#tomeatoes

Even the most skilled warriors procured cracks in their flawlessly finished armor and darling Leo was certainly no exception. A silken finish of lavender curls fall neatly over his shoulders as she sneaks up on him to peek in on his most recent studies. Oh, was this...? Someone got his gauntleted hands on the ancient scriptures!

   Metal slicing through meat, taking a step back and ducking under the hands thrown forward, spinning around and swinging the sword across the next monster’s chest. What WERE they anyway? At first he had assumed them to be human but that clearly wasn’t the case. Never had he fought against anything quite like them, and while swordsmanship was Gran’s excellence this was starting to get exhausting.

How quaint. Ah, when they thought to shove him in they left not even a tease of trial and naughty overlooked error. He wouldn’t be pulling out anytime soon, not the same way he came in at any least.

Oh well. Suffering well as it was practiced, a dirty virtue, why not enjoy it while it lasts? The grunt he breathes reeks of exhaustion, limbs devoid of every sweetly sadistic rhyme that gave them pulsing reason pulling tighter to the stiffened cage that somehow still made up his graveyard of a body. Waking to the grind of silk bed sheets cool as the night air clawing ever carnivorously between his legs was pleasantly unexpected. My, my. No reverberating rush of lingering shackles to wind him either.

How disappointing.

A room well more than equipped with simple comforts armed to the royally refined teeth. Through what tender cracks any invading hand of light dared reach through every now and seemingly distant again as if mocking him in every sense of release, the guards either shift ingrained posture or peer in at the little lord’s most indecent catch.

Every honeyed luxury he could have ever fathomed in his wildest dreams quite literally rolled out at his forever filth ridden feet. Even the air couldn’t hope to foul his crushed dreams, stripped of nearly all but what remained so insistently clung to him, a taint, a disease, blood and dirt like a spoiled self indulgent sport as the fleeting sensation of his own chipped fingernails nearly worn to their brim claw away at what white tufts of his matted hair remained untouched by still drying blood.

It isn’t quite the blend of voices so vividly seeping in that seek to rile him, oh no, but rather a certain one in particular. Despite knowing his savior was moments away from penetrating the foreboding threshold, the chill that curves along his spine is simply undeniable. So much, each lascivious word he dares purr oozes with temptation from the safely tucked confines of his bed.

To think they’ve come so endearingly far. Poor forgotten him plucked from untimely rags to the very seams of their own so blissfully heart woven gold riches. Nothing in his second life possibly compared to the Nohrian prince where all else eternally paled. Ah, the ever timid wink of a moon to silently bless each passing in her luminous pearl wake was just the touch of serenity to perfectly crown their occasion of unexpected sorts.

Tenderly so, calloused fingers tighten almost shyly around Leo’s own as foreheads pressed together and breaths mingled with intimate passings in flutter as unseen a butterfly’s tender wings. The greatest gift of all was the loyalty and love of the little prince adamantly set as every star in the sky to remain none other than at his lowly side, after all.

✍ : What is your muse’s handwriting like? Is it neat? Sloppy? Fancy?