Watched a lecture on Semiconductors , 3 more to go . Practiced questions on Biotechnology : Principles and Processes , Revised Carboxylic Acids . Revising Amine rn.
The lazy patterns of fingertips roving his back roused him even as they played a tactile lullaby upon his flesh. “Good morning,” Dorian murmured; he tested the whole truth of that statement by opening one eye. The light through the casement was that gray feather softness that could have been early morning or snow-flocked afternoon in the winter-cloaked southern city. The sort of light that found one lost in timelessness. In that light, Tristan was alabaster; firm nearly-white planes of muscle honed by loving chisels and hammers into a miracle of smooth velvet over stone. His hair rumpled from sleep looked like spun sugar, wildly tangible and intoxicatingly edible.
Tristan blinked slowly, cat-like, no more pleased at the prospect of waking than Dorian himself, a frown playing at his lips as he studied Dorian’s back.
“All well?”
“Hmm,” Tristan hummed, a nasal sigh, playing gentle chords upon his person with calloused fingertips. “Puzzle.”
“What is?”
“Quod spirat tenera malum mordente puella;” Tristan sounded the words slowly, imperfect, and Dorian felt a slow-rolling catch in his chest.
“You’re hungry?”
Tristan’s eyes, sharp as cut sapphires, flicked to meet his. “So it is Tevene. I thought it was.”
“What is?” he asked again, amused.
The fingers tapped lightly down the length of his spine. “Quod de Corycio quae venit aura croco.”
He dabbed his tongue to his lips, fighting a tremulous, too revealing sigh. “Oh?”
“Vinea quod primis floret cum cana racemis.”
Dorian shivered, skimming his own fingertips over Tristan’s clavicle; the air suddenly bright as it touched his palate, the words caressing his mind as surely as Tristan caressed his skin.
“Gramina quod redolent quae modo carpsit ovis.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, turning away to rest his other cheek against the pillow. Was one supposed to feel their heart so clearly? The gentle tripping cadence of it? The language of his homeland on the lips of his lover. His lover, who, only the night before, had been slick with sweet sweat; earth and spice, as he was describing. Dorian and the lover he had shared again. Three times now, they’d succumbed. Three times three. Once could be a happy error in judgment, easily brushed aside. Twice was amusement, for the sake of memory. Thrice… three times was dangerously close to becoming a habit.
“Quod myrtis, quod messor Arabs, quod sucina trita, Pallidus Eoo ture quod ignis olet…”
On fire was right. Vacillating between warmth and searing heat. Pleasant, oh, very pleasant certainly, but he couldn’t help wondering what it meant. It was far too early for thoughts like that- if he should have them at all. But watching them together, his thoughtful lover laughing and cavorting with his decadent hedonist accomplice while Dorian looked on. Touched. Tasted. Allowed himself to be drawn into and between them like thread into their loom.
“Gleba quod aestivo leviter cum spargitur imbre, Quod madidas nardo passa corona comas…”
“Tristan…” Dorian murmured, heart tight, turning again to watch Tristan’s lips move over unfamiliar words; he brushed his thumb over one pale, beautiful nipple until it began to pink and tighten. “What-“
“Hoc tua, saeve puer Diadumene, basia fragrant. Quid si tota dares illa sine invidia?”
His fingers stilled. Tristan lifted one pale brow without effect. Genuinely curious. “It isn’t that simple,” he whispered.
“What?”
Dorian searched his eyes. “When did you start studying Tevene anyway?”
“About a month ago.” His cheeks warmed in the morning light. Afternoon? Evening? “What does it mean? What I just read?”
“Read?”
“On your back.”
“On my…” Dorian frowned, sitting up on his elbows to peer over his shoulder to see in the mirror. Words scrawled, calligraphic, across his back in black marker. “What in Thedas?”
“I should have warned you…” Tristan smiled in the reflection, kissing his shoulder. “Aran has a thing about drawing on people.” He turned onto his stomach and eyed his own back in the mirror, similar handwriting scrawled across his shoulders and cascading down his spine. More Tevene.
Ask him to read your shoulders to you, my friend. He’s been working on improving his pronunciation and it would mean a lot to him for you to tell him he’s coming along. You mean a lot to him. I don’t know if he’s told you. Sometimes it’s hard for him to speak the things that mean the most. Sometimes I think I see you worrying about that, so I thought I’d be a pain in the ass and tell you, just in case. This is nice, eh? Hope you enjoy the poem. You smell really good. Wish I could stay. You’re both bloody beautiful.
“Only a month?” Dorian spoke slowly. Carefully. “You have an excellent grasp of the pronunciations.”
Tristan flushed, resting his cheek on his folded arms as Dorian traced the note. “Really?”
“Truly. It is... an unexpected pleasure to hear my mother tongue from your lips.” He watched goosebumps raise beneath his fingers, texturing text. “You didn’t have to trouble yourself.”
“It’s no trouble. I want to learn to speak your language.” Tristan’s gaze slipped shyly away. ‘You mean a lot to him,’ the words flexed as he moved. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Very much so.”
“Good,” he breathed. “Good. So what does it say?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Dorian smoothed golden hair from the back of Tristan’s neck and kissed the tender skin there.
“...it’s not a dirty limerick, is it?” he asked, suspicious.
“No.”
“What does it say then?”
“Your boyfriend wanted us to know that we smell good.”
Tristan laughed. “In as verbose a way as possible, I guess?”
“He is certainly… periphrastic.”
“There’s a word. Remember when you thought he was quiet?” Tristan glanced up, eyes dancing. “You can never trust a linguistics major to keep things simple.”
Not simple, Dorian thought. No. But clear. He was beginning to have a great deal of clarity where he’d been confused before.
———What’d the Latin Say?———
A poem by Marcus Valerius Martialis, 1CE (translated by me and Google, interpreted/interfered with by me):
That breath of an apple when a young girl bites into it;
The perfumed effluence that comes with saffron;
The first vines, in the spring, blooming with clusters of new flowers;
The grass, sweet-scented, newly nibbled by a lamb;
The odor of myrtle, of the Arab spice, blended with
Pale eastern frankincense, on fire;
Or lightly sprinkling summer rains on freshly turned soil beneath
The crown of your hair slicked, aromatic, with muskroot...
As all these, your kisses, boy Diadumenus, are fragrant.
How much sweeter if you were to give them without embarrassment?
The richest family in town once owned the railroad here. They’re all gone now. . . . Photo by @indyphotowire . 🔥👻😈 #nowenteringaddamsville #indianaishaunted #14days https://www.instagram.com/p/B2eRKg0AK6C/?igshid=6u8odshtcf4x
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So, has anyone realized Jack has Anti merch? Like, I didn't know until a few minutes ago when I just made a pit stop to check the store page. And I wonder if this counter has anything to do with this Anti takeover? 🤔 So many questions @therealjacksepticeye
