Thinking About Deity Snippets Again.

Thinking about deity snippets again.

Simon as Father Winter, who brings snow and howls with northern winds, accent thick and voice rough like gravel crunching under his heavy boots.

The entirety of him is big and heavy — vast expanse of his body covered in furs, leather of his gloves creaking when moves.

Simon who comes back every year, brings you blizzards and ice, brings you snowflakes and heavy coats of snow, brings you cold and new weight on your shoulders.

His coat always too heavy on you, his kisses ice-scalding, sending shivers down your spine, tearing whimpers out of you when he presses them to soft warm flesh of your neck.

“Are you cold, luv?”, he breathes out, corner of his lips twitching when you huff air out and shake your head, beat of the pulse on your neck driving him a little insane.

Jaws of winter are merciless ever hungry things.

Aching to break your skin, aching to drink their full share of your blood, swallowing until he bleeds you dry, until he’s warm too.

Jaws of Simon are not any better.

He holds you like you are made of ice, like a wrong push would send you shattering all over the place, leaving him with nothing but shards.

Simon murmurs “missed ya, lovie. Had a nice summer?” and hoists you up, peppering cool kisses all over your face.

Pretty pretty bird, all pumping veins and throbbing heart and warmth that he lacks.

Simon comes back every year like a clockwork, grumbling when he sees your tan, sun-kissed skin of yours beckoning him closer. There is wicked mean part of him that wants you ice you out, because it’s not fair that he can see how much you enjoyed the summer.

How happy you were with him away and a different deity by your side, warming you up — making you nice and pliant, melting you until you are soft and mouldable.

Simon doesn’t like that he is not getting the salt of your sweat, that he doesn’t get to leave bright pinks of sun’s kisses that would peel away later, leaving lighter marks — telltale signs of how loved you are by someone who is not Simon. By someone who isn’t winter.

At times he almost envies Perchta with his whimsical holiday spouse, because König doesn’t have to share. Frankly, Simon isn’t even sure that old mean as primordial sin König even knows the concept of “sharing”. Any fool that would be brave enough to find his spouse alluring would suffer immediate repercussions.

Simon cannot afford it.

Simon has no claim over you and he can’t stake one unless you agree to leave heat of summer and greens of spring behind.

Blizzard howls around him, pressed down its cold biting walls on the glass of your windows, yawns its icy jaws at you, threatening to swallow whole.

But Simon closes the doors behind himself and storm dies down, his coat falling on the floor with dull thump. Everything else…everything else can wait.

He pulls the sleeves of dark woollen sweater to his elbows, shimmer of frost dancing over the thin blob hairs of Simon’s forearms and you yelp when he traitorously slides his arms under your shirt.

“Are you cold, luv?”, Simon breathes out like it means something, like there is a wrong answer, but he comes every winter and asks the same questions.

You never get them wrong.

Your lips on his face — molten heat that thaws Simon’s ice, freshet of his affection trickling out in the softening waterline of his, in the warm look in his eyes, in the way his kisses no longer sting.

“Are you hot, love?”, you can’t help but tease him back, press of your lips behind his ear sending shivers down Simon’s spine, melting down the ice shards of his jealousy.

Simon comes every year as roaring storms and trickles down to silent snowfalls, wrapping himself around you and letting you nuzzle deeper into him — your tongue on his throat leaving him dazed.

You smile and breathe out in his jaw “would you like to be?”, fingers of yours already tugging his scratchy sweater off and there is a small pause between his breathes.

Tiny one. Like sun shining through, like light reflecting off his snows, like glimmer of thousand snowflakes.

“Yeah.”, he finally breathes out and lets you drag the sweater off him. “Think you can help with that, lovie?”