Andarin: The Mountains: is this just fantasy? ; love(s) <3

If Icarus was honest to himself, which he was whenever it was convenient, he would have said he’d fantasized more than once about this little moment (well, not exactly this: minus one baby and plus lots of hot, kinky male sex in his actual fantasy). Draw an Astarte in and he’d be happier than a pig in the mud.

The reason, of course, is that he is surrounded: to one side, golden, antagonistic Wyvern, staring down at the kid as if he didn’t know quite what to do with him and wondering where the hell he came from; to the other, his favoritest blackbird, hidden somewhere, but Icarus knew enough to suspect him close by. Between the three of them, the littlest love.

“Did I just die?” he asks nobody in special, blinking very, very slowly (since he doesn’t really fancy the best moment ever to dissipate, in case it’s a dream). “If I did, I want pink flowers in my funeral and lots of music.”

Though technically, if one is to trust the butthurt believers, he’d end in hell, not heaven.

Pft. Details.

“You look like a scorpion,” he declares, staring at the cream-and-rust child. Black eyes. It makes him smile; it makes him bend down to run his lips ticklishly down the colt’s back. Of course, he looks nothing like a scorpion, other than in color; there is no sting and no disgusting lack of bones. “So you’re Sasori.”

Just like that.

Wyvern, for his part, was still lost in blinking at the child – until, of course, he smiled. Ah. Stories. “What kind of story do you want?” he asks and, soon after, says to nobody in particular, “you can come closer, y’know. I don’t bite.”

Unless you want me to, he doesn’t say.

icarus ; wyvern
grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
rage, rage against the dying of the light.