all this way, climb a damn near torturous amount of stairs just to keep its company ...

oh, it could swoon!

" stop what? i haven't done anything! " it's beaming—it knows exactly what it's done, but of course it does. it only acts this way with him, where the rest of their public rarely catches passing glimpse of its more carefree habit, he sees it plenty—where it sprawls itself out as close to him as it possibly could, despite the generous space around them. it doesn't even flinch 'way when he brushes its hand from his cheek. instead, it adapts in kind, tangling his hair between its claws just to bring it up to its lips, quirked while its purr rumbles deep 'gainst its chest. compared to his own gloomy demeanor, it looks considerably warm—how it watches him is sweet, eyes ever narrowed in its gentle regard, " you can choose to ignore them all you'd like, but you cannot stop my insisting that i care for you so dearly. one of these days you may actually believe it. "

maybe it's fussing a little too much, but it finds the reminder a necessity : how long it'd been chasing after him, to have him fall near in its arms like this is a significant achievement. for it's part, it's well and sure to never let him forget how they got here to begin with! it lets the moment sit, simmer—but as the subject drifts, its attention falls back to idly twirling his hair 'round its fingers, pressing a soft kiss to the strands 'fore it lets them fall free, and settles with both its arms crossed neatly afront its chest to rest its head 'pon. " well, it is the season of giving—i'd hoped a gift might inspire a little holiday cheer, but an exchange of confessions works well enough for the same purpose. " how short that posture lasts—! it snorts, waving its hand dismissively in his direction at his scolding, " oh, have some fun! "

admittedly, it didn't expect him to take to its suggestion so ... readily. how much does he notice it startle? the brief moment it's left stunned and silent, eyes wide with its mouth left still half-gaping. " well ... yes. you are! " its claws thrum 'gainst its floor, picking at stray rug strands as its gaze falls to the pattern it picks apart. maybe another mercy, that it could yet be warm—its ears quiver, then fall, shielding it somewhat in its shallow embarrassment before they perk back upright, finding his gaze again with an easy smile, " it's not so much in our nature, the things kine do, but i find kissing you to be extremely enjoyable. "

cheeky thing it is, it has half a mind to try to emphasize it's point—and nearly does in the interim when it bows forward, just enough to press a gentle kiss to the bridge of his nose before it ducks back, settling back into position. now, though, it props itself up with one arm, and the curl to its lip is familiar : playful, if not outright tricky. " if we're in discussion of intimacies, how about this? what manner of way do you prefer love to be expressed? touch, time, things ... "

𑣲 MR F.IRES & ADRIEN.

yearly xmas gift surprise for my wife @sunlessea feat. the blog favorites <3 there's not a day these two will rest it's their turn for a cute gay painting !!!!

it's ironic, in a way. fires' love for london mystifies him as much as its love for himself does, and in the end, there are some things he can never understand even as the only person who possibly could understand the master. it loves this city in a way he'll never comprehend, because he's never felt that way about a place or its people, even the very culture he derived his identity from is lost upon him. not from mexico, but not quite from spain as his parents had been. he hadn't belonged in america, either, nor karakorum after it. london is another on a long list. in the end he just watches it with an almost apologetic look, and a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders. they're as close as they could possibly be ... but it's still not enough, not for this.

"i don't think i'll ever feel like i have a home. or, if i do ... i don't think i'll feel that way about a place." he watches it, curious and somewhat dismal on his part, but he's always this way. a little solemn, even when he isn't quite sad. it's an interesting thought, though, he supposes. maybe he's just looking at the wrong things. a home doesn't have to be a city or a country. "you're getting more in touch with your romantic side, aren't you? that was almost poetic."

he hums, and leans back on his hands flat 'gainst the desk. even in privacy, they end up in places like this. he supposes it's just familiar, where he watches with eyes half-lidded as it tears at his ... less than aesthetic wrapping. he doesn't mourn its loss. he's hardly skilled at presentation. but it's so excitable, it's outright embarrassing. it occurs to him that fires probably ... doesn't get many gifts, even within the holiday season, even compared to the other masters. he doesn't interrupt its process despite clearly judging it, however lightheartedly. he waits patiently whilst it examines the device once unwrapped, surely vaguely familiar, even if only a bit. there's enough room for it to lift the projector up onto its desk without bothering him, but he turns away in preparation for when it finds the switch on.

which is a pretty good call, since he'd have been a little blinded!

stars light up around them, impeded by the ghastly lights it keeps all around, but able to be spotted none-the-less. they move and twinkle in slow patterns, some brighter than others, some further away. there's mimicries of galaxies, too, though those are far too difficult to see the colors of without darkness.

... he really was a brilliant engineer, once. so far ahead of his time, stunted by the masters of the bazaar and this time-locked city. maybe it really is a shame, that no one would ever get to see how beautiful his heart had been, once, in the brief period of time he actually believed he might've had one.

"it was hard to shrink something like the planetarium down," he muses, turning away from the stars to watch its own transfixion. shockingly, it's a little cute. "maintaining the footage of stars from the surface when projected is impossible with the technology down here. i ended up having to import most of the parts." which, of course, is illegal, but he suspects fires isn't going to arrest him. he stands up and, blatantly without permission, starts snuffing out its candles. all his work! he wouldn't have it insulted again by its refusal to embrace darkness. "there are different settings. i figured you'd care mostly about the stars, but for all it's worth ... it can mimic sunrises and sunsets, too. or phases of the moon. different galaxies, planets, whatnot. but, you know. it's just unsatisfactory simulacrum, as one incredibly rude bat once pointed out."

it could offer him everything this city has to offer, it thinks, and it suspects he would be satisfied with none of it, the way he talks. were it not so smitten, perhaps it'd understand better : it speaks of london like a lover—not a home. a possession, or obsession, equal to how it oft speaks of him in excess, these passing days. it's home would always be the wilderness, but the stars it knew are so far beyond it now. so it finds its comfort elsewhere. it had been merely satisfactory once, but since he'd come to cross its path, it can finally say it feels fulfilled.

of all the wonderful things the city has brought to it, it's him it loves the most. no words would ever be enough, to express its gratitude, but perhaps its actions would speak for it plenty in its stead.

there's something intrinsically sweet to its behavior, here. almost innocent in the slow circles it paces, naturally reaching out to paw and make effort to grab the reflections of stars it once knew so intimately. it is a monster, of that there is no denying, but it still knows it's home from sight alone—and although it's no tangible thing, the memory is comforting enough to stir warmth behind its chest, easy smile tugging the corners of its lips up as it wanders this way and that.

stranger ; sweeter—it doesn't even fuss or whine as he wanders too, welcoming the darkness and their long shadows for the greater light that dances 'cross its walls.

" can you show me? " softer, still, its whistling voice—no one among its employ save for him would ever think it possible, that it could act nearly demure in its demeanor. its claws do not stretch each time it strives to catch the light 'tween its palms, so much as it stretches up to its toes, splaying its fingers out as it reaches up to watch how each little light dances across their length. it's shaking, if ever so slightly. a subtle tremor, from the ear to tail. " a sunrise. i've never ... our sun was less the metaphysical and more the— " now's when it finds the strength to pry its gaze away, and it's only in part due to some small embarrassment—it can feel the heat on its cheeks, when it meets his eyes again. " ... well. i suppose it's easier to say that the phenomenon was not common, where we soared. they disliked the prospect of endings. "

to say the least. its fury may as well be the sun's own, the sort they all run from. it's how they've run this far, and why they'd continue to—still, what wonderful things its discovered since. new thrills, and love all its own. its eyes soften, lips curling with its familiar silken purr, " this is beautiful, adrien. unbelievably beautiful. " for once, all it can hope for is that he doesn't assume it to be speaking in exaggeration. he'd never been exempt from its criticisms and brutal honesty—so he should know best, in theory, why now its praise comes boundless.

slowly, as it often does, it moves to steal the space between them. just a few short steps is all it takes to close the gap, and it is so grateful for it, when it takes too little time to grant him opportunity or recognition to dart away from its hands raised—it cups his cheeks in its palms, graze them gently with its thumbs, and admire him with all the same reverence it does his work, all 'fore he's the chance to jerk away from it. " ... just like the man that created it. "

he won't stand to be seen by the masters of the bazaar now ; not after all the time he's spent successfully dodging their widespread ire! how quickly he stumbles through bustle and hustle, standing a mite too tall among mortal crowds ... now is the closest he has come to regretting his vessel, and how little he blends in with other traveling crowds. in his defense ... how could he have expected mr hearts of all godforsaken bats to rest at this port - ! or any port beyond london, mind! the sun must hate him, to suffer this fate. he'd not suffer alone.

" - you! help me!" how quickly it beelines for its own kin ; the only other curator in sight. what a fated meeting this must be, too, for so many of their kind to be among the kine of royal ports this evening. mr ballads does not think twice 'til he grabs their cloaks with no small amount of force, ducking to pull the fabric ... and hide himself pressed 'gainst its side. "i have to get out of here. i can't let mr hearts see me ... ! take me away from here!"

truthfully ... he isn't asking.

oh, it has plentiful reason to avoid setting foot anywhere in the neath—a thousand and one, two hundred more at the least. but business is business, and here it'd hoped it had been somewhat subtle ... as much as could be, all the rattling and squeaking cages it drags along with. no one minds the noise on a busy port, but even so, it's hardly inconspicuous from the myriad other zailing parties that follow suit. the bigger problem, then, comes solely from finding a willing party to take it and its colorful compatriots with as little complaint as possible. it's well and caught up in its own thoughts—or had been for just a few precious moments 'til its promptly torn free - !

they're lucky, they're oh so lucky that it is less the aggressively reactive sort—for the fluttering of its cloaks and the chill that comes with, for his sharp hiss, all it does is fumble. hands, grasping at the veritable bulk 'pon its side, and steps, trying to steady from how it swayed.

" the hoarder is here—? " focus. focus! priorities—this is business they're talking about, and it still has its prospects ... but it's confidence wavers quite noticeably, come how its entire posture falls stiff, lip pulled harshly 'neath its fang to gnaw. no. no, it's too risky ... but then, what trouble has this one found itself in, to be hiding himself too? it strains to see over the flood of people thus surrounding, stretching up 'pon its toes for even a sliver of a chance, but if what he says is true ... it scours, 'fore dropping back on its heels with a huff. " we will discuss the parameters once we are safely back to zee. for now ... "

it lets its voice fall off, shuffling a bit closer to them in hopes of masking his shape. what little good it does. what can it do here? its gaze flits 'tween each ship as they settle, then at its miscellany of rattling cages 'fore its eyes, however subtly, widen. " here! " it's not much space, but ... beggars can't be choosers, can they? besides, its easier than shuffling side by side and praying they don't step on each other's toes in the process. it reaches forward to lift the cloak shielding its wares from false-light, and its tongue clicks. " there should be some space between them you can squeeze through. only until we are on deck. helpful, yes? shrouded. "

about as he'd expected! london's loveless artisan is hardly an easy endeavor. he'd not known that, or who he even was, when he'd declared his heart to him — but if there's one thing elysium adores, it's a good love story, and as he sees it... this is just a brilliant beginning. it'd age like wine, if he deludes himself enough to believe it could.

" — because i can help your art. your shortcomings fix themselves, if you fall in love." he reaches up to the book half pulled from the shelf in the other man's hand and pushes it back into the stack he'd sought to pull it from. his company might not be wanted, but silas is quite stuck with him. where else would he hope to get official copies of physical novels in london without jumping through pages' hoops? the object of his affection may be immovable, but he is unstoppable, and only one of those can be held hostage. it's poor manner, on his part! but so was setting the bazaar on fire, now wasn't it? "you're a grown man, you'll shake off the scandal and live. i'm the one with reputation in tatters, need i remind you. oh well!"

humming, he starts to look over the spines on the shelves, never wandering far. he's looking for something, clearly. "you're exceptionally lacking in skill when it comes to portraying love in your paintings, aren't you? i read aesthetica. i just didn't know you were silas. the vasiliev family has a lot of opinions about you! beautiful, but vapid and shallow."

he doesn't miss a beat, because he doesn't really care about causing offense. his eyes are shining when he turns to face him again, fur fluffed up.

"i want to commission you for a romantic mural. on the behalf of aphrodite. you know who that is, right?" anyone who's anyone who reads mr pages' select publishings knows who aphrodite is. well, knows of them. no one knows who aphrodite actually is. "the pay is twenty thousand echoes."

perhaps he'd indulged him a bit too long in idle conversation. it's certainly not off the table of possibilities—he frequents once upon well and frequently enough that there lies a strong potential that he may have given off some impression beyond that of the average consumer. been too pleasant, smiled too widely, had he complimented him recently? ever? he can't remember. whatever it is, he's like to never repeat it!

" the vasilievs have spent near the past decade dedicating themselves to find new and creative ways to debase me— " or ride his ass, how determined they seem to be to find fault in his character and passion. his scowl twists deeper. " —i suspect i must have slighted arkadi in a past life. it hardly matters. i have no shortcomings to mend. " there's no small part of him that doesn't wish to quip back, but he's naught but creature of habit, deft at maneuvering through any and all conversation and idle banter no matter their difficulty. but that doesn't mean he isn't being tested. his hand lingers—hovering—in the same space the book he'd grabbed once was; fingers twitching.

maybe he'll never come here again. maybe he can make do with his home library. make new friends, set up an exchange of sorts. but he has a sinking feeling it would never be quite so easy as to just excuse himself and pretend they'd never cross paths again—this one had found him without him even knowing he'd be anywhere nearby. short of settling with the life of a recluse, what else could he possibly do?

he hesitates 'fore he lowers his hand, bringing it to rest against the shelves as he slowly turns his head—by contrast to his companion's bright-eyed warmth, he's certain he must be staring daggers. " i've been made painfully aware, yes. " that must be it : he's one of those. few have been as frequent as his public affairs, but a few impassioned letters have made their way to print, much to his chagrin. even still, he's under no obligation to agree to this. but ... " thirty. the excess for the inevitable distress i'm like to suffer for it. take pity, won't you? "

... it never does hurt to have a little excess lining one's pockets, this day and age.

he's not sure he's ever spent this much time with someone ; even living in the same home as a family hundreds of years ago had seemed lonely in the moment, hardly more than an hour at a time spent together outside of meals. even then, it's not as if any of them had paid all that much mind to him ... it's overwhelming, to have someone's attention on him so completely for such prolonged days. weeks, maybe. it's hard to tell time in the neath, but it feels as if he'd been here for quite a while, and yet no time at all.

he just knows it's brooding for lack of an excuse to turn to, now, though he doesn't fully understand why. maybe he never would ... he just isn't capable of understanding such complicated hearts, either its or his own. he tries, of course, when he fixes it with a wholly unimpressed stare, yet it's not as if he pulls away from its whining.

"even if i stay another two hours, those two hours will eventually end, and you will have to let me go." his smile is wistful and weak, always the realist when the situation calls for a romantic. it behaves as if they'll never see each other again, but he knows even if he left this moment, it would find him the very next day, somehow. he's not even on the work schedule for the foreseeable future due to his prolonged absence, and it would still find a way. "you shouldn't make comments like that. the bazaar still hasn't full recovered from the flames - caminus could go up any moment if the employees got antsy."

he's being sarcastic, of course. much as he despises the ventrue clan, he's certain irons is somehow an even worse presence to have over them all than fires during this time. he'd seen it a grand total of maybe five times when it had been the one tasked to check on its colleague and each time it had looked like the stick up its ass dug just a little deeper by the day.

his demeanor is unsurprising. he always does this, making practical comments instead of dwelling on the more obvious question of why he'd even stay after saying he shouldn't. he prefers not to think too deeply on these things ; the physical touch, or his boss's penchant for tenderness when it regards him, nor all that had led up to it. he hums, "fine. whatever." just dismissive enough to claim deniability. he sighs, and turns his gaze away from it, only because he can't bear looking at it too long these days. even tugging him closer doesn't break his resolve, though he's practically limp 'gainst it. "you used to be more restless. you're acting like a maiden settling down."

this would be a much sweeter moment, were either they two willing to break the tension that strains between them. it doesn't know why he pretends not to to notice—oh, it can make guesses aplenty, but none would offer it the same comforts as the truth from his lips. but in saying as much, it knows it's no better! it refrains just as much as he, no matter how much its affections break the surface ; it toes a careful line, here, when they've fallen into such a sweet intimacy. the very last thing it wants is to lose it.

they're both cowards, in that respect. and it can only laugh—some quiet, breathless thing, how easily its lips curl into a smile as he, expectedly, relents. it knows why it'd been so excited when he'd first stepped foot into its home ; why it had nearly torn all its then near-fresh wounds nearly wider in how it'd lurched from its bed, those few beautiful seconds of clarity and elation free from the agonies its body wrought upon it. not once had it expected him, and he'd routinely come to surprise it. first, in coming at all, second, in staying, and again, choosing it, what feels near endlessly.

it's all it could ever want. and that desire is what has it hesitate, letting its words sit 'pon its tongue and linger, for fear it might yet still lose it. he's a long game, chasing his heart, but there would be no greater reward than that of it given freely.

not that the knowledge stops the hastening beat of its own, in the interim.

" perhaps all my years are catching up with me, " it snorts, nose crinkling with the brief flash of its fang. twenty-some thousand odd years, give or take, and it still acts just the same as when it was barely a quarter that! imagine the shock that'd sweep 'cross their entire coalition, should it be any less reckless in its day to day! still, it's at least fun to humor ... it's never been particularly good, approaching sincerity like this. with no flourish or flattery, all it has is itself to bare. and how horrifying that is—would be—if it were not already in the habit of being so vulnerable with him. " in any case ... thank you. "

the purr that curls its lips then is quiet, if not subtle outright. there's no mischievous glint in how it watches him, nor suggestive intent in the patterns its fingers trace 'long the small of his back, the further its able to slip its hands beneath, " you were under no obligation all this time, you know, so it sincerely does— i ... am just immensely grateful. " though if it does continue to stare at him like this, it thinks it might cry—its eyes already feel uncomfortably wet. it has half a mind not to breathe a sigh of relief, for once, when he's the first to tear his gaze away. at least it gives it a moment's composure. " i don't suppose i mind the idea. i enjoy every moment it is i get to spend together with you. it isn't the most riveting thing, i know, taking care of some sick old bat, but i do hope in being here it brought you some joy just the same. "

all that comes after is simply par for the course. it slowly shifts its legs apart, just to steady itself with feet more firmly planted 'gainst the bedside as it hoists him, as ever, with dutifully little effort over it—and back into its lap, with arms wrapped firmly around his waist. it's far more chaste than it looks, even throwing itself back to stare up at him ; it looks up at him far too fondly, for anything less. still, once settled, it snakes one arm up from around him, only to snatch one of his hands with its own, tugging it up just to rest its cheek in his palm and with its voice kept in gentle murmur, admit: " ... you've looked at ease, for a change. i quite like that. "

he has oft always dabbled with that he does not and should not understand : 'tis the very reason why he is stripped of status and vow, cast free from the ministry he had promised himself to for all eternity. where others feared the unknown, he seeks it, pulled forward by questions unanswered and desire for love, above all else. there is beauty in darkness and shadow, no matter how those of the clergy disparaged him a sinful, mad man. "i don't need to know! i yearn, and that is enough." his voice is breathless, hitched, excited but not anxious. his hand is clutched to his chest, as if to calm a racing heart. for what little good it does. his countenance remains soft where it should not, desperation plain 'pon his face in how he smiles, follows the movement of shadow surrounding. he is playing a dangerous game, with fae of all creatures, and their gods at that. he knows this.

"how could i forget you?" he sounds almost offended, but it falls way to shiver along his back where their fingers brush his hair, but always when he turns to look, they are gone. pardon his surprise, then, at their hand extended, when it is offered, and the thrill of his own heart to see it. he very well may die, another man lost to the entrapments of the fae who have taken the nowhere as home ... but he would die for love in a heartbeat. "it is far beyond want, even mortal love. were i anything other than man, i could prove it." but he is only man, and he had lost everything for giving his body over to the applebright. were he given choice, he would have lied with them again, and again after, and again now. he does not hesitate, where most would. if he is to be lost to the shadows, then so it is. his hand lifts, ears pressing back against his head in tandem with the almost reverent, pathetic desperation with which he has imagined them tangled once more with him in his heart. he takes the applebright's hand in his own, curls his fingers around, and needily steps in wholly to the darkness. "please, mi corazón."

what an enchantingly sweet, stupid thing he is—and must be, to come in search of it twice-over. they're hardly the only threat 'mong the depths of nowhere's shadows, but their teeth may certainly be the sharpest ; the grin that curls its lips wicked and red. this is a hunter's game, and he bound their prize, but there is plenty fun still left to be had in taking things slow. it's so rare an occasion that any mortal man comes astray, least, not without a little coaxing ... there's little wonder as to why their laughter sings beyond the trees, caught on the branches and echoes—this is fun! and when last could it say that?

they can feel his desperation, much as they know he's like to claim it earnestness 'stead—they can see each way his expression shifts, eyes darting this way and that, smile too, unwavering. but most deliciously, they can hear his heart pounding.

" pretty little fawner you are! you already have my attention, " dangerous thing such it is to keep, but that's hardly anything of their concern. his hair feels like silk as it slips through their fingers; their eyes narrowing into a gentle squint—it could almost be fond, the way they look at him. there is some charm to be had in playing the part of observer when it comes to things like mortal whims and wiles. often, they can be quite cute, and he's hardly the exception. he squirms so pretty. " i hardly think we've much need for niceties. "

but there's only so much joy they can find, weaving in and out of the shadows. eventually, they'd need progress. such as it was before, such as it will always be—nowhere is hardly so kind as to grant them peace elsewise, what all of the pitch still licks at their heels as it approaches. they're admittedly pleasantly surprised when he takes their hand—and how soft a touch it is, compared to their own. neither of their hands come rough, but only one is stained so brutally. it's fascinating, to think he would willingly choose a monster. " whatever all it is you wish for, lirimaer, allow me give it to you. " this is more in line with tradition, as they lift his hand to their bloodstained lips to kiss, taking short, slow steps back into the woods that beckon them. " pray, i might know of some means you could prove your ... devotion. "

they offer little else but a flash of sharpened teeth, as they raise their head, and turn his hand 'til its the tender flesh of his palm their fangs graze 'gainst. " do you still want to prove yourself, my love? "

she maintains a dignity as fragile as herself, but the covers clutched to her chest are only held so loosely from waning strength, rather than any intent made blatant. she isn't embarrassed for the company either, however. she remains seated, letting her hair fall 'cross her shoulders enough to cover at least some of their bareness.

"i believe i dreamt of the fall," her voice is soft at the acknowledgement ; that night is not oft spoken of, 'least in the halls of royalty. "horses prancing through a blood red storm, nobles dancing through our castle halls, and what seemed millions of bats ... " it's a haunting thing to dream of, perhaps, but she is a haunting individual. things that unsettle others seem to comfort her ... true in how she watches it with calm regard, 'til its lips, rough with its curse, press soft kisses 'long her pale skin. it takes very little pressure to leave behind even the faint blossoms of bruising - but she does not fluster so hard as one would expect, a lonesome princess accosted in her gilded cage. "no, it's alright ... i've slept long enough."

her hand raises whilst the other still holds up her covers, fingers brushing light 'cross its cheek, undeterred by scar nor what else. lovely monster it makes, she supposes, knelt down by her bedside. "you've come earlier than usual ... before the lanterns have been put out for the night. do you masters of the bazaar grow lonesome when left to your own devices?"

much unlike what its usual behavior might suggest, it's incredibly polite. at least with her, where needs must. for once, it finds no need to stir up any trouble—and for all the chaste kisses it ghosts across her skin, it leaves its hands be ; too, even its gaze, politely averted save times it holds her own, is well mannered.

though it does thank the gods it chose not to be candle-blushed, this night. it would need little provocation, in a scene thus so precarious, to have heat rise to its cheeks.

" do such things frighten you? " she always makes such ... interesting conversation. even masters speak little of what all came before their present—when hellfire reigned above and cities burned 'fore they were drowned and buried. it continues its line of kisses as she speaks, slowly pressing them more firmly as it shifts its head back up. now, neck to jaw, etcetera... " the night london was buried. i imagine we've two drastically different perspectives, i would be quite keen to hear your retelling. " it feels lucky to keep such a steady voice, no matter its coarseness, the whole way it speaks. especially 'neath a gaze as intense as her own ... it's certain she hardly notices, herself, just how much it wilts beneath her soft regard. it's never been treated like this by anyone, before—so how is it to possibly know if it was meant to react anything other than this?

and she's so soft, too ... it feels it most, in every place its lips and body incidentally press against the further it needs to push itself up against the bed, but it welcomes her wandering hand, too. she's never been frightened of its peculiarities, as any other might ; and it feels unbelievably good, even touched so lightly ... to feel her fingertips trace over each notch, crevice, and hollow, and to know her fascination would not waver.

" it's possible, " it admits with a soft exhale—nothing precise, but ... " as it turns out, some problems tend to sort themselves out. i can hardly complain for the extra time when that means i can fill my hours with much more pleasant company. "