Sample #2
Jun. 26th, 2025 12:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
The beach was wet beneath his bare feet, though the tide was only barely coming in; rain fell heavy through the sky and pattered down on everything in sight, including Ganymede, alone on the beach in a rare moment of quiet contemplation. A storm was coming in offshore and turning the waves into whitecaps, wind kicking up around him from a gentle caress that toyed with the delicate fringe of baby hair to a stinging slap that flung raindrops into needles. The sand clung to his feet and the hems of his jeans as he watched his own footsteps, breathing in the air that felt alive with electricity and raw power as thunder rumbled overhead. It was how he almost missed the feather that fluttered down in front of his face to nestle in the sand by his toes. The thing shone a dark and beautiful lustrous gold, capturing all his attention and yet feeling like a chokehold slithering around his throat, turning his breath shallow and his thoughts darting around like quicksilver. Useless efforts, he knew, and knew as intimately as the feel of his own hands. There was no mistaking the message. Birds wouldn't be out in this weather, they'd all be roosted in their nests, sheltering from the storm.
Zeus.
He could feel the god's preesence like fingers dragging up his spine, uncomfortably icy against the warmth of the humid salt air. There was a connection there between the two of them, however much Ganymede hated it, wanted it gone, had tried every damaging thing he could to sever the bend that had attracted Zeus to him in the first place, and tied them together still.
Ganymede knew better than to take the feather, but still as if controlled by a marionettist, he bent down, fingertips grazing the sand as he twirled the little gift into his hand. He knew what and whom it heralded, and knew very well what came after. But for all that knowledge, there was still a soft voice like the gentlest murmur of far-off thunder in the back of his head that asked, quiet and seductive: has any other lover known you as intimately as I? He shouldn't react, he shouldn't make any answer to the yet-unasked invitation, but still...how could he refuse his first and most pervasive love? Could he refuse the singular man who had always known him, always found him, always professed to adore him?
The feather's vane felt like thistledown to his fingers, wet and slick as he curled his hand around the thing and felt the rachis bend as if to cup into his palm. Ganymede clenched around it, hearing and feeling the barbs separate and tear as the quill snapped and he flung it into the sand, leaving the token sadly mangled like a child's forgotten toy. The thunder rolled fresh overhead, loud as the air crackling with the feel of lightning not yet unleashed; his answer to the invitation would not be taken kindly. Zeus would come, and Ganymede's refusal of his gracious affections would mean nothing.
He didn't even have to look up to recognize the voice that spoke, washing over him at once velvet-soft and hot as a blanket of embers.
"All alone again, little prince. We really should stop meeting like this."
Zeus.
He could feel the god's preesence like fingers dragging up his spine, uncomfortably icy against the warmth of the humid salt air. There was a connection there between the two of them, however much Ganymede hated it, wanted it gone, had tried every damaging thing he could to sever the bend that had attracted Zeus to him in the first place, and tied them together still.
Ganymede knew better than to take the feather, but still as if controlled by a marionettist, he bent down, fingertips grazing the sand as he twirled the little gift into his hand. He knew what and whom it heralded, and knew very well what came after. But for all that knowledge, there was still a soft voice like the gentlest murmur of far-off thunder in the back of his head that asked, quiet and seductive: has any other lover known you as intimately as I? He shouldn't react, he shouldn't make any answer to the yet-unasked invitation, but still...how could he refuse his first and most pervasive love? Could he refuse the singular man who had always known him, always found him, always professed to adore him?
The feather's vane felt like thistledown to his fingers, wet and slick as he curled his hand around the thing and felt the rachis bend as if to cup into his palm. Ganymede clenched around it, hearing and feeling the barbs separate and tear as the quill snapped and he flung it into the sand, leaving the token sadly mangled like a child's forgotten toy. The thunder rolled fresh overhead, loud as the air crackling with the feel of lightning not yet unleashed; his answer to the invitation would not be taken kindly. Zeus would come, and Ganymede's refusal of his gracious affections would mean nothing.
He didn't even have to look up to recognize the voice that spoke, washing over him at once velvet-soft and hot as a blanket of embers.
"All alone again, little prince. We really should stop meeting like this."