I would love to hear some more about Bono and Lewis in fotb 👀
weeeeell. there's not TOO much more to say about their present-day relationship, where it's just lewis mournfully wandering the halls of his castle and bono bringing him shiny handmade things like a distressed magpie. but i DID find this bit in the docs (from over a year ago??) that is set during the war. a post-battle bloodlust situation. it would seem
Lewis’ body becomes a blade beneath Bono’s hands. The angles of chest-waist-hip are familiar as his own sword—the strong, sharp jut of an ankle as easy to heft as the hilt of any weapon.
He goes easily to the ground. He is beautiful, smeared in blood and mud like warpaint. There is blood in a stroke across his cheek. There is blood shining in the delicate knotting of his braids. There is blood caught in the feathery cut of his eyelashes.
There is blood on Bono’s hands, too. He leaves handprints in shades of scarlet across the dark expanse of Lewis’ belly, around a strong thigh, the solid swell of his arse. He’s not gentle, wrenching Lewis’ body around and over. Putting him on hands and knees. Bending over him and rutting like an animal.
He is aware of sound; from himself, from Lewis, the shrill cicada-song ringing out from the forest. There’s no one near enough to hear Lewis keen when Bono breaches him, in something that should be only pain but is painted thick with layers of pleasure. There’s no one left to hear Bono hiss and groan and howl while he fucks his king into the ground.
He is aware of these things. Of sound, of sensation. Of taste, when he folds as if forced by an invisible hand, mouth gaping wide, tongue searching for the salt-sweat at the back of Lewis’ neck. He is aware of pleasure. He is aware of Lewis’ body, and its tight heat, and of Lewis’ fingers clawing at the dirt.
He is aware, but awareness is not the same thing as lucidity. When he finds lucidity again it is a horror.
When he comes back to himself he sees what he has done. He sees the way he has shaped his king beneath his hands—Lewis, on his back, dappled in red, and in white, in fluids that shine and drip and are only just starting to dry in the western sun. Bono had, it seems, at some point torn Lewis’ clothes from his body so viciously that they’re barely recognizable as clothes anymore.
Lewis is panting. Bono is panting. The sun is hot on the back of his neck but the heat of Lewis’ eyes is many, many times worse.