me: hey why don't you see beastmen in other houses. also why are there never any prey-themed beastmen. this is real herbivore erasure.
(anyway this is a twist on panic from hercules to accompany klovni's pain. he's Very loosely based on a kri-kri and moved to the island of woe with his parents who work for the company)
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I've had my heart stomped by a thwarted ship once too often, and while fanfiction is the answer, I'd love to be able to see my couple end up happily together without having to go through the heartbreak before I find the perfect fic.
Because right now, it feels like I get to the show's finale and I have a stroke, and then I find the perfect fic to complete the story, and I recover. Which is great. Love that recovery. But I'd also really love to not have the stroke. To which end:
I'm looking for a historial tv drama with a satisfying conclusion & the most exquisitely delicious of slow burns that does eventually get a happy ending. Preferably in a warmer climate.
The vibes I am going for are Spiro/Louisa from The Durrells in Corfu
(credit to @roominthecastle)
Or Marco Bello/Maddalena from Medici: Masters of Florence.
(credit to @markantonys)
And yes, I realize that all I have to do is read @dollsome-does-tumblr "A Little Miracle" for the perfect ending to Louisa & Spiro's story, and I realize that Marco Bello and Maddalena are reunited, because in season 2 we see that a decade after he left the Medici house, he's back training Lorenzo, after the death of Cosimo.
But I would also now like to see it happen on screen! So yeah, any recommendations would be very much appreciated. Thank you.
louisa and spiros remind me so much of mulder and scully but in a completely different setting and it is literally amazing.
louisa is thrown into a world wildly, vastly unfamiliar to her when she moves to corfu. scully's thrown into an equally unfamiliar life when she's reassigned the x-files.
spiros immediately takes louisa under his wing, helps her find a house and start adjusting to her new life. mulder tries to involve scully in the work he does, however outlandish it seems to her. he helps her to understand, sort of, his reality, just as spiros is helping louisa to understand his.
personality-wise, scully and louisa are both smart, self-sufficient, and a bit colder/sharp. spiros and mulder are both eccentric, comedic, and occasionally explosive, especially when louisa/scully is hurt.
spiros and mulder "jokingly" flirt with louisa and scully, leaving the other two unsure of whether it's just banter or there's a real meaning behind it. but they also always show up for them when they're in pain, and it seems like they're going to be there forever. mulder hugs scully in a too-bright hospital hallway and strokes her hair while she cries into his chest; spiros drives louisa to the cliffside and holds her hand and hugs her while she cries.
mulder and spiros both fall madly in love, and would do anything for scully/louisa. and they both try to push their feelings down -- because louisa is interested in other men, because scully deserves so much more than mulder can ever give, because spiros is married, because because because. it takes scully and louisa longer to realize their feelings for mulder/spiros, and they, too, try to ignore them, because they're scared of getting hurt.
spiros and mulder are both overly protective, even when they aren't yet in a relationship. this is something that is noticed by other characters, too -- i think it was hugh who pointed out to louisa that spiros was always oddly protective of her, and scully herself mentioned it to mulder ("it seemed as if you were being a bit... territorial" "of course i was"). mulder and spiros say whatever it is they are thinking in the moment, while scully and louisa always spend lots of time trying to find the perfect way to articulate just what it is that they're thinking.
there's probably even more parallels, but that's all ive got the energy to come up with right now. i just love them all so so very much :')
male deity x female reader
5k words
lemon | dream sex, creampie, hints of future angst
additional note:Â ânight flyingâ ointment is a real thing, BUT please consult healthcare professionals or experts and do copious amounts of research before seeking it out and dear god, donât ever ingest it, please & thank you
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There are⌠Way more books on the subject than you thought there would be. Which is good! Being able to compare information will help you find one that works well for you, but honestly? Itâs kind of depressing that none of them have that old-world magic-looking binding. Just once you were kind of hoping that you might stumble onto something tangible and magical outside your dreams. If you can, youâre going to complain about the lack of embossed covers and fancy sounding titles when you see him again.
If you see him again.
Thus, the books. Lucid dreaming has been on your mind for quite a while now. Itâs an interesting turn of phrase, and the thought of it, what all the books describe it as: Being able to bend your dreams to your will? That sounds pretty damn awesome.
Itâs not like this all came out of nowhere though. Youâre not looking into it because of nightmares, which is apparently fairly common, or because you have some kind of serious yen for knowledge about brains and dreams. Youâve been⌠Dreaming of someone.Â
It would probably sound like some kind of fairy tale to anyone that hadnât experienced it, and most people would just write it off as some kind of intensely vivid, though random, series of dreams. Youâd been half tempted to do that at first too, of course.Â
It had all started out as crystal clear flashes in your dreams, like a perfect memory of a favorite movie scene. Simple conversations about your day held on a fancy looking carousel, glittering golden lights drawing your eyes away from your companion. Some days you traded amusing anecdotes under towering arches, draped over the top with what you first thought was blue gauzy material and fairy lights. Instead, you found out that they were actual fairy lights, little winged beings flitting about in a storm, eating holes in the sky.
âStars,â heâd explained, pulling you to a stop as one of the little pixies pulled a dark blue swirl from the sky, like midnight-colored cotton candy, and ate it, leaving a gleaming star-like hole behind. Youâd felt such an intense sense of wonder, heart loud in your chest, that youâd woken yourself up, hand actually outstretched as if you could touch-Â Â
They were wonderful and strange, and you remembered them with a clarity that youâve never associated with dreams before. You could smell things - sweetness in the air, salt water on the breeze, and you could feel the heat and cold when you walked by his side. Still, it hadnât been hard to write it all off as nothing more than an overactive, tired mind. Maybe youâd binged too many fantasy stories in media lately and your brain was just mushing everything together?
Never mind that you canât recall anything recent about pixies eating holes in the sky.Â
Theyâve continued though, the dreams, the meetings you have with him. Far off places on maps are spread out before you like a feast, his arm warm under your hand as he escorts you or does his best to leave you breathless with laughter. Youâve always woken from those dreams invigorated, but with the strange sense that you were missing something, until- his face. On a shore with cresting orange waves, you turn away from the blinding glare of reflective sunshine, and then you see him, draped in a dark chiton, just before you wake.
Even having seen it just the once, you canât erase it from your thoughts. The color of his eyes, shades shifting when you unfocus, like photographs of far flung nebulae. The impression of feathers twined with his hair and yet arching away from his temple like actual wings. The way his lips look when they shape your name, his hand taking yours so he can twine your fingers together-
Heâs too beautiful to be true.
Youâre both convinced youâve made him up, and absolutely convinced you couldnât have. Arenât people supposedly only able to see those theyâve seen before in their dreams? And you know, without a doubt, that youâve never seen anyone that looks like him in your day to day life. Unless heâs just a piece-meal of people or ideas youâve found attractive. Even then, youâre not sure you could have put him together so smoothly.Â
Itâs hard to believe that youâve made him up though, when he declares that he is real. That, at least, has never happened before. Though youâre not sure youâve ever taken the time to ask someone if they were a product of your imagination when youâve been dreaming, having been too caught up in your imagined adventures yourself.Â
One night heâs stroking his thumb over your cheekbone, claiming that you should chart your dreams-
âProve it,â you blurt, and you can feel your pulse speed. His image wavers, there and gone, and his eyes widen. âProve that youâre real,â you clarify and your pulse ratchets up another notch.Â
âHow?â He asks with a laugh and then takes your hand in his, clinging almost, like he canât quite believe heâs touching you - never mind that heâs touched you before. His laugh sounds strained though, and the smile on his face is⌠Thin. âAnd you must calm your heart, dear one. Youâll wake, and how will I prove myself then?â
âI donât-â know, youâre about to say, but he presses a finger to your mouth, worrying at his lower lip as he glances over your shoulder.
âPerhaps⌠Perhaps, I can tell you the dreams of those near you,â he says softly. âYes, wait here for just a moment.â He does vanish then, and the dream loses a bit of clarity. You have a vague memory of being unable to read one of your favorite books, and then heâs back, whispering random sounding things into your ear, arms curled around your middle. âA family dog, a work dispute interrupted by a cart of apples, and a great webs, knitted by a grandmother. Ask your neighbors,â he pleads, mouth deliciously warm where itâs brushing your ear. âI am real, and I know their dreams - ask them,â he urges, and then you wake.
Heâs so strangely eager for you to believe him, and after that list... You give in to the mild embarrassment and make awkward small talk with two of your neighbors. Bringing up recent dreams in front of the mailboxes is a little difficult, but you manage, if not exactly smoothly. You half hope it comes to nothing, that they brush off your questions and move on with their day - what are you even doing, trying to prove that a dream man is more than a figment? But one of them mentions an old dog they used to have, and then the other claims they dreamed or arguing with their boss.Â
â-we were at the bottom of a hill though, and one of those old apple carts came tearing down, nearly mowing us both to the ground. It was a bit more.. Vivid than usual, I suppose.â
ââS nothing,â your other neighbor interrupts with a laugh. âMy kid thinks great grandma must be a spider and has nightmares about her knitting webs as gifts.âÂ
With a peculiar fluttering feeling in your chest, you march right back into your place. Heâd been telling the truth.
Or youâd become prescient. Youâre not sure which is the more likely, butâŚÂ
Lucid dreaming.Â
You crack into the stack of books youâd taken home from the library with eagerness. You want to try and take control in your dreams not only because manipulating them would be interesting, but because youâre desperate to prove that heâs more than a figment on your end. You try not to get caught up in thoughts of prescience - even if he is real in some way, itâs still a bit hard to believe youâre suddenly able to tell the future, even through dreams. Youâre tempted to bring that up though, just like the very non-magical looking books, when next you see him.Â
There are a copious amount of notes and preludes in nearly all of the books, as well as the articles youâve looked up online, that say to not get your hopes up. Lucid dreaming apparently doesnât work the same way for everyone, and the results are rarely immediate.
Succeeding on the first try isnât unheard of, one person writes, but it is exceedingly rare. True success will come in stages, starting with Awareness. Are you aware that youâre dreaming? Are you aware of where exactly you are in your mindscape? And that brings us to another important vocabulary word: Mindscape.
âMindscape,â you mutter, flicking idly through the pages. Some of the books are very cut and dry, but on the other hand, the articles and first hand accounts on the internet are⌠Kind of out there. You feel less like youâre researching and more like youâre getting drawn in by click bait or conspiracy theories when you read about personal mindscapes and see the hand drawn maps. Some of them are detailed enough - in both drawing and description - that you wonder why they arenât trying to market them.Â
Still. You try and gather up information without getting your hopes up about it all, but honestly thatâs the most difficult part. Having already experienced something.. Other while you were dreaming, you canât help but think maybe youâll have the upper hand. Heâd told you, more than once, that your dreams had felt different to him, so you canât get it out of your head, and... your hopes are most definitely up.Â
You clear your schedule, and even buy some special kind of ointment meant to help aid in lucid dreaming, heavy with mugwort and pennyroyal. The fancy art on the jar reads Night Flying in filigree letters, but on the back, in very large red print is: DO NOT INGEST. Half of you wants to set it aside, but you have done the research. On your forehead and temples only, or sometimes- you check your notes, wrinkling your nose when you see the written neck, and feet included. You open the jar, still unconvinced, but it only smells faintly of mint.Â
Youâre unashamed to admit that you use less than the recommended smear, just to be safe. You settle down in bed, going through the breathing exercises that supposedly help aid sleep, and cross your fingers.Â
Not much happens. You wake in the morning, feeling well rested and too lethargic to get out of bed, but- No dreams. Not that you recall, anyway. Your hopes crash hard for a few hours and you clean your face and neck of the flying ointment a little more viciously than you need to. It seems so silly in the light of day, but you canât shake the feeling of those dreams. Not the memories of them, crystal clear, not the weight of his hands in yours.
But he hasnât always shown up every single night.Â
You try again. And again, and it isnât until the third night, when your pillow now seems to be steeped in the scent of minty pennyroyal from the ointment, that you finally achieve a vaguely lucid dream.Â
Youâre walking down the street when you realize that you canât hear the sounds of traffic, and then- Then you realize youâre dreaming. Your heart rate picks up, and you spin in place, exuberant, wondering why youâre turn seems to take twice as long as normal - and then thereâs a plain looking door standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
You walk towards it, after all, where else is there to go? But as soon as you place your hand on the plain brass handle, you frown. Between the books and the disappointment of not being able to tell the future, of not getting to see him, you.. You want magic in your life. Youâd rather walk through a door that reminds you of Narnia, with gilded edges and some kind of fancy door knocker, than walk through one that looks like you can push it over with a strong breeze.Â
Concentrating on actually changing a dream takes way more effort than you would have thought though. If you close your eyes, it seems to give your subconscious enough tether to try and take back control. You close your eyes, and instead of seeing the fancy door you would have wanted, youâre distracted by thoughts of fluttering pages- no. You open your eyes, forcing yourself back on track, and laugh, finding your hand not on a plain brass handle, but on an ornate knocker. You smooth your fingertips along the swirling lines of it, pleased with yourself. Maybe itâs not quite what youâd hoped, but youâll happily take it.
You knock and then step back, assuming with every fiber of your being that heâs going to be on the other side, that heâs going to swing it open and pull you into his arms, but- The door creaks open, revealing a plain looking room with purple windows. Itâs disappointingly empty, and he isnât anywhere to be found.
You take a step into the room, letting the door close quietly behind you and then glance down at your hands. Lucid dreaming is all about being able to change things, isnât it? You think of him, breathe deeply, and snap your fingers, willing him to appear with everything that you have within you.
Nothing happens. Youâre still alone, with only the slightly hazy room for company. You canât help but feel like youâre missing an intrinsic piece to the puzzle of his presence. Maybe you need to call his name, butâŚÂ
You frown at the ornate rugs beneath your feet, eyes getting distracted by the whirling patterns. Youâre not entirely sure you can remember his name. You have vague memories of him telling it to you, but all of those seem to be the ones in which you hadnât yet been able to see his face.
For a half second, the weight of disappointment bows your showers. Maybe you have made him up. You blink, and the dream seems to lose focus, your lucidity ebbing like a tide. Youâre on the verge of waking, you realize, and then his voice is heavy in your ear, his lips warm as they brush against the shell of it, saying quickly, and fondly:
âMy name is Spiros. Donât forget it so easily next time, hm?â
You wake with his name on your lips, half expecting him to manifest inside your bedroom. After a few heart stopping seconds though, you have to sigh. It stays tragically empty, and yet the heat of him, the texture of his lips- you can still feel it.
Youâre not going to give up.       Â
After a while though, you feel like all your free time is spent sleeping. You experiment with the flying ointment, but after the last two or three times, decide that you no longer need help. The awareness of lucid dreaming happens more than half the time now, and you can change some things, but otherwise⌠Youâve been spending each night combing through strange places, catching the barest glimpses of him over the horizon, hearing his voice, faint on the breeze. Maybe, you tell yourself one evening, you need to stop chasing him. Itâs like trying is only tiring you out, making you wander through long roads, only to find he was right where you left him. He doesnât feel like a figment any longer, but the fact that he doesnât is beginning to scare you, just a little. You canât spend all your time searching for him, canât spend all your time sleeping.
You decide to stop chasing, even if you still practice actual lucid dreaming. But then, the next time you achieve more than awareness, more than that sense of reality, Spiros is waiting for you.Â
âBeen searching, have you?â He teases, reaching out for your hand and- you can feel him. The faint whorls of his fingertips, the drag of his nails over the palm of your hand. Itâs more than just the strange clarity from before, or the sense of being aware, Spirosâ feels real, and if you couldnât see the shifting nebulae of his eyes, you might think you were actually awake. He tugs you a step forward and then turns you about in quick whirl, leaving the room with the faint sense of spinning, like youâve actually been turning too many fast circles on your feet.Â
âWho are you?â You canât help asking, letting him take another few dancing steps before you put your feet down, refusing to be moved. âIâve been chasing you, trying-â
âSpiros,â he says, coyly, like he thinks you might be teasing him back. âHavenât we talked about this before?â
âNot your name,â you say, glancing past his shoulder. Maybe you shouldnât be staring quite so intensely at his eyes. The dizziness hasnât yet faded. âWho are you, that you can jump into another person's dreams? Iâve been researching, you know, and- I still canât figure it out. How you knew about my neighbors. I thought for sure that I was fooling myself. Or maybe that I was prescient,â you confess, embarrassment wrapping around you like a cloak. âBut if youâre real-â
âMy apologies,â he says, and even more strange than knowing that this is all a dream is that you can feel it. His sincerity, heavy in the air, and it sounds like⌠It sounds like cricket song. âFor leading you on a chase. I cannot come often, there are too many dreams to spin, but-â He rests his forehead against yours, eyes falling closed. âI cannot seem to stay away.â
âWhy?â You ask, just as confused, if not more so.Â
Spiros pulls away, eyebrows raised and for a moment his jaw works, like heâs searching for the words to say.Â
âYou,â he says insistently. âSomething about your dreams kept me coming back, but it was you that made me stay. Donât you remember our talks?â Spiros asks, hair brushing against your cheek as he leans in again, and- feathers, there are wings, tangled in hair somewhere above his ears.Â
âI do,â you reassure him, hesitantly lifting a hand to stroke a single fingertip along his jaw. Faint stubble pricks at your finger, though not enough to make it uncomfortable. âThat isnât the point of this, though. Youâre attracted to me,â you say, hardly believing it, and yet feeling the truth of it all the way down to your bones. âYouâre attracted to me, and- to spin,â you say suddenly, thinking of the way your neighbors had claimed the dreams were extra vivid.
âYou spin dreams? I thought-â But youâre not entirely sure what you thought. Maybe he was simply a person with a talent for something beyond lucid dreaming? Creating them though..
Spiros sighs, taking a step back, letting your hand fall away from his face.Â
âI had hoped to save this particular conversation for another time, but you are much more observant than you used to be,â he says, shrugging a single shoulder, mouth slightly mournful.Â
âI donât know whether I should be charmed or irritated by the way that sounds,â you say quietly, crossing your arms over your chest, just to give yourself a sense of normalcy.
âIâm one of the oneiroi,â he says, like that should mean something to you. âOne of many. I.. Once there were many who called us gods.â His eyes flash back to you and then down, the afternoon breeze whipping his hair away from his face. âAnd perhaps we were, but now?â He turns in a circle, as if he can see far beyond the confines of the park youâre standing in. He probably can, you realize, if what he says is true. âThere are medicines to combat us, or people who have severed themselves from this realm so severely that we canât even catch sight of their dreams. And our newest siblings-â Spirosâ mouth twists. âThey are so fast, swooping in on daydreams for their sustenance. Few of you take the time to notice us these days. If weâre noticed, perhaps weâre called nothing more than spirits.â
You wake with more questions than answers, but you feel satisfied with one thing: Spiros exists. Maybe not exactly how youâd pictured, but he wasnât a figment. And he- Cares. About you. Itâs still mind boggling though, trying to process the information, trying to sort out what you should do about it. You enjoy time with him, youâre very attracted to him, but you canât help but worry about whether disbelief will always be lingering in the back of your head if you pursue things.Â
If only to cement his interest, Spiros seems to return twice as often after that, taking you on such vibrant, whirlwind adventures that sometimes they short out, speeding up your sleeping heart until you nearly wake.
After one of these strange glitch-like interruptions, Spiros takes you to a warm night garden so the two of you can catch your breath, and it barely takes a blink before youâre suddenly lying in dark grass, softer than down against your back.
âComfortable?â He asks, sitting to the right of you, his eyes tracing your body like a caress.Â
âI want you,â you find yourself saying, almost before you can even finish the thought inside your head. Spiros blinks, and the whole area seems to pause, as if itâs holding its breath along with him. After a moment, his eyes seem to change, the cool toned stars in their depths turning to molten gold, to heat and wanting, and the air becomes heavy with it.
âTruly?â Spiros asks, like he canât quite believe what heâs hearing. He reaches out to touch you, fingers hovering over your shoulder and then stops, waiting for your response.Â
Yes, you think to yourself, thinking of every small touch, of his breath against your skin, of the way he says your name to capture your attention. His fingers tremble until you take his hand and press it to your chest, wondering if he can feel the unsteady rhythm of your heart.
âYes,â you finally say aloud, pushing away all your doubts. âIsnât it obvious?â You ask, only half teasing, still wrought with nerves, even as he leans down to kiss you.Â
âAs obvious as I feel?â Spiros asks and you can almost taste him, heâs so close. He cups your breast and then strokes his thumb over your nipple, breathing out slowly as he does.Â
A small laugh escapes you, more of a rough, low gasp than anything else. ââS why Iâm asking,â you say, closing your eyes before you can get lost in his own. His mouth meets yours, soft and warm, stubble barely noticeable against your chin or cheeks when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. Itâs almost a shame, you think, hesitantly sliding your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, that I wonât come away from this with evidence.
His kiss turns almost desperate, needy, after that, teeth tugging at your lower lip as he straddles one of your thighs, hand smoothing down your body and taking your clothes as he goes. He tastes like evening, and itâs beyond frustrating, not knowing what else to compare it to.  Â
Despite knowing that you wonât bare the marks of this when you wake, Spiros seems desperate to leave you with the sensation of them. Your lips feel swollen, buzzing with his attention by the time he pulls away so you can breathe, and his hands are heavy on you, half massage, half the slow drag of his nails, just enough to leave your skin pebbling even though youâre not cold in the slightest. He seems content to just touch, to watch you writhe underneath him, your hips arching as you try and get closer. Heâs still dressed, still covered by that dark chiton, hands steady- but his face. The look in his eyes is greedy and pained.
You wrap your fingers in the front of his chiton and yank, pulling him back down to kiss, to taste the pulse in his throat. The angle has him pressed to you, hard and hot and bare underneath his clothes and you moan against his mouth at the sensation. You donât want him to look so sad, you want him to stop thinking, to feel you- Your hand slips between you, moving aside material until you can take him in hand.Â
Spiros tenses, pulling his mouth away from yours so he can groan quietly, immediately rolling his hips down into the grip you have on him. âAre you impatient?â He asks, voice gone rough and rasping. âI would think- by the dark,â he gasps, hand wrapping around your thigh when you squeeze him. He seems lost for words, lips pressed so tightly together that theyâre trembling. After a moment he shifts, spreading your legs so he can kneel between them. The sight of it, the way his hands slide up your thighs, makes your heart beat even faster.
A buzz, a zip, seems to shudder through the very foundations of the earth, and for a split second you could have sworn you saw your own ceiling and bedroom instead of stars and nebulae wheeling through the sky above you.Â
âConcentrate,â Spiros insists, breathing the word out against the juncture of your neck and shoulder. His breath tickles and you shiver, blinking a- he bites you. Not hard enough even to bruise, but the sharp edge of it has your back bowing, attention fully settled on Spirosâ hand dipping between your thighs.
Theyâre the perfect texture, and he uses just the right amount of pressure to slick them through your wetness, to stroke slowly over your clit. Between the bite and his fingers, youâd forgotten to move, but you squeeze him again, wanting to reciprocate, wanting to share the pleasure.
It feels like forever and no time at all before youâre aching so badly that youâre about to beg. Every brush of his thumb, every time he curls his fingers inside you has you rocking up into the motion, but you want him, want him to speed this maddening rhythm. âEnough,â you gasp, choking on a laugh when he ceases all movement, a slight frown curling his lips.
âNot- enough of you,â you say, and then youâre whimpering as he pulls his hand away, his clothes vanishing before you can blink.Â
âEnough foreplay?â He asks, licking at his fingers before both of his hands are curling around your hips, dragging you towards him until his cock is teasing your clit with slow strokes.Â
âYes,â you say, a bit sharply, unable to do more than grasp at the soft grass underneath you. The angle is perfect for watching, for seeing him drag the head of his cock over you until itâs gleaming with your wetness, but itâs too gentle and you canât find purchase with your feet to help press you harder against him. âI want you to fuck me,â you demand, breath coming fast as he takes a moment to glance at the far side of the garden.Â
âI suppose I should,â he teases, smirking before his eyes drop back down to you. âMorning is approaching too fast for my liking.â You donât know how he knows, you have little idea of the time youâve spent here now, but youâre not complaining when he lets go of your hip to take himself in hand and press himself into you. You tighten, eager for him, for the feel of him filling you and his eyes flutter closed, lips parting like heâs forgotten to breathe.
âYou- you feel-â His jaw snaps shut, and he takes a deep breath before his hand curls back around your hip again, and he sets an unforgiving pace.Â
âOh,â you get out, clutching tighter to the grass. You no longer care that you canât move your hips, that youâre having to tense your thighs so your legs arenât dangling uselessly- watching is wonderful. Anywhere or with anyone else, you would have worried about him getting tired, but Spiros looks like he has endless stamina, thrusting into you this way. His knees finally shift though so he can bring you closer, so his skin can brush against your clit with the angle change and then youâre shaking apart, head thrown back. Youâre dizzy with the force of it, breathless and then Spiros is gasping your name and heat fills you until youâre overflowing, his thrusts slow and he loosens the tight grip he has on your hips.
âSpiros,â you breathe, trying not to focus on the way the stars and trees overhead are shifting in the breeze. You blink, and you think you see your ceiling again, morning light casting pale patterns over the walls- and then Spiros is lifting you, a hand against the middle of your back as he pulls you into his lap, uncaring of the mess, to place an eager kiss against your lips.
âI donât know that Iâll ever get enough of you,â he confesses against your mouth, hand gentle as he cradles your jaw. âBut you must wake soon, and I cannot keep you here.â
âYou sure?â You tease, grinding yourself down and then whimpering because- Heâs still hard.
Spiros looks drunk, cheeks ruddy, eyes heavy lidded, but he grins. âIf only I could,â he murmurs, and his next kiss is sweet, and lingers long after youâve woken.Â
Youâre alone in your room, and even though itâs cold out, the blankets feel stifling. You shift your legs, still blinking sleepily and freeze when you feel how slick you are. You wonder if youâre not going to hurt yourself with this in the future, with longing for more time with him.Â
Itâs only then that you notice a single, gleaming feather on your pillow. The sight lays your fears to rest.
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Art: What do I do. I donât like hurting peoples feelings because Iâm secretly a romantic but wonât tell anyone and I so like Maile but I canât tell spiros that. What the hell do i do.
*erik walking in looking like an angel
Erik: You know that the walls are thin and I heard everything you just said.
Art: I donât know what you though you heard....
*cofesses everything
Erik: You just need to friendzone him and heâll go away.
*the next day
Art: Hi Spiros, Wanna spar. I heard your really good at sparring nowadays. Anyways friend how are you.
Spiros: Art are you feeling ok...
Art: What is it?
Spiros: I talked to Erik...I understand I really do
*later
*spiros crying
Spiros: What would Art do. No donât think of her.