Chapter Text
Luke gets a work transfer. First thing.
Him and Abbie move his things into the main bedroom.
They're all the other has left in the world but that's enough for them.
They wake to each other, sleep together.
Make reckless loud, colourful, cosmic, love together.
Paint, canvas and one another.
And yes….worship, the other, a little bit, sometimes too.
He has laid his head lovingly in her lap before, while she combs her fingers through his hair, raking his scalp, and weaving beautiful portraits with her free hand.
And she has rubbed down his shoulders and arms while watching him do his work. Sometimes the regular case files, sometimes his art. Whispering suggestions and endearments in his ear to the point of driving him to distraction.
Only Abbie could make a suggestion to shade a little darker for "that shadow" over there sound like an invitation to drink from a forbidden cup, but that she does.
He's a little bit more easily distracted than she is, and he won't deny, he certainly blames her for most of his unfinished works, and he shows her just how irritated he is with her meddling by loving her so hard and so deep that when she cries out in her pleasure and joy that she screams in rainbows and confetti.
She'll turn away from him after, breathless, heaving, flushed with stars and comets zipping to and fro across her skin and grumping at him as she goes. Trying to revert from Goddess nature back to human. "Damn, passionate, beautiful, mortal," she curses, but there's no heat in it. Her eyes sparkle with love.
He thinks it's sort of funny that he does that to her. When he pushes her to her brinks, her heights and peaks, that she can't help but transform.
Abbie can make him shift into his God self, however, in a more subtle way. It's in a gentle, unassuming kiss. It's in her hands lazily mapping him and curling up close to him in sleep and he'll wake up changed, intoning "Good morning," in a rumble that twice, had startled her awake with panic before realizing it was just him.
Their love grows and blossoms deep and vibrant.
They open their first exhibit, that winter. A joint show of their works.
Carlos, in one. Her mother and father, in the other.
His mother.
It had been some darker days of painting for them both, conjuring faces and dredging up memories and tears alike to render their loved ones again for all to see. Once they'd tapped into it, it had seemed unwilling to let them go.
Weeping walls and grey murk before they could find the joy in remembering. In keeping those memories alive. They learned each other anew, helping the other paint and work and when they opened, they were both nervous. Clutching and fussing with one another as the patrons walked in, waiting for judgement to be passed, and then to be met with critical, thoughtful observations, and in some cases outright praise.
Their magic is stronger together, ten fold. Standing in the corner observing they feel the energy lift and change with minds excited by the images, shapes, shades and colours. Their fingers interlocking, he tugs her close and breathes her in, lips running along her neck. "If I paint a room, would you follow me," he rumbles.
"Anywhere," she breathes, turning to meet his eyes. He cups her face gently, and they stare intently at one another until her skin begins to heat and she snickers as a star winks beneath his left eye. "Careful," she cautions softly, pressing her thumb there. "Or you're about to morph in front of all these people,"
He leans in, grinning. "This from the woman with a shooting star flying across her collarbone." Abbie looks down immediately.
"I do not, where---"
When she looks back up at him, they're some place new, different, unique.
"Tell the truth," she scolds. "You didn't paint this just now."
Blushing Luke takes her hand, leading her deeper within. It's a similar temple of a place to where they first confessed their love. But it overlooks the ocean. It's evergreen. The stone pillars are beautiful, gleaming. Fragrant flowers bob and sway. "No," he concedes. "I've been….working on this scape, for a while."
It was quite by accident, that they had even toyed with the idea of painting a thing into existence. But then why should they not? They have this extraordinary gift, of course it makes sense, God and Goddess they are makes them also creators. And they has experimented plenty with it. She's taken to painting her wardrobe, or dancing it, depending on her mood. But Luke hasn't dabbled in it as much. So he had been leading her to believe. He'd fussed mildly that getting the dimensions and depth right so that it was a moveable, liveable space taxed him.
He'd clearly been lying, because this scene he has made for them now, is perfect.
"In the middle of our first show," Abbie muses. "You would skip out on it. Nervous?"
"Oh I'm shaking in my shoes." he says, cracking a nervous smile that catches Abbie unawares. She reaches out to him.
"Babe," she calls softly and just like that, it shows how anxious he is, his skin his form, blinker to God, easily, swiftly. She changes with him, for comfort, to be on even plane with him. "Luke, what…what's wrong….."
"Nothing," he smiles, tears gathering in his eyes. His power floats around them, bright, clear, fills her with joyous energy but she can't understand his tears. The way he begins to shake. "Nothing is wrong, Abbie, it's right, it's so right, and I'm scared of how right it is, but….."
"Luke?" she calls again, reaching for his hands, tugging him close, she lifts them and kisses his knuckles. "Talk to me."
"I want this. Forever, and ever, and always, you. I want you, us, to be this way….I love, you. Grace Abigail Mills, mortal immortal you dance in my heart and you weave my life into something…..amazing. I want to keep this."
Abbie's brow wrinkles in confusion. "You have it, Luke, you have me, I love you, I'm not going anywhere,"
"Would you tell the world that," he asks softy.
"Yes." she affirms, without hesitation. She smiles curiously at him. "Yes Luke, no question,"
"Would you wave it like a banner. Wear it like a crown."
Abbie chuckles. "You're being strange, but yes I----Luke," she gasps as he sinks to his knees in a bow. Around her feet suddenly there are fruits and flowers over flowing from baskets and jewels and baubles and fine silks and she's amazed his mind can work this fast, she can see the veins in the leaves and the way the apples shine and his power raise up out of him swirling cyan mist tickling her as it goes. The air fills with the smell of vanilla and incense. When he looks up, there is a cushion in his hand and on it rests, indeed, a crown, and a ring. On his own head, a fine, gold circlet. A wreath hangs around his neck, abundant and green.
An offering.
He's made, an offering of himself.
"Be mine." He says. "I will lay, everything at your feet, as a God and as your man. Be my Queen, be my Goddess, my Muse, eternal. Abbie. I love you." He rises to his feet and approaches her, arms outstretched. She reaches for the beautiful shimmering crown, taking it in her hands to marvel at it, and then her eyes hitch on the ring. It's perfect match. "Be my Wife." he asks, eyes glimmering. He trembles but his face is so open.
"Yes." she laughs. "Yes, Luke, Yes."
He exhales relief, laughing nervously as he plucks up the ring, sliding it on her finger, and then takes the crown from her hands and nestles it on her springy curls. He steps back and admires her, hoping he can hold this image in his head long enough to cast it on canvas later, but then lets his hands fall to her waist and he pulls her in close, until their noses are touching. "I love you."
"I love you," she counters, and curling her arms around his neck, leans in until their lips press, and mould. The kiss turns from gentle tide to passionate storm, sinking down into the gifts he conjured, he sweeps them out of the way as he lays her down and tenderly makes love to her there, among the indulgent bed of trinkets and flowers. He wreathes her with a garland as he pulls away and strokes her sides, up to her breasts. His power works and slips little jewelled rings on her toes as she spreads her legs. Her fingers that dance up his spine, nails digging into him on the first thrust become adorned with smaller dainty little bands that match the astonishing diamond encrusted garnet that is her engagement ring.
His magic weaves flowers in her hair as he moves and she lifts her hips beneath him, panting softly, moaning and keening with his deep, slow strokes, taking his time with her. She watches him and imagines a pendant about his neck, a simple knotted gold chain and sets a garnet in it, to match the ring he gave her, watching it materialize and sway as he moves. She writhes with pleasure. How good he feels, how deep and right. Her hands scrabble all over him in her fervour, and his lips are sweet and hungry on hers.
They've abandoned their own art showing to get engaged and make love in a room that exists no where but in his imagination manifest, but who cares.
"There," she pants. "Oh, Luke, there," her voice creeps higher and higher but he grins wickedly at her and then slows. "You bastard!" she growls. And he chuckles as his hands roam over her skin painting her with flowers and stars.
"Forever now," he assures as he increases speed again.
The pleasure is so sweet and pure, imbued with love, his self, his being, it touches her in all of the sweetest, vibrant, spots, that when she screams for him, when it is too much to contain she sings instead, a clear high note that rings through the air.
A song that trills around them as he pistons forward until he finds his release and bellows in tune with her.
He buries his head in her shoulder, kissing neck around jaw and settling on her mouth again, lovingly, their tongues twining as she rolls him over and then astride him he looks up at her in a lust filled adoring gaze.
There is literally a Goddess riding him, he thinks as she undulates her hips. His eyes catch on the flowers in her hair, the loving prints he has left on her skin, the twinkling jewels on her neck and in her ears and the crown that sits at a roguish angle on her hair. The ring glinting on her finger as she locks her fingers with his, sinking up and then down again.
Once they get like this, it can be a small eternity before they tire of the other.
Before they have made the other hoarse with screaming. Bodies weak and trembling from ecstasy.
Power exhausted that it can only smoke softly around them, spent.
Back at the gallery the guests wonder briefly where the hosts have gone but enjoy the show and leave.
Some hours later God and Goddess deign to leave their special little bubble of love and step back into the real world, their clothes restored, everything else falling away, except for the jewels. She has to kick off her shoes because the rings on her toes bite into one another----no matter as Luke persistently swings her up into his arms and carries her, bobbing and laughing back home. She toys with the pendant she hung around his neck, kissing the hollow of his throat. And alternates between holding her crown in place and fixing his that has gone askew. Then she leans into him, admiring her ring finger and smiling to herself. "You're something else," she mutters at last, laughing.
He winks at her. "You bring out a lot of new sides to me."
"I love them all." she confides. "Don't ever doubt it."
Luke leans in and pecks her forehead. "You are the only thing in my life, that I would never doubt. I trust and believe in you Abbie, babe, completely."
At the house he sets her down just long enough to get the door open and they continue celebrations inside.
It's a year later.
And her stomach is high and full.
She reclines on another cushioned chaise in another landscape he has dreamed up.
He's left his former job.
He creates full time now, with her. They run the gallery, hold exhibits, run art classes. Their works sell, becoming more lucrative than they had anticipated.
But one supposes that anything made and borne out of love, must prosper, and prosper it does. She dances, still, or did, until the effort of welding her pregnancy made it difficult.
Now she settles for a slow, warm, two step shuffle with her husband. As close as they can get with her belly in the way, without him upsetting one of the little darlings taking form within.
You see, Abbie Mills-Morales, is having, triplets.
Last time they saw the doctor, he'd said two girls, and a boy.
At this very moment, however, Luke is painting her in her fertile, abundant glory. This could easily be his tenth one. He works faster, these days, even without relying on the gift. He's done one for every month of her pregnancy.
And she cannot be bothered to count how many portraits he has done of her, since they got together, period. The art room is cluttered with them now. She teases in years to come, when they are long dead and gone, people will think he was obsessed. He shrugs.
"I pity them that they could never know a love like this. That it can be the same over and over but still different and amazing, and…..inspire you over and over, and over---" a soft kiss" ---again. Besides. Have you seen the collection you're amassing over there?" he means the living room where she had to move her collection of portraits of him. She blushes.
They are always surrounded by loved ones. Green and white fairy light still dances about the house, chattering gleefully about Abbie's belly. At night sometimes they hear a soothing cooling rush of water. And in the day the air dances and tugs their hair. But only sometimes. Just to remind them, they are not alone, and that they are happy for the pair, embarking on their new life together.
They are a perfect match together, and now, they look forward, to their family.
Addie, Lorelei, and Carlos, the second.
Each child named as a tribute to their mothers, and the brother he lost. In loving memory.
Each, a perfect, beautiful, flawless brown.
Inky black and chestnut curls on each head. All the same pair of warm eyes.
"They're perfect," Luke whispers in awe, his heart full to bursting as he hefts one of his daughters. Abbie looks at him adoringly. "Do you, do you think they have it?" he asks, absently. They are alone in the hospital room.
Abbie looks down at her other daughter and son tucked in her arms. She squints, and can see, as they breathe, little, faint, puffs of colour on their breath. Addie's', fuchsia, Carlos' a mint green. And Lorelei in Luke's arm breathes a warm sweet yellow. She smiles up at him.
"If they do, who better than to help them with it?" She asks.
Their eyes lock and he approaches her with a smile curling his lips and leans in. "No one else I'd rather do it with, than you."
Their lips touch.
Their gift mingles.
The little babes, slumber, happily in their mother and fathers loving arms, amid streams of colours, wafting gently, warmly, through the room.
Fin