Even the illusion of June is enough to send a stabbing pain through my chest

[butnotyet]

Who: Augustine the First and ____________ (This could be you!)
What: A little bit of everything, including Event threads, and who knows what else
When: Throughout June
Where: All around Trench; specific locations listed in TLs as necessary.

Content warnings for this character: Necromancer with visibility issues (still running a little bit Invisible Man) seeking CR for explicit gore/body horror as a matter-of-fact daily occurrence / being jaded AF about life in Trench and otherwise (look, man, he's older than dirt) / needs more people to be slutty at-or-with (bearing in mind he is, again, currently at-least-mostly Invisible, you/your character's kinks/mileage May Vary, player more interested in vague/FTB/finessing a scene than anything explicit). Also, his omen is his brother, and also a venomous snake, and also really chatty.

Specific warnings for this post: Nightmares featuring a lot of violence, including self-inflicted/suicide; various types of religious imagery/discussions, definitely including "taking the Lord's Name in vain"; invisible nude spying on God (might get spicy).

Comments

casually nsfw

[butnotyet]

It's going to hurt, later.

Later, when Augustine will have eaten something else, will have had something else to drink, will have cleared the obsessive effect from his system — when the grape-colored tint finally falls away from his gaze, where it's currently coloring everything he sees as he stares up at John — it's going to hurt, to think that those six words could have such an effect on him as this: the way he's shuddering, just a little, at the warm certainty at the back of his neck; the way he wants to cry, and laugh, and throw himself into John's lap, maybe all at once; the way those six words are all he needs to hear —

It's going to hurt, because they aren't all he needs to hear; there's so much more that he needs, that he's owed, maybe, after centuries and millennia of we can talk about this later when the later never comes — it's going to hurt, because he may be, as it were, under the influence, but he isn't drunk; he isn't drugged; he is, in fact, just Augustine, without even a scrap of fabric to hide behind and claim some kind of modesty or dignity — it's just that 'just Augustine' is not the same, at the moment, as 'Augustine in full possession of all his memories and senses'.

This is just Augustine who adores God, and just Augustine who adores John, and it's going to hurt, later, when he can remember every part of this perfectly, every sensation, every sound, every moment — when he can shut his eyes and replay the sights of this interlude, as he watches John react to him — eyes open, eyes closed — reacting to touches that Augustine himself can't see, even though he remembers touching John; reacting to the sight of his own flesh falling prey to the magic ensorcelling Augustine's body, disappearing when it passes those boundaries, and no matter that he could still feel everything —

It's going to hurt, when he replays all those sights, every desperate moment as his eyes were watching God, watching John — because he won't be in a single one of them.