Can we have 16 from kisses for Ixchel and Solas? 👉👈
nose kisses
I wrote this at midnight as I was half asleep but I hope it turned out well! I'm actually planning on writing this full scene out a little differently buuuuut
-:-:-:-
She asks him, once, if the brands bother him.
He might once have said: I cannot imagine you without them. They were as much a natural feature of her face as her lips, or her scars--though perhaps the dimple in her cheek was more of an apt comparison. He was always keenly, perhaps shamefully, aware of her lips, but the divot in her cheek when she smiled caught him by surprise sometimes, as did the vallaslin.
He could not say: I cannot imagine you without them. For one thing, he had invented the spell to remove vallaslin. Any time he saw ink on skin, any time his eyes traced mundane tattoos across the curve of a cheek or a shoulder or down the length of an arm, he thought of how he might remove them--break the bonds between ink and flesh, even without blood or lyrium at play. He could not stop himself, just as he could not stop himself from breaking down living forms into stylized shapes that might suit his frescoes.
He would not say: I cannot imagine you without them. Not now, after he had seen herself through her own eyes, and he knew that even after all these years, she was still startled by the sight of the honored marks across her face. She was still more accustomed to the sight of a bare faced, brave girl who became Herald at sixteen.
(To be mortal and yet to be surprised by the passage of time? A wonder. A knife in his gut.)
And he could not say, "No, I am not bothered," because he was. He was bothered by what they had once represented--slave brands--as much as what they represented now: a very pesky white-washed worship, exactly what he had hoped to stamp out with his rebellion. But he had always respected those in his ranks who wore their marks as an outward sign of the honor they had found within themselves. Abelas and his duty, countless others, like...Felassan.
(He would not think of Felassan. Not now.)
He could remember her argument, with that other Him, in another Time, about that very nuance.
He is still bothered. The vallaslin are the worst choices he ever made. They are trust betrayed; a mind, stolen. They are a body he never wanted, they are ceilings that replaced the open skies. They are a friend's deepest regret. They are a promise, given, to free all those enslaved by Dirth's invention.
(An irony, then, that she wears Dirthamen's own raven on her brow.)
He would be more bothered to remove them for her, knowing that it was for his own taste. As if she were cleansing herself for his better consumption. After all, he had possessed her, become her, and he had felt her Pride. He would not take that away.
-:-:-
Solas has stood in silence long enough, his eyes taking in the lines of her face. She is worried and uncertain; he can feel it, a shyness that does not suit her. He knows now how long she had shaped herself for others, and the misery it caused her. He wishes she knew she never needed to do so.
He wishes to tell her all of these things.
Instead, he closes the distance between them, takes her round face in his hands. She draws a breath of something like anticipation, but he does not summon magic to his fingers. He does not lift paint from flesh, and blood from ink.
Instead, he kisses her, gently, reverently, where Dirthamen's raven spreads its wings on her skin like a crown. His lips trace the ink and blood down to her nose, and he feels her relax when he pauses there to emphasize that he loves this, too. He kisses one cheek, and then the other, feeling scars beneath his lips and feeling her smile.
He kisses her chin, then pauses.
His thumbs brush across her jaw as he leans away just enough to see her smile.
"You are already free," he says to her, and kisses her lips.
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Commissioner, Usman Jaha queried for distributing shoe polish
Commissioner, Usman Jaha queried for distributing shoe polish
Commissioner For Higher Education, Usman Jaha has received a query from the Borno Governor, Kashim Shettima, for distributing kits with shoe polish and other items to youths in Gwoza as part of his personal welfare programme. According to reliable source; “The Governor reminded the Commissioner that his Ministry has so far facilitated the approval of […]
“I didn’t intend to kiss you.” for Ixchel x Solas? 👀
Hehehehe. I'll make the format nicer later.
-:-:-:-
She staggered free of the dance circle and looked around for Solas. She found his silver eyes reflecting the firelight back at her from the benches and tables at the edge of the gathering; he sat alone, which made her worried, but then she saw the way he watched her--like a starving wolf at the edge of a camp, fixated on field rations just as intently as if it were a roast.
She, being the roast in the analogy.
Ixchel cut a direct path to him, but before he could stand from his seat, she clambored up into his lap and bent him back over the tabletop, capturing his lips in her own. His arms came around her loosely, not pulling her closer and not pushing her away, but certainly maintaining a distance between them that she didn't appreciate. She bit and sucked at his mouth, gasping for breath after her exertion around the fire, and only pulled away from him when she sensed he would not rise to her passion.
She snorted and lifted herself out of his lap, taking a seat on the table beside him so she'd be at a more equal height.
"Do you want to dance, vhenan?" she asked.
"Was that an invitation to dance?" he asked, and she couldn't help her smug smile at how breathless he sounded. "Or did you mean to ask... What was it...?" He cocked his head, touching his lips thoughtfully. "'Isalan alas'nira aron fen'en'?"
"You like dancing," she said with a shrug.
"That is true of both kinds, 'ma'lath. You'll have to be specific."
She rolled her eyes. "Dancing-dancing. Like at Stone-Bear Hold." Realizing that that didn't quite make the distinction she had intended, she scowled. "I mean what I was just doing. Come on."
"Ah, why didn't you just ask?" he teased. "I would have interpreted such a kiss to be another kind of invitation."
"It's your own fault, Solas," she said acerbically. "I didn't intend to kiss you."
He raised an eyebrow at her and slouched lower in his chair. "Oh? And I somehow swayed your indomitable will, invited you to breech decorum so?"
She might, if she had had one fewer drink in her, picked up on how his mouth had gone lopsided, and how his hands crept up her waist. Instead, she was resolutely focused on this accusation. "Yes!" she protested. "You gave me that look--you know exactly what I'm talking about, da'fen!"
Solas snickered at the appearance of this rarely used nickname, and part of her processed his amusement--not enough to make her reconsider this argument, but instead just enough to egg her on. She at least had the sense to lower her voice. "Besides... Since when have you been shy about public spaces?"
Solas lifted her off of the table where she had perched and set her on her feet again, but without releasing her. Then he began to coax her back, step by step, toward the shadows at the edge of the campfire. "Since your Keeper, and your extended adopted Clan family, and indeed all of the Dales seemed to be ready to skin me for corrupting you, da'len," he retorted.
Ixchel dug in her heels, and he stopped pulling her, hands slipping from her waist to her arms to clasp the tips of her fingers in his palms--an invitation, not a demand. But he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows in the direction of the bonfire.
"I would not take you away from this rare celebration. After all..."
He tugged at her suddenly, and she sprawled into his arms, melting into his chest.
"I can have you any time I care to," he murmured huskily, breath hot on the shell of her ear, "while such a gathering occurs once a decade, if that."
70) "Say my name over and over again and, once you think you’ve said it loud enough, scream it. I want the whole neighborhood to know who’s making you feel good.“
Well this took *a while.*
Ixchel x Dirthamen (Arlathan AU)
Rating: E
Lemon ahead!
Andruil seethed across the hall and jabbed a finger in Ixchel's direction. "Of what consequence is it that I might desire to perform my own investigations upon this anomaly? It carries strange magicks and brings turmoil to our Dreaming." Her lip curled. "I would not be doing my duty to the All-Mother, to our People, if I did not investigate."
"It was my duty to investigate, sister," Dirth said coldly. "I am more suited to such a task in wit and wile. Beyond that, if you had wanted to perform your own inquiries, you need only have asked. Instead, my private holdings were breached, and my property stolen, and my guest endangered."
He lifted one hand from beneath his cloak and gestured sweepingly between himself and his sister. "Huntress, relinquish your false claim."
"To say it is false implies that you have a claim more valid than my own," Andruil sneered.
"Neither of you have dominion in this matter."
The bickering Evanuris turned to face the All-Mother, and Ixchel was struck by how much they truly looked like admonished children. Dirthamen's shoulders had seized, rising slightly towards his ears, which themselves had dropped back with petulant ire; his sister could not contain her anger, and it showed plainly on her face, but she could not allow it to seem like her anger was truly for Mythal and kept her eyes averted. Her fists were clenched at her sides as though she were physically restraining herself. But both knew better than to speak up against their mother.
"You, Lady of the Hunt, are neither guardian nor scholar," Mythal proclaimed. "You, my son, are the Keeper of Secrets. However it is not solely your duty to seek them out." The All-Mother stared down her nose at her rebellious and all-too-powerful children, and the Fade trembled between them all in the air as their emotions clashed discordantly. She let that continue for a moment longer, perhaps so they could feel how seriously they had irked her. And then, at the height of their tension, she softened. Her head tilted to the side, hands outstretched to receive her children. "This is the way of the People and our Empire, to delegate, to collaborate. This is my Wisdom, such that you, my greatest children, might not spare concern beyond the matters to which you are appointed, until it is decided that you must. So please, my beloved Reflection of Falon'Din, and my vigilant Sister to the Moon, allow this matter to rest in the hands it belongs to."
Mythal nodded, and the Wolf stepped forward.
"The Pride of our People is his concern, and their safety," Mythal continued. "I leave this matter in the hands of My Guardians, and you shall leave it to him as well. Heed his word; allow him to decide the young one's freedoms and restrictions, and allow him to investigate her mysteries and power as he sees fit. He has my blessing, and with it, I trust that he will raise any issue to your concern should the need arise."
Ixchel saw Andruil and Solas look at one another with fire in their eyes, but Dirth had turned to Ixchel. With his back to his mother, and his golden gaze locked firmly with Ixchel's, she recognized a new flame kindled in them different than she had seen before.
-:-:-
Dirth and Solas walked her to the small rooms that she had been given, now more heavily warded against Andruil and her Marked people. Solas had assured Ixchel he would see to the matters Mythal had raised, which Ixchel understood as: he would protect her from the Huntress's schemes. Then, he left, and Ixchel and Dirthamen stood on the threshold of her room.
He had hardly touched her but to brush the knuckles of his hand against the back of her own as they walked, and to very, very chastely touch the small of her back in a guiding fashion once or twice.
But each touch had electrified her, and now she stood before him and basked in the heat she had seen in his eyes ever since Andruil's challenge in the court.
The moment the door closed, she had expected him to be on her--protective, warm, reassuring, perhaps. Yet it was a tense moment that they stared at one another in the cool dimness of her room and simply waited for one or the other to speak.
She had plenty of questions for him, observations about the dynamic she had witnessed on the floors of Mythal's marble hold. She wanted to hear what he and Solas had planned to thwart Andruil, and she was particularly keen to hear whatever colorful insults Dirthamen could come up with for his sister. But more than any of that, a part of her burned beneath his golden gaze and wished that he would claim her, that he would reassure her with his teeth and his cock that there was a mutual belonging, here between them.
After what felt like an eternity, Dirthamen inclined his head toward her, lashes falling across his cheeks as he averted his gaze, almost bashful, and slowly closed the distance between them. "Perhaps it is time, vun'ean," he said as he approached, voice low and husky. "They believe I have no claim on you..."
He raised a hand and lightly cupped her cheek--of course, she leaned into the touch more firmly. His eyes scoured her face, half-lidded and hot. "Should that change?" he asked her quietly.
"It was not what we planned, calculated," she replied. "For the sake of our egos we need not change it."
"But for the sake of our hearts, vun'ean?" His breath was hot, silken across her cheeks and lips. "I know what I desire... But how much do you desire it? Desire me?"
Dirth let his hand fall slowly, down her neck and shoulder and side, a burning path left in the wake of his feather-light touch.
She looked up at him with lips parted, and a delicious heat coiling in her gut. She nearly shivered from the anticipation his touch kindled in her.
His hand came to rest at his side, waiting.
"I do," she said. "Desire you. Desire us, Dirth."
Dirthamen, Secret Keeper, Lord of Spies, was a master of maintaining a neutral mask. Only from their intimacy could she find the truths he hid beneath that mask, and now, her toes curled. There was to be a game.
She did love Dirthamen's wicked games.
"Tell me how much," he prompted, voice rising to a normal volume--there was to be neither secrets nor whispered shame here between them. "With your body as well as your words."
Ixchel had grown accustomed to his hungers, but this was new. She found that her mind raced with all the possibly ways she could interpret or misinterpret his request. But her hands had a mind of their own; already they rose up the curved of her body, gathering her breasts beneath the diaphanous fabric of her gown, wandering further still toward the collar, and the clasp behind it. She undid the neck of her dress and let it fall so she was bare underneath his gaze, dressed only in the token jewelry she had been gifted over her time in the court. Gold chain and hammered discs of metal fell across her dark skin, drawing his eyes. She removed a pin from her hair, and its full length unwound, cascaded down her shoulders. She ran her fingers through it slowly.
"I love you here, Dirth," she said. "Your hands, your touch... Your lips, your teeth. How can I show you?"
"Lay down."
She retreated swiftly to her bed and sat back against the pillows, only to realize that he had hardly moved to follow her. He leaned against a pillar, one delicate hand splayed across the base of his throat, the other arm crossed against his chest. Restraining himself in anticipation.
Heat pooled between Ixchel's legs at the realization. She spread her legs slowly, stretching, arranging herself until she was on display for him.
His lips parted. A good start.
She let her hands roam over herself, telling him first with her eyes how much she wanted him to join her. In truth a part of her still lacked the courage to bring her thoughts into the world as words. But she knew how much Dirth loved words, loved speech, needed it.
So she spoke to him, only to him, not to the prying ears and scrying spells that no doubt pervaded the halls of this domain. She held his gaze and spoke to stoke that licking flame of desire into an irrepressible force. When at last she dipped her fingers between her legs and found herself hot and ready--more than ready--she told him. But he let her continue, never once showing how close he might be to his breaking point.
She came to her own fingers, calling out almost frantically for him to sate the need in her thrusting hips. And at last he crossed the room, costume and armor melting away into the shadows until he was at the foot of the bed, bare. He joined her then, lips seeking hers with an unrivaled passion, a need, that was only matched by her own.
His devilish fingers sank deep into her slick heat and worked her to another crest; she fell readily, loudly into her euphoria, again and again, for it seemed like Dirthamen might be trying to exhaust her words, her vocabulary, before he would take her--
Ixchel scrabbled for his hands and dragged him close, reversing their positions so she straddled his waist. She pinned his arms to the bed beside his head and ground against the hot length of him, moaning wantonly. But when his hips bucked to try and unseat her--or to sheathe himself in her, which ever might have been the case--she pressed more adamantly at his hands.
She bowed her sweat-slick forehead against his own, her long hair mingling with the mop of curls that spilled around him, sheltering them both.
"I want you, Dirth," she panted. "I want you to say my name. Say my name over and over again. But once you think you’ve said it loud enough, I need you to scream it. Let all of Arlathan know that this claim is mutual--for all you might claim me, you have been claimed, 'ma'lath."
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[ MIRACLE ] - What have they been awarded for their beliefs?
"Nah, not really. When ah was still property, Ah tried t' be a good boy an worship tha' fuckin disgustin thing. Ah believed if ah could please em. Ah could end m' daily...pains. Didn' work. ...an recently, ah ate a angel an some folks got real upset, callin me th' devil. Which ain't much of'a insult. But explainin tha th angel was jus here t' kill, an therefore fair game ta fight, made em riot. .......So ah broke a leg or two ta shut em up."
