(no subject)
Title: Folktale
Author: Soujin
Characters/Pairings: Sagramore/Palomides
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Yes
Disclaimer: Copyright has presumably expired.
Summary: It's hard to disassociate sometimes.
Notes: double-drabble for get_laid25
Palomides likes superstitions. He likes the subtle rules for survival, the particular charms that defeat each singular demon. He likes the way pieces of folk legend build upon each other to create a practise, like a card tower being constructed.
He particularly likes finding out that they’re all true.
Sagramore tells him stories after they’ve made love--an activity Palomides has never found extraordinarily absorbing, but he supposes that he can see the value in it when Sagramore’s wondrous hands, which are only two shades lighter than Palomides’ own, wander skilfully across his skin. But he most enjoys afterwards, when they’re lying in Sagramore’s wide bed, damp with exertion, and Sagramore, between soft, sleepy kisses, regales Palomides with the legends of his own country. Speaking of his home, there’s a certain wistful quality to his voice. When he finally sleeps, that wistfulness stays on his face.
Palomides lies awake for a while, going over the stories in his head. Sagramore, by his own admission, was only in Hungary for the first ten years of his life.
Palomides often imagines that as much as he would like to know the truth of these legends, Sagramore wants it a great deal more.
Author: Soujin
Characters/Pairings: Sagramore/Palomides
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Yes
Disclaimer: Copyright has presumably expired.
Summary: It's hard to disassociate sometimes.
Notes: double-drabble for get_laid25
Palomides likes superstitions. He likes the subtle rules for survival, the particular charms that defeat each singular demon. He likes the way pieces of folk legend build upon each other to create a practise, like a card tower being constructed.
He particularly likes finding out that they’re all true.
Sagramore tells him stories after they’ve made love--an activity Palomides has never found extraordinarily absorbing, but he supposes that he can see the value in it when Sagramore’s wondrous hands, which are only two shades lighter than Palomides’ own, wander skilfully across his skin. But he most enjoys afterwards, when they’re lying in Sagramore’s wide bed, damp with exertion, and Sagramore, between soft, sleepy kisses, regales Palomides with the legends of his own country. Speaking of his home, there’s a certain wistful quality to his voice. When he finally sleeps, that wistfulness stays on his face.
Palomides lies awake for a while, going over the stories in his head. Sagramore, by his own admission, was only in Hungary for the first ten years of his life.
Palomides often imagines that as much as he would like to know the truth of these legends, Sagramore wants it a great deal more.