Congrats on the followers! You deserve each and every one of them and a thousand more! If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love to see something soft and sweet with MC and Leonardo. Thank you and keep being so sweet and amazing!!
♥️♥️♥️ Thank you! It’s definitely not too much trouble to write some soft, sweet Leo. 🥰 I hope you will enjoy this, thank you so much for requesting it as part of my follower celebration!
She sleeps come una ninfa, hair forever slipping loose from the way she binds it to spill over his pillowcase, hands so graceful he has sketched a dozen studies of them. She seems to be able to feel his gaze if it lingers on her face, but he is free to examine her fingertips, her shoulders, the holy change from her ankles to her calves without disturbing her rest.
Sometimes her sleep breath becomes little words, or soft snores. His nymph is a human woman then, no less vibrant than a creature with gods’ blood. More importantly, she is more alive, changing with the sunlight of the seasons. It is nearly full winter in France, so he will be needing more blankets for her soon. She is warm in sleep, but not enough for the cold there. He teases her sometimes for the way she makes them both sweat and she colors beautifully and snaps back some variation on the theme of he does that, too, and plenty of it.
Perhaps one of the things he loves best about her is the way she surprises him even as he thinks he knows all her next moves. He does know those moves, those words (he would never claim to know them all, because his mind is precise and wily and saves him from being wrong in that way), but the way she dances them, where she chooses to spin and stomp and seethe at him: these things he waits to see. Her choices knock his laughter around his lungs like the air at a mountaintop, private and powerful.
It is a pleasure to sit among scrolls in his room and watch her from a chair or the floor. When she calls for him, though, asleep or awake, he goes to her and lets that hair of hers find its nighttime home against his shoulder. He pitches his voice soothing-low and rumbles a lullaby that has been in his blood for a very long time, unshared until she chose to share his bed. If their fingers lace together, pleasantly warm, he cannot mind that she makes his hands be still. He can appreciate the way those fingers relax as they both leave the waking world, high relief to bas relief to the flushness of nature no man can recreate on his own.
They often fall asleep with the lamps burning, but he blows them out from his spot on the bed. It’s truly not a big enough piece of furniture for both of them, but since they sleep in a stack of two, he’s uninclined to change anything there in the darkness. She is already asleep again, breath so beautiful against his neck it is not even alluring. It is peaceful, and he is grateful for the peace.
