azc3nsion

[azc3nsion]

"i don't like this thing and i wish i didn't have to see people talking about it all the time"

girl (gender neutral), you are on tungle dot com:

choose your fighter.

[azc3nsion]

Silas/Colum, hickies 🥰💕✌🏻

"You belong to me, Brother Asht," Silas says, looking at Colum strictly from the other side of the dinner table. Their plates are empty, or nearly so, but Colum no longer feels like finishing his portion due to the tone of Silas's voice. "You must submit yourself to me, and I say that you ought not see them again."

"Silas, they're my brothers, and a few old friends," Colum protests mildly. "Did one of them slight you, in any way? I'm sure it would have been unintentional."

Except Capris, he thinks, who would have outright mocked the Master Templar if he had any inkling of an opening. But Colum had remained at Capris's side all night yesterday just to avoid that exact outcome. It could not have been Capris, and Ram and his friends are all in good standing with the church.

He takes Silas up into his lap when Silas stands with his face sour and skirts a little too close, as even now that he is grown sometimes he requires a bit of time spent sitting on top of Colum. It's instinct, to have Silas straddle him, even when he is upset or perhaps especially so. This most typically happens after Colum is siphoned from, when he is gray and fuzzy still and cannot fully appreciate the warmth and closeness from his young uncle's irregular behavior. So, though he is confused and a little irked at the order to just never see his friends or family again even though he maintains his body and soul perfectly and it is not a distraction from his duties, Colum is somewhat soothed by the familiar bony knees knocking into his thighs as Silas settles and he wraps his hands around Silas's waist to hold him, since the dining chair is easier to fall from than a bed or a cushion-less sofa or even a pew.

Silas is situated so that they can no longer see each other's faces, which does sometimes help him. As a child, he had been shy with everyone but Colum himself. Now, it appears that he's being shy with Colum even as he berates him, which is weirdly comforting. If it were truly so terrible of an offense to have other, lesser relationships, then Colum doesn't think Silas would be sitting in his lap.

"One of them has the aptitude," Silas practically hisses into his ear, as though it were a cursed and not a blessed state. Necromancy is a blessing from the Kindly Prince, an extra opportunity to serve him, so why is Silas speaking of it thus? "Do not give me any excuses; you know that how you acted was inappropriate. You are my cavalier."

"Of course I am your--oh." Colum cuts himself off when something clicks in his brain.

Not only Capris did he stick to all night, but also he was with his only friend who was an adept--more accurately, she stuck to Capris, who she'd always thought was the most fun out of the Asht brothers. They had been in the same orbit, and Colum had been politely interested in what had gone on during her last deployment--she and her cavalier were not as well matched as Colum and Silas, so it had been suggested to her in her youth that she serve the Emperor through the Cohort, though it was unconventional for an Eighth House necromancer to serve there lifelong.

That appears to be the problem. The polite interest in another necromancer's life.

"Silas..." Colum murmurs, adjusting his hands so that their positioning is more reminiscent of when Silas was a child. "I made my oath to you--I am my oath to you. Do you think little of me, or of you, that you think I would break everything I am just to run off with an old friend who--" Colum tries to rein himself in, to be charitable--"is ill-suited to me in personality and genetics, who does not have the same elevated purpose and station, and who does not have even half of the necromantic talent that you do?"

Colum's bones ache. It's noticeable because of the way Silas presses on them light and feathery, but Colum does not care to move or ask Silas to vacate his lap like Silas regularly asks him to vacate his body.

Silas says nothing, for so long that Colum knows it is a choice to remain silent, rather than simply contemplating Colum's well-phrased (at least, in his opinion) question. Colum sighs.

"Please dignify my words with a response, Si--"

Colum cuts off with a hiss of pain, and he is too stunned for several moments to realize what has happened. It comes to him as a whisper, that same voice in the back of his mind which tells him to worry when Silas is overly harsh on a penitent believer or when Silas takes their beloved Tome and interprets it in such a way that his own path forward is made out to be the most righteous.

"Did you bite me?"

It's a shock. Silas has shown disrespect to his body before, usually out of ignorance and carelessness, but he does not--he does not bite people. He never bit anyone even when he was a toddler. How is it possible, for a Master Templar to be better behaved as a child than a man?

"If your possessions are likely to be misappropriated, inscribe your name upon them so that others will know it is yours."

Colum blinks, and he tries to pull Silas away so that he can look him in the face. Somewhere deep inside him, there's a soft flare of uncommon and uncomfortable heat, and it redoubles when Silas refuses to go quietly. He digs his fingers into Colum's casual wear, too weak to bruise the skin underneath.

The bite will bruise, though, turning his jaundiced skin dark with blood, then dull green before settling back into that same yellow-brown.

Colum knows that arguing that he wasn't a possession in the same sense as a bowl or a copy of the Tome is a non-starter; he himself understands Silas's rationale, though he chafes against it ever-so-slightly. But still--"And who would misappropriate me, Silas? Who could ever wield me as deftly as you? Who could I guard so diligently as I do you? Ah!"

And again--pain unfolds from the same side of his neck, a little lower down, as Silas bites him again. This mark is almost directly over Colum's corotid artery, and it feels like that means something, almost, but Colum is too busy trying to wrangle his necromancer into behaving as befits his station instead of a wild heathen to make the connection.

This time Colum pulls harder, yanks those fragile shoulders back so that Silas is no longer in biting range, because that is apparently now a concern. Silas's pupils are blown wide, glassy like the symbol of their order. His chest, now that Colum can look at it, is pumping in and out frantic and shallow, or at least frantic and shallow for Silas.

"Will you persist in biting me?" Colum hisses out, holding him at arm's length. "You're acting like an animal or someone one-quarter of your age."

"You are too trusting of others, Brother Colum," Silas intones, or tries to intone, but his voice is thick with various emotions, and none of them good. "Which I must admit is decent and noble, but also dangerous. Though they may share our House and our faith, none are called to be as virtuous as we two. I must mark you more than your station, so that they will know that they cannot steal you away."

"More than my station?" Colum asks incredulously. "Silas, who would steal the Master Templar's cavalier primary? And beyond that, I would not go with them. You're being--"

"Just allow me this," Silas says. "I do not know who else would try to steal you, other than your so-called 'friend' whose intentions we cannot be sure of--"

"She has her own cavalier, and she does not even care for me so much--"

"--but an ounce of prevention, Colum. Will you not grant me even that one ounce?"

Colum sighs, again, and though his uncle is being utterly ridiculous, the particular twist of his lips just now is something that Colum is weak to.

"You don't need to bite me," he says finally, just to watch Silas sniff in the particular manner that means he's been soothed. "If it's bruises you want, Si... there are other ways. But... I shouldn't be seen with them." He pauses. "I shouldn't be seen with these bites either. They will have the congregation question my moral standing."

"Bandage over them, then. That is trivial," Silas dismisses with a wave of his hand, when he finally lets go of Colum with one of them.

Colum wonders, for a moment, whether Silas knows that he is asking Colum to deceive, or whether it is a good thing that Silas knows Colum's multitude of scars are from something and did not simply appear spontaneously. He decides to move on, to cover it with flimsy in his own mind also so that he will not dwell on it.

"If you suck my skin where it is thin--my neck, my collarbones, et cetera--for a time, then it will bruise with much less pain." He learned this as an adolescent, though Silas would not have. The Master Templar does not have true peers in the same sense that a cavalier might.

Silas considers this, and Colum can see this time he is honestly considering, and not simply ignoring.

"I suppose your fault might be forgiven with as much pain as I've already given, and the reiteration of your dedication to me and to our Kindly Master," he says, affecting magnanimity. "Let go of me."

Colum does, and Silas moves more like the beautiful, elegant, fearsome man he is, and less like a semiferal beast. He leans into Colum again, and Colum allows his hands to trail down again, resting over Silas's boxy little hips as Silas takes to his new task.

"A little longer," Colum murmurs into the open air over Silas's back. Though he knows it is wrong, the base sensation still feels remarkably good, and Colum cannot stave off the quickening of his breathing. "A little longer, Si--there, that should be one. Will you mark me again?"

He meant it neutrally, but Silas makes a soft and nearly desperate sound and slides a bit further down, sealing his thin lips over Colum's pulse-point on the opposite side of his neck from the bite marks. Colum throbs.

"Oh, Silas." Colum's eyes flutter closed, and he tilts his head to give better access. "Silas, Si."

Colum feels the need to pray, to clean his dirty soul which is reading into this interaction more than it ought, but the only holy word falling from his lips is Silas's very own name. For once, Colum has the opportunity to orate or opine or observe, and he can do none of it. He's enthralled by the oddity of what Silas is doing to him.

Does his necromancer even know that this act is most typically a prelude to fornication, a sin which Silas surely loathes as he does all others?

This is forbidden--it skirts far too close to blurring the line between necromancer/cavalier relations and all other types, moreso even than the Eighth does as standard. But Silas is the one who wouldn't let up, the one who persists in his desire to mark Colum as if he were cattle.

Colum throbs.

By now, most of his throat will be bruised in the morning--simple bandaging won't suffice to cover how it appears as though Colum has spread his legs for someone, or someone has spread his legs for Colum. Silas shifts and shuffles closer in the chair, by necessity splaying his legs even further to each side--

"Silas, isn't that enough?" Colum asks, voice horrifyingly thick with lust. He can hear it in his own voice; his only prayer is that Silas yet retains enough innocence that he does not notice. If Silas does not finish soon, then Colum will have physical problems that he cannot hide while their bodies are practically flush together.

"One more," Silas responds after pulling off his latest suction point. "I will be satisfied after one more."

That last love bite is the longest minute of Colum's entire life, his entire body thrumming with heated energy that has nowhere to go and cannot have anywhere to go. The way Silas tenderly nibbles on the flesh in his mouth as he sucks does not help, nor the way one of Silas's hands has mindlessly made its way to the back of Colum's neck and rubs back and forth proprietorially.

Finally, Silas stands reluctantly. His normally pale mouth is red and swollen, shining with spit, and his dark brown eyes pierce Colum painfully before he speaks. Colum puts his hands in front of his groin, acting as though he is simply folding them together.

"The bruises will fade soon," Silas murmurs, faint dissatisfaction in his voice as loud to Colum as the bells of the cathedral. "We will have to replace them regularly."

In his haste to get away before he does something or shows something that would stain him irredeemably, Colum nods silently, then stands and bolts--walks at a fast clip--to their bedroom. He locks himself in the bathroom, his neck stinging on both sides from where Silas has bitten and sucked on it.

And it is there, in the bathroom, that Colum lets the ugly parts of him spill out, allows his newfound lust for his uncle to stain his hands and then, his very soul.

#ohhhh thissssss was soooo gooooooood #holy shittttt #8cest

[azc3nsion]

niecest + honor 🙏

:3

"Da-ge, aren't you a man of your word? Where's your honor, your pride?" Nie Huaisang teased.

"Shut up," Nie Mingjue grumbled crossly. "Just give me a minute. I'll fuck you so hard you won't remember your own name, like I promised."

"Mhmm," Nie Huaisang hummed, delighted. "Go ahead."

He watched, sprawled on the bed with his hole already glistening with oil, as Nie Mingjue stroked himself, trying to get hard. His da-ge had had a little too much to drink over dinner at this particular conference, Nie Huaisang thought. But who could blame him--Sect Leaders Ouyang and Yao had been on either side of them. Nie Huaisang had been tempted to fan the flames just to see what would happen, but in the end Nie Mingjue had promised him the fucking of his life if he was good, so he'd behaved.

And yet--Nie Mingjue might have been too drunk to fuck him at all.

Nie Mingjue kept trying, though--Nie Huaisang's da-ge was not one to give up easily, if ever. When he was especially determined about something, he truly focused every scrap of attention he had on it, and right now that thing was Nie Huaisang himself, and pleasing him. It was heady, watching Nie Mingjue try so desperately for him.

But, it also pained him a little, because he could tell Nie Mingjue was getting frustrated for real, and that was no one's idea of a good time.

"Da-ge, it's okay," Nie Huaisang murmured eventually, reaching up to brush some of Nie Mingjue's hair out of his face. "You can give me my reward tomorrow, or I can fuck you, or--"

"No," Nie Mingjue said stubbornly. If Nie Huaisang didn't know any better, he would have called the expression on Nie Mingjue's face a pout. "I want to--to keep my word, Huaisang."

And yet, Nie Mingjue's member did not seem so eager to play along. He really couldn't get hard at all. That wasn't Nie Mingjue's fault--he had simply had far too much wine.

"Well," Nie Huaisang said, fanning one of his hands over his face coyly, and changing his tone and demeanor to match, "there are, perhaps, other things Da-ge might do to make his Sangsang forget his name."

"Mm?" grunted Nie Mingjue, who as always was not quick to pick up the subtler of social cues. Nie Huaisang spread his legs a little more, showing off his cute cock and surprisingly hefty balls and slicked up hole in a suggestive manner, then licked his lips, and then Nie Mingjue finally got it. "Oh. Should I use my mouth, then?"

Nie Huaisang hummed affirmatively. "And you can fuck me tomorrow--like normal, Da-ge," he added quickly, lest Nie Mingjue take it to be some sort of besmirchment of his honor.

Nie Mingjue looked at him with something that was half suspicion, and half open lust and hunger, before he dove in, pressing Nie Huaisang's thighs to his belly so that he was exposed for whatever Nie Mingjue would like to do with him. Nie Huaisang moaned loudly, not even playing it up.

He was just that excited for the night ahead of them.

Nie Mingjue was a man of his word--by the time the moon had more than halfway journeyed across the sky, Nie Huaisang was too soft and overstimulated to do anything but call for da-ge, da-ge, with nothing to be said at all about his own name.

#this is v sweet and soft and i love it lots #niecest

[azc3nsion]

editing your own writing is like woah you really like commas........ maybe ease up on those commas there, pal........ maybe Fewer commas would be nice

[azc3nsion]

to this day i still think kaeya x kokomi is a crazy good concept for a fantasy fairy tale esque political action romance …. just imagine a powerful prince who looks like he came straight out of a fairy tale, that rules over a mystical forgotten nation, falling in love with a war general turned priestess who also comes from a magical ruined area, engulfed by the seas… they’re connected AND their colour palettes are so pretty together ……..

[azc3nsion]

tagged by @jaggededges123

3 Ships You Like: nie mingjue/nie huaisang & wei wuxian/lan wangji from mdzs; silas octakiseron/colum asht from tlt;

First Ship Ever: probably johnlock. yeah i think- i think it was johnlock. goodness

Last Song You Heard: Eldamar by Oonagh

Favorite Childhood Book: Eona by Alison Goodman

Currently Reading: Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and the first book of mdzs

Currently Watching: like the last series i've seen was Fringe, so ig that

Currently Consuming: raspberry kefir. wish it was green red bull tho..

Currently Craving: green edition red bull </3 @ the stores pls put it back on sale so i can afford it again...

tagging: @xidaer @wingless @pinkblue72 but only if u want to 🙈

#tag game

[azc3nsion]

What is a nephew but a father?

i.

He can remember calloused, sun-damaged hands more easily than the leather-sheathed and thin fingers of his father.

He can remember being three and reaching up, his own phalanges tiny and pale in the torchlight, clasped delicately by those huge tanned paws of the man who would become his cavalier. Even then, he grasped, barely, that this man was meant to be used.

But a toddler does not know what using is. They only know needing. And he needed him then–had needed him for first steps and first words and first wantings. When his aged and noble father was busy and his devout, graceful mother was praying, it was Colum, molded alongside his two brothers for this very purpose, who stood behind him.

He can’t remember the other two being there as well. For him, there was only Colum.

ii.

At five, he was taught the man was not only his quiet protector, but his sacrifice.

Sacrifice hadn’t meant much to him yet. He had heard it only a handful of times, in the mourning carols of the church, in the hymns to inspire, in the stories spread about God and his Lyctors and their Noble Deeds. And so Colum became sacrifice which became Noble Deed which became Colum again, and the world made sense.

He was learning many things about nobility, even then, about what is Right and what is Wrong and why there is Suffering and how there can be Salvation. And Noble Deed became Right and Noble Deed became Salvation and Colum, too, became these things.

Sometimes, in his memories of childlike blasphemies, his father had seemed like God to him, but one could not fault something so small for these mix-ups. He, at least, tried to forgive these blasphemes. At least he knew now that was heresy, and the only other being to know of it was that sacrifice he still struggled to grasp.

iii.

He was seven when he first purposefully breathed in the seemingly pitless strength of Colum’s soul.

Of course, before this, he was taught the taste of it, suckling through his earliest struggles of illness and waning flesh by taking tiny pulls of vitality from his constant companion. He had been weak many times as he grew, the cost demanded from a true necromancer, and it was Colum who always had life to give.

At seven, it was simply the beginnings of the teachings to do it purposefully.

Purpose, he was told, was very essential. So essential it triumphed over things like discomfort or anxiety or any pitiful scrambling for questioning. It was not his place to ask why it was, it was his place instead to accept what it was.

He learned this lesson very well. Soon, the only questions he had were in the quiet, when only his nephew was at his side. Quiet when his hair was braided at his back by hands so tough they may as well be hide, but gentle as the down of a dove.

iv.

Eight was an important birthday. At least, it felt as such. Heavy in his mind, burdensome in the way any coming of age should be, weighed down in the significance of its reverberance.

Colum took him to the towers his father never visited and told him of three brothers made from mud to mold into shields. He told him of childhoods lost to obligations they could hardly bear, of trainings in poisonous sunlight and against a blood sickness that sounded familiar, but wrong.

He told him other stories as well. Stories his mother would have made no time for, stories no one else would think he needed to hear. He told him what it meant to hunt and hurt, he told him the sacrality of life, he told him of oaths and sureness and hesitations.

He told him he, too, was a valuable life, and that his path was cleared for him, but would still need to be walked with care.

He tried to memorize every word. He rolled over the weight of it in his mind. He was eight and he was forgiveness and he was Sacrifice as well and Sacrifice was Salvation was Sacrosanct. It made sense, of course, because eight was an important birthday, just as he had assumed.

He asked for tea, had seen tea served a hundred times to his parents at their most Righteous, and Colum had looked at him, eyes deep and brown and knowing everything there was to know in this universe, and he made the tea sweet and he made the tea bitter and Silas felt he knew this was Correct, too.

v.

By ten, he had begun to notice the wear of weather against Colum. The jaundicing of his flesh. The way his jaw clenched when he siphoned, the shudder that passed through that big, sheltering body when he practiced making light from life and truth from spirit.

By ten, he was beginning to fathom more of Sacrifice and Salvation and they were bitter and they were sweet.

Colum’s fingers did not falter when he buttoned up his tunics. Did not shake when he cleaned the chainmail that sat hefty on his slender shoulders. Did not waver when fastening the protection of leather over his own broadness. Silas knew by now he would not fill out the same as his nephew, and knew also he had not been built to carry the same burdens.

They were necromancer and cavalier. They were adept and shield. They were filament and foundation.

vi.

He was not even yet twelve, just before really, when the training intensified to such an extent he would choke on sweat and nightmares from the cost of it.

His father was displeased by his stuttering. His mother turned from him as if he was nothing. He could hardly steady himself and so Colum, Blessed and Righteous and Noble, everything that he could ever admire, all that he aimed to complement, became more the pillar of his penitence.

It was Colum who soothed him through the Truth in the Tome. It was Colum–whose voice had broken in the years of draining between them, whose voice would only break more as it continued–who murmured him through his oaths. It was Colum who stayed firm when the idea of a fallible God nearly swept him away.

He wanted to cling to the childhood he had attempted to discard, but it was too late. He had no more time for Innocence.

He thought of being eight and of three brothers laid at the altar, and finally he thought of Loss.

vii.

Of course, as he grew, he also grew finally to see the faults in his fetal dependence on Colum. His shield, yes, but also his sword. His tool. Gracefully, his nephew did not bring this back to him as he settled into his place, truly, finally.

Fourteen to fifteen to sixteen, to the day that revenant came from that depraved place, that waste of memory and assault to their order, screaming about her lost son and the numerous lost sons and daughters and infants of a wretched planet, and he took his Sureness and he took his Sentence with him to the First House and even as it began, he Knew he would have to be their Salvation, and with Colum at his back, he Knew it would be swift and it would be merciful and it would be more than the damned deserved.

He did not think to ask the man who had always carried him if the weight would crush him. It was simply not a possibility to consider.

viii.

When he felt Colum leave, the familiar mass of a soul larger than there were edges for, a soul he had drank from all his life, a soul that never left him even as he had learned to drink it in like an ocean of conviction, he had not even first known to mourn.

He couldn’t. It wasn’t right, it could not be Right.

He called him back because Colum had never refused an answer. Because Colum had always been the answer. He could not imagine another Truth. He could not imagine another Sense.

He had lost the fallibility of God, not once, but twice, and he had suffered the disobedience of Colum also twice in this horrid test, but he had not thought he could lose him. The lack of him was not something he could hold. Not something he could speak. Even as it was sinking into him, he still found the words in his mouth to bid him back, a babble of the first need he’d had.

And that was how he died.

.

What is an uncle but an infant?

[Also available here.]

#tears #tears in my eyes #this... #tlt

[azc3nsion]

teasing kiss

I'm v proud of this one 😌😌😌

CW: incest

“Colum.” You whisper quietly to the dark room. It still feels too light to hide the sin you’ve consented to commit with your cavalier, your nephew, - your lover? - your most important person.

His hands and lips pause against your skin at your utterance of his name, but when you do not follow it up with anything else he continues on his path up your legs, between them, palms and the rough pads of nine fingers sliding up more and more sensitive skin toward that final, unholy goal.

“Colum,” You say - louder, more urgent now - as he presses your thighs up until your knees are high and wide and your feet are planted against the bed, even wider, “Colum, please.” You beg pathetically, shamefully, for unspecified but surely undignified, disgusting things as his lips brush lightly - teasingly - against the softest skin of your inner thigh.

You make a noise you didn’t know your own throat could make at just the slight, featherlight press of lips to the weeping tip of your length. You look down only to see him lick his lips, and then the tip of you, and you throw your head back and moan in earnest when he takes you into his mouth.

It’s over far, far too quickly. You might feel embarrassed about that if not for the fact that up until very recently you had prided yourself on your virtue and virginity. You cannot call yourself a virgin anymore. Or rather you won’t be able to when the two of you are finished tonight, and the idea of that thrills and terrifies you in equal measure.

You’re so glad it’s him. You do not want any person but him in your bed, touching you, touching you like this.

You hate that it is him. You hate that your heart contains so much want for someone you should not even think of in such a manner. Why did it have to be him?

He doesn’t seem to mind it the way you do, and you can’t decide whether or not you’re grateful for that.

You have your first wakeful orgasm in his mouth, and it feels strange, so strange, like sin incarnate, like the pull of heaven on your soul, like the best food you’ve ever tasted on your tongue as he draws this strange new pleasure from you with his own and you cry out far too loudly for him and clench your thighs tight around his ears like that will make this gorgeously overwhelming, sickening feeling more bearable.

When you stop sobbing with pleasure, he crawls up your body, spreading your legs wider to fit between so he can kiss you and show you how your pleasure affected him, pressed up against your bare body that’s only seen his eyes and his touch, and he begins to fill you up with slick fingers while murmuring your name akin to a prayer alongside God’s titles as he brushes his lips gently once again over the skin of your neck.

You almost don’t want to wait for him to properly prepare you. You’re impatient, despite your recent orgasm. You already want more. You wonder if this is the beginning of some sort of greedy, lust-filled spiral into ever-worsening sin; if this is how it begins, one overly pleasurable experience and an inability to do all else, like some sort of addiction.

It scares you.

You’re shivering with nerves and already waxing pleasure as he pulls his fingers from your body and kisses you full on the lips for the umpteenth time that night and lines himself up with your body. You’ve barely seen his penis. Only a few short, dark glimpses between him stripping and climbing between your legs. You’re fairly certain it’s shorter than your own, but it’s certainly thicker, and besides that it’s not as though you’ve ever had anything the size of your own inside yourself so no matter how big or small it is you would probably find it daunting, that it’s going inside of you.

You agreed to it. You’d practically begged him to show you how it felt. He’d offered the opposite, and you’d told him ‘not tonight’ and he’d caved at the look on your face. You don’t know what your expression told him, but it was enough.

You feel chokingly full when he pushes slowly and gently inside of you, and you cling tightly and probably painfully to his back, but he doesn’t complain about your sharp fingernails, and you don’t complain about the ache.

You don’t complain about the ache because you like it. It doesn’t burn, like you’d feared. There’s no splitting pain like you imagine it might feel to be run through with a spear. Just a slow, pulsing ache that feels more good than bad, and you squirm under him and dig your heels demandingly into the meat of his backside until he moves and takes your breath with him.

You make even more noise as he makes good on his agreement to show you why people like fornicating so much, and you try to quiet down out of both shame and a need to hear if he makes any noises like yours. You don’t really manage to quiet down, but you can still hear the way he pants and moans and occasionally whines because his face is so close to your ear.

He braces himself with one arm - over you, but close enough you can feel the heat pouring off of him. His lips are against your jaw and cheek and his other hand is in your hair and you continue to cling to his back and find your other hand trailing down his skin, finding the roughness of the scars you know by sight but never touch, learning them anew.

He sighs your name brokenly as he comes, lips moving lightly against your jaw, his hand wrapped around your penis now instead of in your hair, and that’s what pulls the second orgasm out of you like an eruption of thanergy from a fresh, violent death - sudden and intense.

You cling tighter to him as it rocks through you, and he presses down over you like he can’t get close enough, and you’re suddenly scared that in a few moments he’ll leave, go back to his cot that feels so close and yet so far, and you know you can’t let him.

You won’t survive it if he untangles the two of you now, unravels you. Parts of you will go with him, and you’re very, very sure they’re parts that you need to live.

But your fears are not realized.

He kisses you again on the lips, firm and warm, slower and less urgent than before, but just as loving, and he rolls to the side and brings you with him.

You fall asleep like that, that first night. Your cavalier as your bed and your pillow, his arms pulling the blankets up over you both, safe and warm as you drift into the pleasant, empty fog of dreamless sleep.

#sssooooooo goooooddddddd.... #ahhh... #eighthcest #tlt

[azc3nsion]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Locked Tomb Series | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Colum Asht/Silas Octakiseron Characters: Colum Asht, Silas Octakiseron Additional Tags: Incest, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Alternate Universe - Cytherea Doesn’t Go To Canaan House, Drinking, Arguing, Extremely Dubious Consent, severely-undernegotiated consensual non-consent, Consensual Non-Consent, Undernegotiated Kink, holding kink (just a little), yes that means piss but again just a teensy bit, Kissing, Light Bondage, Blindfolds, Sensory Deprivation, Loss of Virginity, Premature Ejaculation, Sexual Repression, Religious Guilt, mental gymnastics my best friend, Aged-Up Character(s), Silas is 18, implied tridentariicest plus or minus babs depending on your preference, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Jealousy, Unhealthy Relationships, but no one ever accused the eighth house of being healthy Summary:

The Eighth House only very rarely procured wine for its supplicants and visitors, for one very simple reason: drunkenness was said to lead to fornication primarily, and occasionally other sins as well. Imbibing alcohol was only permitted in small quantities, and Templars from the Eighth were thoroughly instructed as to what the consequences for overindulging themselves were. Silas had, in fact, only had a sip or two of wine before coming to Canaan House while meeting with important representatives of the other Houses and the messenger who brought the summons from the King Undying himself. Even the first time, when Lady Pent and her husband had used the thinly-veiled excuse of their passing anniversary (as uncomfortable as that entire union made him), Silas had refrained from anything more than half a glass.

(Or, Silas gets drunk for the first time. He has the time ever.)

[azc3nsion]

14. Accidental kiss

14. Accidental kiss

“Brother Asht, will you take a look at this sheaf of flimsy? I may need to rest, but I believe the ink’s warped from heat. We may need to have this volume recopied.”

Silas sat hunched over the desk in his study, a fluorescent lamp shining down on his desk in a spotlight so bright that it nearly rivaled the artificial brightness that served as their substitute for Dominicus’s daylight. The knobs of his spine were visible through the thin tunic he wore for his evening study, though that was not what Silas had called Colum to comment on, so Colum trundled over to peer over Silas’s shoulder.

Even in the bright light, Colum had to squint and lean in significantly to see whatever problem Silas currently pondered. His young uncle had a penchant for finding the smallest flaws in things, and condemning them based on the tiniest of blemishes. It was both a blessing, to have a necromancer with such finely tuned senses, and a curse.

Colum leaned even closer, laying his arm on the desk next to where Silas was, their faces hovering beside each other’s. His much older eyes squinted as he tried to quickly examine the flimsy, but he could find no flaw in it. There was just scripture, and sermon, entwined together in a remarkably mundane union for a text created by the Eighth.

“I don’t see what you see, Brother Silas,” Colum murmured, chest rumbling with his speech. The bulk of his chest was pressed awkwardly against both Silas’s ribs and the back of the wooden chair, so Silas must have felt it as well as heard it. “Show me where the flaw is?”

Colum turned, both to see Silas’s expression and to hear him better. The problem was, Silas turned to look at him at the same time he turned to look at Silas.

“Are you entirely blind? It’s clearly—”

They kissed each other as their heads turned—or, more accurately, their lips bumped together, slightly misaligned but still having notable points of contact. Silas’s lips were very soft, which was something Colum had suspected in his weakest moments but never confirmed before now. The last few words of whatever Silas had been saying were caught on Colum’s mouth, half formed and unintelligible, and without even thinking of it Colum’s eyes slid closed.

He missed the way his uncle, who in recent years had grown cold and sharp like ice, distant and faintly luminous like most of the moons which spun around their planet, melted and flushed a red that rivaled a tomato.

It lasted perhaps a total of a second and a half, both of them stunned into freezing, and then Silas squeaked as he hadn’t in years and threw himself to the other side of his chair, nearly tipping the entire thing over in his haste to get away.

Colum grabbed one of the spokes on the back of the chair to stabilize it, and when his eyes opened again, his uncle’s face was drained of all color again, making even his pale silvery hair appear vivid in contrast. His eyes were a dark shock in their sockets, pupils round and large. He took a few shivering, shallow breaths.

“I’m sorry,” Colum said, getting ahead of any impending storm. He was horribly tempted to brush a strand of Silas’s hair behind his ear—his sudden motion had knocked his headband askew, as well. “I came too close.”

He did not mention that they had both been too close. He also did not mention that he didn’t feel the weight of guilt that he probably should—all he felt was a faint strand of confusion, and something tender in him that was so rarely indulged that Colum had thought it died out years ago.

“Don’t—just don’t speak of it again, Brother Asht. Leave me now—your eyes are not as trained as mine, and are of no use at the moment.” Two breaths later, and as Colum stood again, Silas hunched back over the sheaf of flimsy even more, his back bowing like a deceased shrimp’s. His next words were so quiet that Colum wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t hallucinated them. “I don’t need to forgive you.”

The tone was… soft and placid, free of anger. How strange. That sounded less like a refusal to grant mercy and grace, and more like an assertion that forgiveness was unnecessary, which was… surely something. Colum hesitated near the door of Silas’s study.

“I’ll draw your bath in half an hour,” he said. “And set your nightclothes on the counter.”

He got a noncommittal hum in return, and Silas fingered the particular sheet of flimsy he was holding. Silas likely wished he could tear it, so that its worth would be soundly rebutted. Colum knew he did that at times, with kitchen knives and his own ink—he destroyed things that he thought imperfect, even if no one else could see it. Only the most flawless could remain in close proximity to the young Master Templar.

On that thought, Colum retreated from the study, and closed the door behind him. He still had much work to do before either of them could retire for the night, and he had much to think about on top of it all.

#mwah #good drabble!!!

[azc3nsion]

it takes time (and care),

to be alright (again).

[azc3nsion]

slowly continuing to upload my work here! (did this one back in summertime)

[azc3nsion]

Curtain call.

--

Twitter / Shop / INPRNT / Patreon

[azc3nsion]

Do you ever have moments that can be summed up by this image?

[azc3nsion]

[azc3nsion]

i'm curious to know the ratio of writers to readers on ao3 so here's a poll. when i say writer, i mean people who have published works on ao3, doesn't matter if it's once, or if it was ages ago, or if it's a regular occurrence. when i say reader, i mean people who have never published a work on ao3. the reader vote still counts if you don't have an account on ao3. if you're a writer who is also an active reader, please still click on the "writer" option!

please do boost this so it reaches a larger sample space!

[azc3nsion]

that ‘pakige?’ post but me, a couple hours after posting a fic, like ‘comints?’