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I kissed the bottle - I should have been kissing you.

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NEW OFFICIAL VETH ART JUST DROPPED!

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once in a while the targeted ads are at least on brand

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i took one step out the front door and got soaking wet

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sitting on my front door steps last night, cat came to say hey as I was chilling with my post-gig slushie, and he had been staring at a space in the hedge the whole time. cat runs off after some pets, a fox approaches, walks up the steps poking their snoot forward to say hey then scuttles off through the neighbours front gardens, cat immediately comes back, chills with me on the steps again.

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A lot of booktook smut is easy to make fun of but generally I think women jerking off is a good and righteous thing. Yet another example of things that are embarrassing also being cool. Lotta complex thoughts to think out there. Be safe. I love you.

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just freed a little bird (it was either a wren or a spotted flycatcher) that was stuck under the netting at a vegetable allotment, so yes, you may romanticise me.

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“Imogen! It’s alright, you’re here, please – stop. Wake up.”

Laudna is hunched over her; knees straddled either side of her waist, hands at her shoulders.

She shouldn’t - she can’t be straining herself right now.

“It was a nightmare-” Despite her waking state, Imogen does not miss Laudna’s omission of the word ‘only’,

how she wrestles against her own strength to pull Imogen up into her arms,

how she can hear the pulse in her temple thudding against Laudna's newly scarred chest racing in tandem with her heartbeat, how her shoulders and bicep tremble from the exertion of holding her.

Imogen attempts to gather her breath, her own strength, to sit up with her own spine, as Laudna shifts to kneeling; reaching impressively far over them to the glass of water on the bedside.

Her white shift hikes - shrinks - enough to see her knees blotched by blood soddened mattress.

Imogen had tried so hard to avoid that - despite the fact she had accepted Laudna's invite onto her bed.

“Shit, I’m so sorry-” surprised by how her voice wavers, not only sleep but tears blurring her eyes.

Laudna's eyes widen when she acknowledges it - the blood mess - the dark brown of her iris innards-black in the canopy shade of early morning.

She snaps her attention away from her knee beside Imogen's thigh, sloshing some of the water out of the glass as she pushes it towards Imogen intently, insistently.

“Please.” She rasps.

Imogen allows herself to be fed; has to tilt her head back when the tip of the glass does not relent.

Imogen has to push it away with her hand, water dribbling out of the corner of her mouth and Laudna's resisting push surprisingly strong.

“I’m sorry, it was – I was my mom, and she was-”

“I know, please-”

“-I saw my home again. There was so much blood-”

“Please, stop.”

Laudna has been so honest with her,

Right?

Or was that a dream too?

Dream-like, nightmare, like the lines stretching and contorting around Laudna's edges - different to how the laudanum made her seem yesterday – now Laudna's arms seem to extend, creaking and astringent as her spine bows, cat hissing arched with its fur on end, swelling to press against the canopy of the bed.

The glass she had held to Imogen's lips fractures in her hold; shatters splintering into diamonds dictated by the fancy cut that decorated it, dusting around her naked knee and embellishing into the bony skin, the remaining water re-soaking the blood-stained mattress.

Her other hand squeezes Imogen's shoulder so tight that her fingernails cut through the linen, pierce the flesh beneath.

“Laudna?!” Imogen winces, certain when the pain doesn’t wake her.

The other woman wails as her jaw dislocates, the thread holding her cheek together under stress as it stretches.

Imogen takes her head in her hands; holds her jaw clamped, pushing it up to her skull as her thumb runs over the threads.

“What’s happenin’?” her heart thuds.

Laudna snarls and whimpers through pointed teeth.

The surface of her skin changes like short hairs being brushed the wrong way then smoothed down again, familiar milk-pail pale to translucent over a webbing of bruise coloured muscle and vein to the patterns of the surrounding woodgrain.

It bulges and shifts - the sack of her flesh – a bag of bones as though the skeleton inside of her is dislocating and moving of its own free will, ambling femurs to a different limb or bloating out of her torso to make another.

“Laudna?”

Her eyes roll back to reveal that the white of them is in fact fully-black, tar-like substance like what she had been coughing up onto her chest coagulating at her tear ducts.

Maybe she can’t speak when her jaw is held shut.

Imogen worries what will happen should it open.

Laudna?

Inside her head is a cacophony.

Imogen is born into it like a cordycep piercing through an ant’s husk, organics abrasing organics, swaddled and suffocated in stifling tissue and just as uncomfortably spat out like a dislodged tooth leaving dangling nerve raw and sensitive to the atmosphere.

Like how Laudna’s skin shifted between familiar and material; the corridor could be a cavern, could be a gullet, the cave by the lake table cloth’ed with viscera, walls of rock onyx tarred wet with fluids strands of hair and moss abscesses bloated boils pulsing and bulging and bursting like geysers then shrivelling as they are left horridly hollow.

Between the cracks and fissures and scars and lacerations in the stone-sinew walls furniture is imbedded; tarnished gilt paintings and the feet of a hat stand, frames of beds, the skeletons of armchairs.

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She shakes herself out of Laudna's head.

The morning light is obstructed when she re-joins her own body; Laudna's hair knotted and matting into upholstery tassels, a rib splitting out of the new scar in her chest to add further flourish to the detailing of the head board, skin and sleeve sagging from her bicep to re-cover the pillow.

Imogen slides out from underneath her, from where Laudna has started to merge with the bed; nails lanced through the mattress and scratching the floors as ornate claw-pointed feet, shift and stomach-skin indistinguishable from the sheets, her spine doming the tapestry canopy, goose-down feathers catching and settling in her hair like blossoms as the remainder of her flesh chameleons with the patina’d woodgrain, limbs contorted into barley twists and out-of-socket joints swollen to be the canon balls of the bed posts.

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i hadnt done a digital drawing in a couple weeks or so and also how laudna's form of bed dread from the latest chapter of my fic has been hanging around in my head so i wanted to try get that out. poor bb has some heavy traumas.

the fic is here if u wanna read it

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hustler biker special (1986)

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Basket star (Euryalidae)

Photo by Loh Kok Sheng

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so-called predatory lesbians in the pussy doing the non-verbal "is this ok" thing

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Glasgow Botanics Gardens, Scotland by Simon Hird