#bar v mal

[garciapimienta]

STOP

[batfall-a]

𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 ,  𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 .  /  @str4nd​

  *   )    blood   coats   mouth   as   matches   nods  ,  ‘             yeah   i   had   a  sneaky   suspicion  it  might  . . .  ’     𝙷𝚄𝙼𝙾𝚁   𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢  𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜   𝚊𝚜    𝚑𝚎   𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗   𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜  𝚝𝚘   𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗   𝚝𝚘   𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝙻𝙴𝙵𝚃   𝚊𝚜   𝚑𝚎   𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚜   𝚘𝚞𝚝   𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛   𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍   𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑   𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜   𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎.   ‘   who   knew   they’d   get   so   creative ?  ’  head   remains  turned   as   arm   wipes   mouth  ,   ‘   this   city  . . .   there’s   only   so   much   she  can  take  ’  in  truth  he  didn’t   exactly   REMEMBER   what   went   wrong  ,   all   he   remembers  is   jumping  in   between   to   ensure   that    carnage   remained  to  a  minimum.  though   the   thirst   for   blood   remained   high  ,   GOTHAM   herself   seemed  to  feed  off   the  blood   that   trailed   upon   pavement  ,  and   pooled   in   dark   alleyways.   the  streets   themselves  remain   hidden  ,   𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙴𝙴𝚃𝙻𝙰𝙼𝙿𝚂   𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗   𝚊𝚜   𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢   𝚋𝚎𝚐   𝚏𝚘𝚛  𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍   𝚗𝚘𝚝   𝚝𝚘   𝚋𝚎   𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚝.   𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌   𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎  𝚘𝚏   𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚖   𝚊𝚝  𝚊𝚗  𝚊𝚕𝚕  𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎   𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑   𝚊𝚜   𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝   𝚏𝚘𝚛   𝙿𝙾𝚆𝙴𝚁   𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍   𝚘𝚏  𝚞𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝   𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎  ;   GCPD   rarely   visited  those  districts   that   were   deemed  ‘DANGEROUS’            leaving   many  to  fend  for  themselves.   matches  looks   at  the  other  ,   as   he   then   pushes  back  blonde   hair  with   bloodstained   fingertips.  

                                    ‘  this  isn’t  your  normal  haunt  is  it  ?  ’   TEETH  shine  in  the   moonlight   as   a  smile  is  given.  ‘  i’ve  gotta  ask  why   the  fuck  are  you   here  ?  ’  then   getting   back  to   the  problem  at  hand  ,                 ‘  you’re  off  duty   aren’t  you  ?  ’

[creads]

⭐️ pleasure over matter. fem!reader x esteban kukuriczka

🪐 minha masterlist

» cw: smut! por favor só interaja se for +18! ; consumo de álcool; kuku!dilf pai de menina e sex deprived; leitora!babá; sexo desprotegido; p in v; nipple play; creampie; breeding kink; oral fem; nuances de size e strength kink; menção a masturbação masc; messy sex!!!; big cock; dirty talk; slow burn (só até a putaria começar 😛); age gap implícito (uns 13 anos de diferença)

» wn: sim mais um esteban dilf. e sim ele sex deprived de novo. o motivo? tesão. minha buceta? explodida. hotel? trivago. enfim minhas gatinhas cheirosas eu me diverti e me empolguei muito atendendo a esse pedido (lê-se passei mal de tesão) então acabou ficando meio grandinho, mas espero que vocês gostem!!! 💐💞💋 a música que eu ouvi escrevendo foi pink matter do frank ocean, recomendo que ouçam 💗🌷

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Estava sentada no bar enquanto ouvia o moreno ao seu lado falar pela enésima vez sobre sua função ‘importantíssima’ no escritório, dando mais um gole da sua bebida a fim de se distrair do encontro que não estava dando nem um pouco certo. Você tinha a semana corrida, de manhã e de tarde cuidava da menininha loira e à noite ia para a faculdade. Sua rotina cheia foi o motivo que suas amigas insistiram para você aceitar sair com o homem, mas agora, se arrependia amargamente de perder seu sábado para ficar ouvindo um cara metido que não perguntou nada sobre você até agora.

Para sua felicidade, o telefone tocou, ficou aliviada em ter uma desculpa para cortar seu acompanhante, mas logo se transformou em preocupação quando leu “Esteban Kukuriczka” na tela do celular.

— Sr. Kukuriczka? Tá tudo bem? — Você perguntou preocupada, o homem não era de entrar em contato a noite, muito menos num final de semana.

— Oi querida, tá tudo bem sim… Desculpa te ligar assim do nada, mas a Sofia tá com febre e ela tá pedindo pra te ver, você está ocupada?

— Não, não… Eu vou pra aí agora.

— Tá bem, me passa seu endereço que eu mando um uber para te buscar.

Com isso, você se despediu do seu date com a maior cara de “sinto muito” possível, explicando que era urgente do trabalho, por mais que estivesse completamente aliviada de sair de lá, e também, com o coração molinho porque a garotinha doente queria te ver.

O restaurante não era muito longe do apartamento dos Kukuriczka, então logo estava na porta do prédio, que se abriu rapidamente para que você pudesse entrar. Durante a subida do elevador, ajeitava a aparência, tentando estar apresentável para ver o homem. Esteban era um pai incrível, só precisava de uma babá devido ao trabalho que exigia a presença dele durante praticamente o dia inteiro. Lembra-se muito bem de quando ele te contratou: descobriu a vaga por meio de uma amiga da sua mãe, e quando você chegou no apartamento para ser entrevistada, não esperava nem um pouco um pai tão bonito quanto ele. Você realmente era ótima com crianças, então não tinha porque ele não te contratar, além do mais, a mãe dela não era lá das mais presentes, então seria bom ter uma figura feminina tão doce quanto você.

Quando chegou no andar, a menininha e o pai já esperavam por você na porta aberta: a garotinha usava um pijama comprido de ursinho - o qual você tinha um igual, que Esteban tinha dado para vocês combinarem nas noites de pijama - com uma pelúcia nos braços, os fios loirinhos estavam bagunçados e a carinha manhosa enquanto segurava a mão do pai, o qual estava agachado do lado da criança e te observava andar pelo corredor. Você fez um biquinho ao ver a menininha tão abatida, “Ô meu amorzinho…” sussurrou enquanto se agachava para abraçar ela, sem nem se importar como o vestido curto podia subir pelas coxas. Colocou as costas da mão na testinha quente enquanto observava o pai ficar de pé, “Você já deu remédio pra ela?”, perguntou preocupada.

— Já sim. Já dei banho morninho, jantinha e coloquei o pijama favorito dela, né filha? — Ele respondeu, a garotinha que assentia com um biquinho no rosto te fazia derreter, genuinamente a amava como se fosse sua bebêzinha, era uma menina extremamente doce, parece que era você quem sentia dor ao vê-la assim. O pai extremamente atencioso também não ajudava no seu estado, desde que o viu sabia que ele era extremamente atraente, mas porra, alguma coisa sobre ele sempre ser tão carinhoso mexia com você, ainda mais agora, que observava vocês abraçadas enquanto estava de pé, ainda fazendo um carinho no topo da cabeça da filha. — Ela disse que quer que você leia uma historinha pra ela… — Disse baixinho, fazendo você abraçar a menininha mais forte ainda, tomada pela fofura dela.

— Tá bem, vamo lá. — Você se levantou com a menininha no colo e caminhou até o quarto dela, o barulho do saltinho no piso de madeira quase ofuscou um suspiro pesado de Esteban, que fechava a porta enquanto te observava andar até o quarto, e logo caminhou até a cozinha. Você deitou a garotinha na cama macia, ajustando os travesseiros para que ela ficasse confortável, mostrou as opções de livrinhos e sorriu ao vê-la ponderando as alternativas. Se sentou na beirada da cama e começou a ler as páginas com a voz mais suave que conseguia, enquanto a mão livre fazia um cafuné nos cabelinhos loiros. Talvez o que fez ela dormir tão rápido fosse a atmosfera agradável: o quarto na temperatura ideal, as paredes rosinhas e a iluminação baixinha que fazia as estrelinhas fluorescentes do teto brilharem. Ou talvez fosse a sua voz lendo baixinho a história bonitinha, ou até mesmo o corpinho febril e cansado, mas independente da razão, não queria atrapalhar o sono dela, então, se levantou com cuidado e caminhou até a porta, fechando ela suavemente e depois indo até a cozinha.

— E aí? — O homem perguntou com um sorrisinho simpático no rosto, apesar da pergunta quase ter passado despercebida por você, distraída ao vê-lo com os braços apoiados na bancada da cozinha, os cabelos grisalhos levemente bagunçados e as mangas da camisa dobradas até o antebraço cheio de veias.

— Dormiu… Tadinha, tá toda manhosa. — Você apoiou as mãos sobre a bancada também, do lado oposto do homem, brincando com os anéis que usava. Sorria simpática ao vê-lo assentir com a cabeça, com um sorrisinho cansado no rosto e os olhinhos fechados.

— Eu te atrapalhei ou alguma coisa? — Ele perguntou enquanto pegava uma garrafa de vinho branco na geladeira e duas taças no armário.

— Não… É… Eu ‘tava num encontro, mas você na verdade fez um favor pra mim, o cara era péssimo. — Você sorria educada, se distraindo ao encarar as mãos grandes que abriam o vinho com pouca dificuldade. Ele sorriu em retorno, despejando o líquido nas duas taças, quando a segunda já estava quase na metade, hesitou, “Nossa, eu nem perguntei se você quer. Desculpa”. Você balançou a cabeça e assegurou que queria sim, então ele deu a volta na bancada e entregou a taça na sua mão, te chamando para se sentar no sofá confortável. Ele se sentou de uma vez só, passando a mão grande no rosto e nos cabelos, você se sentava devagarinho no móvel macio, uns três palmos de distância do homem que parecia estressado.

— Perguntei porque te liguei do nada num sábado à noite, e a sua roupa é… Tá… Diferente. — Ele se referia ao vestido preto, gesticulava e se embolava um pouco ao falar, tentando encontrar palavras respeitosas para pontuar a roupa que contornava seu corpo de uma forma que o fazia pensar em coisas indecentes. A verdade era que Esteban se arrependia de ter te contratado, sabia que não era nem um pouco ético querer a babá mais nova da filha, foram inúmeras as noites que ele sonhou em te ter na cama dele. Se sentiu especialmente sujo no dia que recebeu um vídeo que você tinha gravado da filhinha na praia, no qual quando você virou a câmera para si mesma e deu um tchauzinho, conseguia ver perfeitamente seus peitos no biquíni amarelo, tentou ignorar o que sentia debaixo das calças ao pensar na cena, mas a noite, durante o banho, não resistiu em printar o frame e se masturbar para ele, imaginando como seria chupar os mamilos durinhos marcados no tecido e como queria que a guardar a porra todinha dentro de você e, se tivesse sorte, te tornar a mãe de outra menininha dele.

O desejo que sentia por você era tão grande que chegou até a pensar em te demitir, só não prosseguiu com isso porque Sofia ficaria devastada e, honestamente, sabia que não encontraria outra tão boa quanto você. O nervosismo passou batido por você, presumiu que era apenas cansaço, ou que ele apenas não tinha gostado do vestido. “Você… Não gostou?”, perguntou insegura. — Não! Não… É um vestido muito bonito… Ficou bom em você, ficou ótimo. — Ele respondeu um pouquinho afobado, apesar do tom de voz continuar tranquilo e baixinho. Você sorria tímida e educada enquanto olhava para o homem ao seu lado. Deu mais um gole no vinho, o que talvez fosse uma péssima ideia, afinal, já tinha bebido alguns drinks mais cedo, e o álcool só intensificava a sua vontade de tê-lo daquele jeito.

— E você? Tá arrumado também.

— Pior que eu também tinha marcado algo, mas… Acabei cancelando por motivos óbvios. — Ele bebeu um gole quando terminou a frase, parecia frustrado, o que fez você sentir uma pontinha de ciúmes na barriga.

— Eu entendo você ficar frustrado, mas pelo menos pode marcar outro dia…

— Não, eu… Não tô frustrado por isso. É só que… Ah, deixa.

— Ei. — Você colocou a mão no joelho dele, assegurando que podia confiar em você. — Pode falar, coloca pra fora…

— É que desde que eu me separei da mãe da Sofia, nunca me relacionei com mais ninguém. E apesar de eu já ter trabalhado essas inseguranças que a traição me deixou, sei lá… Hoje eu nem queria sair com essa moça, sabe? — Ele olhava pra frente enquanto desabafava, deu uma risadinha incrédula antes de continuar. — Parece horrível mas eu fiquei até aliviado quando a Sofi ficou doente, porque me deu um motivo concreto de desmarcar o encontro… E o pior é que ela é uma mulher legal, mas só… Não sei… Não é o que eu quero... —

Enquanto ele falava, você se aproximou dele. “O que você quer agora?”, perguntou baixinho, com certa esperança de ouvir o que queria. Ele balançava a cabeça com um sorrisinho tímido nos lábios, e quando finalmente se virou para você, suspirou pesado, logo voltando a evitar seu olhar. “Esteban… Tem alguma coisa que eu possa fazer?”, o loiro mordia o inferior enquanto acenava um ‘não’ com a cabeça que não te passava certeza nenhuma, passando os dedos compridos na borda da taça quase vazia. Você retirou a taça que ele segurava nas mãos e a colocou sobre a mesinha de centro, substituindo o cristal com a sua mão, acariciando os dedos compridos enquanto olhava a respiração do homem ficar cada vez mais pesada. “Nena…”, seu apelido saiu da boca dele como uma advertência, uma repreensão, que servia mais para ele do que para você. A tensão no ar que tinha se acumulado até hoje era palpável, a sala tão quieta que quase conseguiam escutar os batimentos acelerados.

Você com delicadeza levou a mão grande que segurava até sua coxa, atenta a expressão do homem que seguia sua ação com o olhar, parecia hesitante, apesar de ter apertado de levinho a carne macia, fazendo você soltar um suspiro. Decidiu acabar com isso de uma vez por todas, devagarinho, passou uma das pernas para o outro lado dele, se sentando no colo do homem, de frente para o rosto cheio de sardinhas, o qual você segurou com as duas mãos, enquanto as dele descansavam sobre seus quadris. Quando ele finalmente olhou para seus olhos, “Pode descontar em mim… Me usa pra tirar tudo isso de você”, você sussurrava com o rosto pertinho do dele, os narizes quase se tocando, enquanto chegava os quadris para frente, fazendo ele puxar um arzinho pela boca. Apertava seus quadris e sua bunda com força ao te sentir roçar contra o membro que já doía de tão duro, tentando a todo custo resistir, se relembrando o quão errado isso é, por mais que quisesse muito. “Por favor…”, suplicava com a voz doce, o que fez ele transbordar por completo: uma mão grande parou na sua bochecha e te puxou para um beijo, molhado e desesperado.

Você gemeu dentro da boca dele ao sentir a língua quente explorando sua cavidade de uma forma selvagem, bagunçada e urgente, sentia sua intimidade cada vez mais molhada e pulsando ao redor de nada, algo que Esteban também sentiu, já que sua buceta coberta pelo pano fino da calcinha estava bem em cima da ereção que latejava. Sentiu ele apertar sua bunda com mais força e segurar sua coxa enquanto se levantava, sem nenhum aviso prévio, caminhando até o quarto com você no colo sem nem interromper o beijo ou mostrar sinais de dificuldade.

Depois de fechar a porta do cômodo, não perdeu tempo em te deitar na cama macia. Esteban te beijava de uma forma quase animalesca, resultado de tanto tempo se contendo em não atacar sua boca como fazia agora, você sentia o cantinho da boca ficando cada vez molhado e as vibrações causadas pelos grunhidos que ele soltava dentro da sua boca. O ósculo só foi interrompido para que pudessem respirar, ainda com os narizes encostados um no outro que puxavam e soltavam o ar de uma forma pesada. Não teve nem tempo de se recompor antes dele retirar seu vestido com pressa, você admirava a forma que os olhos dele passeavam pelas suas curvas, acompanhando as mãos grandes que deslizavam sobre elas e as apalpavam. Afundou a cabeça na cama quando as mãos pararam nos seus seios, o “Caralho…” que ele soltou baixinho e ofegante foi direto para sua buceta, te fazendo até erguer os quadris para tentar aliviar a necessidade que sentia ali.

Sentiu ele abocanhar um de seus peitos, chupando o máximo que coubesse dentro da boca e soltando devagarinho, parando para vê-lo babadinho antes de lamber seu biquinho com a língua relaxada, apertando a carne macia enquanto molhava cada vez mais seus mamilos sensíveis. Perdida no prazer, abriu os olhos com dificuldade, mas valeu muito a pena: via os olhinhos marrons que antes estavam fechados, se abrirem só para ver como as mãos grandes apertavam um seio contra o outro, a os lábios finos entreabertos porque estava completamente hipnotizado na visão dos dedos compridos beliscando seus biquinhos molhadinhos. Sussurrou um “Gostosa…” antes de levar a boca até eles novamente, sedento enquanto chupava o que foi negligenciado antes, logo descendo os beijos babados para o meio dos seus seios. Quando finalmente olhou para você, sorriu sacana ao ver seu rostinho, que se contorceu mais ainda quando sentiu as mãos grandes descartando sua calcinha.

Você suplicava mentalmente para ele te fuder logo, já que nessa altura do campeonato não conseguia nem formular frases coerentes mais, a única coisa que saia da sua boca eram ‘Hmm’ manhosos, torcendo para que ele entendesse o recado. E, porra, é claro que ele entendeu. Não era novidade que nenhum homem chegava aos pés de Esteban, mesmo antes dele te levar para a cama: era raro encontrar um cara tão inteligente, carinhoso e gostoso quanto ele, mas nesse exato momento, não conseguia admirar nenhuma outra qualidade dele a não ser a forma que ele te deixava com o corpo molinho, burra de tanto tesão, terminando de acabar com você quando colocou a mão grande sobre a sua boca, olhando fixamente nos seus olhos enquanto usava a outra mão livre para desfazer o botão da calça que usava, colocando para fora o membro extremamente duro.

Sentia ele pincelar a cabecinha suja de pré-gozo entre suas dobrinhas, se deliciando ao ouvir o barulhinho molhado. Lutou contra a vontade de fechar os olhos - de tanto prazer - só para ver o formato de ‘o’ que os lábios fininhos se transformaram enquanto se enfiava devagarinho em você, arrancando até um gemidinho falhado da boca do homem. Por mais que você não tivesse visto o tamanho dele, conseguia sentir que era grande, sabia que se não estivesse encharcada sentiria até dor, mas, agora, o jeito que ele te preenchia só te trazia prazer, fazendo você arquear as costas, franzindo o cenho enquanto olhava para o rosto corado do homem em cima de você e levando as unhas até as costas largas cheias de sardinhas. A mão grande permanecia sobre sua boca, mas Esteban enfiou o rosto na curva do seu pescoço, a fim de abafar os próprios gemidos. Entrava e saía de você lentamente, fazendo você sentir perfeitamente a extremidade do pau tocar sua cérvix, arrancando um gemido mais alto de você quando ele estocou com mais força e segurou suas bochechas com uma mão, te beijando novamente, as línguas não conseguiam nem se mover sincronizadamente de tanto prazer. Ele interrompeu o ósculo mas mantendo os lábios encostados.

— Nena… Você… Porra… Não sabe há quanto tempo… Eu quero isso… — Ele dizia ofegante e entre gemidos, te beijando sedento para abafar os barulhos que vocês dois faziam, nem se importando de melar sua boca e até um pouco do seu queixo de saliva, na verdade, achava extremamente excitante te ver desse jeito debaixo dele: completamente fudida, bagunçada e tão tonta de prazer quanto ele. — Se você continuar me apertando assim não vou durar muito, nena… — ele advertiu e te beijou com mais força quando você envolveu suas pernas ao redor do quadril dele. “Goza dentro de mim… Por favor…”, a frase que saiu dos seus lábios de forma suplicante arrancou um gemido grave dele, que estava prestes a transbordar todo dentro de você. Seguido disso, com os dentes cerrados e os olhos até lacrimejando, palavras embaralhadas saíram da boca dele entre gemidos roucos, algumas do tipo “Te encher de porra” ou “Te dar meus filhinhos” enquanto ele se esvaziava todo em você. Continuou metendo devagarinho depois que deixou toda gotinha de porra dentro da sua buceta, retomando o beijo lento enquanto ainda criava coragem de sair de você, se deliciando ao ouvir você choramingar e gemer baixinho, bêbada de tanto tesão.

Você não achava que tinha como melhorar, até ele começar a deixar beijos molhados pela extensão do seu pescoço, só saindo de dentro de você para descer mais ainda pelo seu corpo, lambendo e chupando seus peitos, sua barriga, sua cintura, descendo até sua virilha e dando lambidas largas e preguiçosas no seu monte de vênus, descendo devagarinho até seu pontinho inchado e sensibilizado. Antes de te chupar do jeito que queria, parou para observar como você pulsava ao redor de nada, afastando suas dobrinhas só para observar melhor seu buraquinho que liberava uma mistura de sua excitação e da porra dele, passando o indicador comprido ali e enfiando de volta para dentro, arrancando um gemido seu. “Quiero que seas mia para siempre, nena… Que seas mi mujer… La madre de mis hijas… Hm?”, interrompendo as palavras bonitas para dar beijos molhados na sua intimidade, usando e abusando da bagunça que ele tinha feito ali.

Você não conseguia responder, atordoada da sensação tão gostosa dele te chupando logo depois de te fuder como nunca tinha sido antes. Mas honestamente, nem precisava, ambos sabiam que você queria que essas palavras bonitas se concretizassem tanto quanto ele e que, depois dessa noite, isso com certeza aconteceria.

[miquella-everywhere]

2 and 3 for Miquella and Malenia :3

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

For Miquella its the fact that he is evidently a very kind individual. Where depression and tragedy are the norm in Fromsoft games Miquella is very refreshing in the fact that he is kind but also has a very heavy presence in the lore, meaning that his kindness has weight on the story and could potentially have a positive outcome on the ending (i hope at least lol)

For Malenia its her dedication and love for Miquella. Im a sucker for characters that are so wholly dedicated to someone that they will go to hell and back, regardless of morality in the process, just for that person 🥰 shes also v pretty lol

3. Least favorite canon thing about this character?

hmmmmm for Miquella its honestly the apprehension that comes with only being able to theorize about him and then my hopes and dreams potentially being dashed when the DLC comes out and proves me wrong about everything. Sometimes I feel like im hyper-fixating so hard that im only setting myself up for disappointment when the dlc drops lol 😂

I look up Miquella in the tumblr search bar and all that shows up is Malenia lol No offense to mal shes cool and all, but miq is my fav and i wish there was more content for him but mal is stealing the spotlight as Malenia Blade of Miquella akdhsjjshd

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - Ch: 5 - Deep End

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X

꧁꧂

Maybe you’re just like my mother? She’s never satisfied

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

The Hydra—newly dubbed the Thesaurus—boasts a mid-level lounge as well-appointed as anything on the SS Woe Betide.

The furnishings are tasteful: teak and polished brass, with Art Nouveau flourishes. Beneath frosted glass sconces, a bank of portholes offers a panoramic spectacle of the sea. The water is blood red; the sunset cuts sequins across the horizon. There's a bar, fully-stocked; a dining hall, austerely elegant, and a ballroom, the floor an expanse of shellacked hardwood. There is even a billiards table, tucked discreetly in the corner, and a few card tables, draped with damask.

Everything, Mel can't help but think, is to Silco's exacting standards.

After the 'demonstration' on the deck, Silco had escorted his guests—with all due solemnity—to the elevator. They'd ridden up to the main floor, then followed the maze of corridors until they'd reached the lounge. Now, the guests are being treated to what Mel has heard the Piltovan men-about-town call a Fete de Fissure—a heady mix of liquor and libertinage.

The crewmen, with impeccable hospitality, serve platters of Zaunite cuisine: braised octopus in red wine, grilled carp marinated in soy, and steamed lobsters served with a bed of brown rice cooked in garlic butter and herbs. There's even a spread of desserts: tiramisu and zabaglione, with a tower of macarons, all in the traditional neon colors that have even left their mark in Piltover's patisseries. Beverages run the gamut from Zaun's fizzy concoctions—the Blue Fairy, one of Jinx's coinages, is a notoriously potent knockout—to dark Fissure ales that taste of burnt caramel and sweetbread. The wine list, from Silco's own cellar, is a catalogue of rare vintages: the brandies are aged, the whiskies peaty, the cognacs smooth as velvet. For the discerning connoisseurs, there are also tobaccos: rolled leaves from the finest harvests, and cheroots hand-blended to match. And, for the adventurous, an assortment of narcotics: herbs, spices, and fungi that can be ingested or inhaled. Their effects are said to range from the mild euphoria of a cherry-flavored hookah puff to the hallucinations induced by a pipe of powdered mushrooms.

All, Mel notices, have been meticulously arranged by dosage, and labeled with instructions for use.

Looking closely, she spies no Shimmer. She wonders if the drug has been relegated for use only upon request. Or if, since Piltover’s embargo, Silco has truly stopped distributing his wares except as local medicinal supplies. 

She wonders what the shift will bode for Zaun. The city's economy, unlike Piltover's, has for years hinged on its export of the drug: aboveboard and under the table. Silco's two personas—the Chancellor with his acerbic wit, and the Eye of Zaun with his illicit wares—have never been separated by more than a few degrees.

Indeed, Zaun's penchant for lax rules and decadent spoils has long made it a favorite amongst the rich and restless. On the dark side of the allure are the deviants drawn to stories of midnight depravities: orgies on the waterfront, drug-fueled revels in the canals, and all the debauchery of a city that operates outside the boundaries of moral codes.

But the lighter side—the ordinary side—is the true spirit of Zaun. The people, Mel has found, are an eclectic blend: the industrious and the idle, the ambitious and the aimless. Within the warrens of stifling factory smoke and clanking chem-gears, they have created their own microcosm: a kaleidoscope of subcultures, all jostling and coexisting. The clerks who spend their weekdays in monochrome and drear as the no-nonsense backbone of Zaun's enterprise. The artists, drowsing by dawn, and livewires by nightfall: their magic woven, brushstroke by brushstroke, into the city's tapestry. The schemers, with their heads in the clouds and their feet in the dirt: all striving to make ends meet, and carve out their own slice of happiness.

The rest? Refugees escaping tyranny. Castaways flung out of the wreckage of their homes. Pilgrims in search of spiritual enlightenment.

Every stripe of humanity, under one banner.

Progress.

Mel, taking in the scene, realizes:

With the Iron Pearl, Zaun needn't rely on Shimmer to entice investment.

The city—by virtue of all its sweeter vices—is now the prize itself. 

The guests, Mel observes, are taking full advantage. The men have shed their frock coats, loosened ties, rolled up their sleeves. The women, too, are enjoying the evening's liberties: kicking off their heels, letting down their hair, and even unbuttoning the fronts of their blouses. All, succumbing to the liquor of adrenalized greed, have lost their masks of paper-thin civility.

Cevila, shiny-eyed and flushed from five glasses of brandy, is flirting with the stevedore, Kolt. Her husband, at the smoke bar, has already lost himself behind ripe clouds of smoke, and the riper curves of a giggling deckhand. Hector, chin-deep in a plateful of macarons, has transcended into a sugar-trance that verges on Zenlike. Garlen, at the card table, is nursing a tankard of ale, and squaring off against a group of swarthy-skinned sailors. His booming laugh, punctuated by Va-Nox expletives, shakes the room. Even Lady Dennings, her customary primness dissolved into a bottle of champagne, has ensconced herself by the fireplace, hair undone and feet propped on the ottoman. Her husband, of all people, has taken up the armchair opposite. He's been a stickler for formality all his life. Now, he is rubbing her feet. And, unless Mel's eyes are deceiving her, letting his hands roam higher and higher. Lady Dennings, rather than squealing in scandal, is purring like a cat in heat. When the duke leans in, and kisses her full on the mouth, she does not slap his face. Instead, she tugs him closer.

Soon, the two subside into a tangle of limbs behind the semi-privacy afforded by the curtains.

Perhaps, Mel thinks, red clover wasn't necessary.

She stands on the cantilevered terrace, a glass of limewater in hand.  A cool wind gusts, tousling her hair.  The stymied dread of the day is dissipating. In its wake, there is no relief. Only the soggy ache of nervous exhaustion. She feels the way she'd done in the aftermath of Ambessa's fencing lessons: woozy, and unable to trust her legs.  

Usually, her mind is a honed point, capable of cutting through the worst fog. Now, it is too dull to parse anything but the moment. The lines in the sand: blurred, erased, redrawn. The stakes: high as a cliff's edge. The fall: deadly real. And this: a liminal space of shifting currents, where all things are possible.

Mel fills her lungs with sea-salt.

Marriage, Ambessa always said, is not a leap of faith.

It is fine print, and hidden clauses, and a knife under the pillow.

Inside, the guests are drinking and dicing and dancing. The air is becoming fogged with tobacco, and the sharp tang of alcohol, and the heavier scent of bodies, heated, mingling, melting. All her guests—her chess pieces—plucked off the neat orderliness of her board and flung to the mercy of fate.

No—not fate.

Silco.

Headache throbs behind Mel's eyes. She wants either a good hard soul-cleansing scream or a stiff strong drink.

Sadly, both are off the table.

A shadow falls over her.

"You look tired."

Mel shivers involuntarily; her husband’s stealth never fails to unnerve her. His presence is a cold current, cutting through the haze. From her peripheral vision—a six-degree slice of awareness—she catches the silhouette: tall and spare, his movements liquid in the lamplight. A waft of his scent, citric with spice, blows across her.

Mel's respiration doesn't pick up. But her heartbeat does. Her voice comes steadier than she feels: "It's been a long day."

"And a trying week, I imagine."

"You needn't imagine." She takes a perfunctory sip. The limewater bites the back of her throat. "That was your intention, was it not? To put me through the wringer?"

"Only so far as it was necessary."

"Necessary?" A laugh, acrid, escapes her. "What is necessary is a matter of perspective. As is 'enough.'"

"Yet here you are."

His words are a dare: Look at me.

Mel doesn't turn. The wind in her hair is an insinuating touch. Silco's hand, she thinks, would be just as gentle. Just as possessive. She covers the thought with another sip. It goes down smoother.  She'll give him nothing to see, or to make use of, in his weblike calculations.

Not while the balance is still teetering.

"Here I am." Mel sets the glass down. "Waiting to be paid."

"For?"

"The performance in the gallery. For the guests."

"You're my wife, Mel. You need not be paid for such things."

"On the contrary. I am a Medarda. We demand our dues."

He doesn't speak, or sit. But nor is she rid of him. His presence is a tangible force. She feels it the way animals sense the sweltering build-up of a typhoon. Every sense attuned: the hairs on her nape bristling, the blood in her veins quickening, her muscles working beneath the skin. He is the deep end, and she must resist the temptation to be swallowed.

The temptation—if not the desire.

"I will not deny you your due." His voice drifts: slow, soft, so very near. "Ask me, and it is yours."

"I've asked already."

"Oh? Was there a clause I overlooked?"

"It was marriage."

The ice clinks emptily in her glass. She's drained the limewater. It hasn't helped.

"Mel." He is closer now. His warmth radiates in time to a rising heartbeat that threatens to tug Mel's attention away from truth. Her body, traitorous, yearns toward the source. "If it is gold you want, I will give you all of it. If it is jewels, I will mine them myself. If it is a palace, or a ship, or a throne—all you need do is say."

"It is not a question of material possessions. Nor is it a matter of my asking." For once, she is grateful for her Medarda bloodline. The dark riveted smoothness of her features gives nothing away. "I own enough treasures to bankrupt your coffers. As for a throne, I've already claimed mine. A city shining on the seas. None of that is what I want from you."

"What, then? A groveling apology? Me, on my knees?"

Mel's eyes fall shut. The anger fizzes into fuel. She clings to its small nourishment. All her will is bent toward remaining rooted where she is. To not surrendering.

"You're not sorry," she says bitterly.

"I am not."

"I don’t mean about the Idol. I meant: you’re not sorry about us. About this."

"If you think me indifferent—"

"I think you're a man who knows exactly what he wants." Her nails, ten manicured half-moons, bite into her palms. She imagines, with a dark pleasure, his flesh shredded. "I think you'd have burned every bridge and sold your own soul to make the Iron Pearl a reality."

"All true."

"What you did not take into account was me."

"Mel—"

"You said it yourself. I'm the variable you cannot predict. You can't intimidate me like your subordinates. Nor gull me with profit, like our guests. I'm not Sevika, so you can't rely on me to take the fall. And I'm not Jinx, so you can't trust me to know the entire truth." Her throat seizes. "I'm only the leverage you needed for your city. And so, I'm the one whose hand you'll hold. Even if there's a knife hidden in the other."

"That is not how I see you."

"Tell me, then."

"Look at me."

"No."

"Mel."

"No." The sunset, a huge red disc, burns without heat. Bright pinpricks burst behind her lids. "Why should I look at you, when I know what I'll see? The same expression, when you told me Zaun would've been stronger if you'd chosen someone else. That your life, and your ambition, and your purpose would've been simpler."

"I do not regret the decision."

"Because it was the one that served you."

"Because you're what I want."

This jabs the raw space between Mel's ribs.

"You'll never know," he goes on, "what it to grow up with nothing. I don't mean the nothing of a loveless childhood, or an empty home. I mean the nothing of a soul's bottomlessness. Of having so little, the only way to survive is to sink your teeth into whatever scraps you can.  And there is no way out—no way out—save clawing yourself up to the light. Even if the price is sellin' a piece of yourself with each rung." The grit of the Lanes roughens his accent. "Until there's nothing left. Until all that keeps you going is the promise of a world where your children—and their children—will never have to lose what you've lost. That is why I do what I do, Mel. I don't give a shit about the rest."

The sea stretches out before Mel. The horizon is the thin red streak of a slit throat. Behind her, Silco's breathing is the same.

The cadence of a man readying to spill every drop.

"You, Mel..." It is a whisper. "You are not the rest. Sometimes, I look at you, and I think you are the end. Mine, or my life's, I cannot say. "

The tears sting. Mel does not let them fall. She holds them, and him, at bay.

"You hate it," she says. "That I can do this to you. Make you want what you'd been denied a lifetime—and not have to fight to take it."

"I hate," he says, "that I cannot trust myself around you."

Mel feels him edge closer. A wall of heat. His sigh stirs the fine hairs by her temple.

"I hate," he goes on, "that each time I've drawn a bead on you, I've missed the mark by a mile. I hate that, every time, I find a new side of you. A side I had not known, because I hadn't considered to look. I hate that each time I learn something new, it is not a pit that keeps on opening—it is the sun, and I have no choice but to let it blind me." His voice drops hoarsely. "You are a Medarda. I expected fire, and the cunning to use it. I found steel. I expected ambition, and the ruthlessness to wield it. I found empathy. I expected a woman high on her own worth, and not above rubbing my face in it. I found a woman who cares enough to sacrifice her worth for everything."

Mel's hands tremble on the balustrade. A mist of dampness chills her cheeks.

Sea-water, or tears?

"You're saying," she says, "you found the perfect pawn."

"Not a pawn. A dreamer. One who is not afraid to wager all, on the belief that there is something better." His proximity seeps in: a slow bleed. "You expected something from a man who had nothing to offer. My city's assets; a fraction of yours. My good name; the promise of yours. You chose a gamble, knowing it was a losing bet. And you played it, anyway."

"So: a pawn."

"So: a queen. Who knows how to change everything, with a single move."  Two fingertips alight on the small of her back. "You planned this voyage, with the best intentions, and the finest strategy. You played your games and wove your wiles to give my city a chance. And when it all went to hell—you chose to stay. On the ship, you took my side over the guests. In the gallery, you backed my play. In the face of raging seas, you were the bridge." His shadow, cast against the sunset, engulfs hers. "Could be the harbor… if you trust me."

"I cannot trust you," Mel whispers, "when you refuse the same."

"There are things I cannot share, Mel. Not yet. Plans that, if mislaid, could undo everything."

"Excuses."

"Truth." The two fingertips encompass into a palm, warm and heavy. "Give it time."

"How much time?"

"Enough." His touch trails up, leaving a circuit of sparks. "Too late, and it goes up in smoke. Too soon, and I cannot bear the cost."  Softly, "Not to you, Mel."

The sunset drips into the sea: livid crimson. Mel's grip tightens on the rail. 

The tears are not gathering. Only the rage. A single gesture is not salve. A sweet confession, no substitute for the truth. And Mel—she knows, even now, that he is hiding something. The thought is a wound, bleeding anew. All her anger, and hurt, and shame: it funnels into the shape of him. She imagines strangling him with her bare hands. Imagines the pulse beating beneath her fingertips. Imagines the warmth and the solidity of his body.

She'll tear him apart—or stitch herself back whole. She'll kill him, or kiss him. She'll have him, or have done.

But the choice, whatever else, will be hers.

Then her imaginings aren't imaginary. He is there. His arms, encompassing her, are an unyielding circle. The heat of him is everywhere. The scent of him, too: bergamot, spice, smoke.

His lips touch the nape of her neck. Right where her vertebrae are the most vulnerable

And Mel, though she'd deny it, is shivering.

"I will give you," he says, "what I can. Not everything. Not yet. But soon."

"Even if, in the end, it comes to nothing?"

The tip of his nose ghosts up her spine, until his mouth is at her ear. "It won't."

"How can you know?"

"Because I will do whatever is necessary to make it possible." His breath tickles the whorl of her ear. "Because I have not fought this hard, and this long, to lose you."

"Your prized chess-piece."

"My wife."

Mel's shiver intensifies. The way his tongue curls around the word is pure possession. But the span of arms is no cage. It is a shelter: solid, steady, sure. His palms meet hers on the railing. Their fingers interlace. The warmth is a tide lapping her skin.

Fusing, like gold, into the cracks.

And Mel is not immune to gold—though she wishes she were. She is tired, hurting, and tired from trying to hide the hurt. Trying, on one plane or another, to prove herself. To the world; to her peers; to her mother. 

To the man who strips her to the barest nerve and lays her raw.

"I will not regret deceiving you to enrich my city," he whispers. "Nor will I regret the things I did to bring us to this moment. But I do regret the distress you've borne. I regret the doubts held, and fears endured. I regret they were so many, they turned your honeymoon into a sickbed." He kisses the tip of her ear. "If I had known how fragile you were—I would have done better by you."

"I'm not—"

The word nearly breaks past her lips. The tears, too. But her pride will not allow her.

Not after a lifetime of Ambessa Medarda's tutelage: a Medarda's worth is a sum of her strength.

"I'm not fragile," she repeats, though her pitch quavers. "I've never been fragile. Never been—"

"Anything other than yourself. I know." His voice is the softest it has been so far. "I mean no insult. You Medardas love to style yourselves as gods. But gods don't bleed. They don't rage. They don't starve, or steal, or scheme. They are like the gold your family loves to hoard: untouchable."  He moves her hands with his, their fingers twined, and knits them over her belly. Practically molding them to her womb. "I've no use for gods, Mel. But I've a great deal of use for you."

"How comforting."

"You didn't choose me for comfort. And I didn't choose you for complacence. We chose, because we each push the other to dare. To reach beyond ourselves." His lips drop a kiss on the pulse beating under her jaw. It is so ghostly it might not be there at all. And yet, Mel can feel her spine arch. "Your ambition is a reflection of my own. And the rest of you: a mirror of all I lack. So, no. I am not sorry.  Not for choosing you, nor for what's happened." Softly, "Not when it's led to us."

The sunset, a dying red eye, blinks out.

Suddenly, everything is melting. Mel is not sure if the salt in her mouth is limewater or tears. With all her strength, she swallows them down. A single slip, and she is lost. Her poise will splinter, and she will collapse into his arms. She longs and loathes for it in equal measure; dreading what will be there for him to see, and for her to feel.

The tears, though, are not the worst.

"Petal," he says—and she is turning.

In the fading light, Silco's features, rather than washing pale, take on an olive-toned burnish. Had he been smiling, she would have split his skull open with her fist. Had his eyes radiated that uncanny gleam of hazard, she'd have fought the hypnosis with all her might.

Instead, he looks the way he had, in the wake of their first time together: somber, soft-eyed, a little unsure. His eyes, in the twilight, are the color, not of ice and fire, but mulled wine, and a heart's bluest longing. It was that look that, in a glimpse, had fascinated her so. The look that had, even then, seemed too human to belong to a monster.  

The tears—a treacherous sheen—delineate him in gold.

"Don't," she rasps. "Don't say another word."

"Mel—"

"Please." Her fingers lift to his mouth. They are trembling. But so, she realizes, are his lips. "Not tonight. Not while they're here." She pushes, with what's left of her will, to keep the space between them. It's a danger zone. All the more so because he isn't pushing back. "When we're on the island. In the villa. I'll have it all from you. Everything you've promised. You'll lay it all at my feet and let me sift through it. But not now. Not here." She draws a breath. "Not while I'm still..."

"Still what?"

"Wishing you'd said something else." She lets her fingers fall away. "The right thing. At the right time."

"Petal—"

"Don't." Her eyes spear him through damp lashes. "Just kiss me. Kiss me, and tell me it will be better. Tell me the sun will rise tomorrow. That I will make it so."

"You will."

"Make me believe it."

"You already do." His lips find her forehead. Then her eyelids, closed and beaded in salt. The touch is so fleeting it might not have been there at all, except his fingertips are deliberately tracing their way down her nape, tipping her head up to touch his mouth to hers. "Believe that, too."

The kiss fills her with the taste of him: smoke and spice and seasalt. It seeks all the secrets inside her. All the deepest places he's been. All the places she can no longer hide alone. Kissing him is not like kissing Jayce: alluring dips into a warm, sweetly willing mouth and a smooth, firm, unflawed body. Kissing Silco is like taking a running dive into black waters: all risk, and pure thrill.

And yet, slipping beneath the surface, there is no pain. Only the throbbing depth of need.

Mel’s spine unspools under his palm. In a slow unfurling, her body melts against his, and his arms come around her, and the night closes in.

The kiss breaks for air; her cheeks are wetly streaked. But it's all right, because his face, too, is wet with them. In the ebbing glow, she can dare to think of it as rain: the storm's first gift. Dare to think he's not so remote: that, despite the distance of so much swallowed between them, she can still reach him.

That he can keep her afloat.

"Again," she breathes. "Kiss me again."

He does, palm seizing the back of her neck and pulling her in. Their mouths open wider, and she feels the slick heat of his tongue and the serrated row of his teeth, and the rough reams of the scar-tissue on his cheek. With other men, she could close her eyes and imagine them as anyone. They were blank canvases, waiting for her to fill them with her own flights of fancy.

Silco is no fancy.

He's a knife in the dark: each detail etched with excruciating precision. There is no erasing the topography of his scars. His hands: scored with the calluses of rough labor. His skin: scoured with past misdeeds. His heart: a black-powder keg, ready to ignite. The darkness that lives within him: surging, smoldering, seething.

And his tenderness of is tenfold more terrifying.

"You'll be the sun tomorrow," he breathes. "You always are."

"Silco..."

"It's true." His mouth is a scald; love-biting down the curve of her throat. "Even now, when it's night, and I can't see the sky. Even then, I know you're still there."

Mel shivers. She can't stop her body from flowing into the embrace. Can't stop the small moan rising in her throat, or the palm lifting to thread its fingers into his hair. Can't stop her other hand, the one that had been so sure on the railing, from sleeking down the front of his waistcoat to hook shakily into the waistband of his trousers. 

She can't stop anything. Her body has already chosen.

And the rest of her: doomed to follow suit.

"Come with me," he rasps. "I've a room belowdeck."

"The guests—"

"Too busy getting high. Or getting themselves off." 

"But—"

"There is a bed, petal. It has fresh sheets. Goosedown pillows. A silk duvet." His thumb smooths her brow, sweeping a wayward curl from her face. "Unless you'd rather have them bear witness."

Mel's face heats. She'd forgotten her guests are only a glass away. All their carousing, and curses, and calls. Through the parallelogram of light spilling from the doorway, she glimpses hazy silhouettes. Someone has put an old Jazz record on the phonograph.  Cevila is doing an exuberant reel with Kolt. Hector is slumped, chin-deep, in an empty dish of macarons. Garlen has hauled a pretty girl—one of the deckhands—onto his lap. His mouth, smeared in the rouge from her lipstick, is open with laughter at something she's whispering in his ear. The Dennings, behind their curtains, are still tangled in a love-knot. But the chaise is rocking in an unmistakable percussive rhythm.

Mel's burn deepens. "I'm not having my guests walk in on us."

"And I've no interest in giving them a show." His smile cuts wickedly against her skin. "Unless I charge per head."

Mel's tongue touches her top lip. She can still taste him, and the promise of more. Her body, fuddled by desire, is throbbing with a dull insistence. Her headache is far-off. The fatigue, too, has melted into one long exhalation of release that is its own build-up of tension.

He is so close their foreheads touch. Her eyelashes, damp, catch on his skin as she shakes her head.

"No."

"No?"

"Not here." Her eyes lift to his. "And not on the ship."

"Then where?"

"In the villa. In the master suite. I want a proper honeymoon. Everything I planned for, before you derailed my life." Her voice trembles; her fingers tighten on his waistband, tugging him closer. "I want you to carry me over the threshold. I want to wake up in the morning and find you next to me. I want a breakfast tray in bed, and a day spent lazing on the beach. I want the sun in my hair, and sand between my toes, and you in the water, showing me that backstroke you're always bragging about. And in the evening, I want a candlelit supper. A long walk on the shore, as the stars come out. And after—" Her voice husks. "After, I want every last inch of you. With the door shut and the world outside. I want to know what 'us' means to you, and why I'm the one you chose. I want it all. Everything."

His face is still. Only his eyes—their pupils blown wide, one haloed in pure green, the other ringed by a rim of fire—give him away.

"A fortnight," he says.

"Yes."

"In the villa."

"Yes."

"With the door shut."

"Yes."

"Romance, and the sea, and the stars."

"Yes."

His fingers are threading her curls. The rhythm of his breath is a steady metronome. But his heartbeat, she can feel, is climbing. "And me, every inch."

"Yes."

"Every. Inch."

"Yes, damn you." 

The hand, at the back of her neck, begins to knead: slow, languorous, and so very warm.  Mel’s resolve threatens to liquify. But there is a stubbornness to her that won't yield. The golden core that had kept her from falling at Jayce's feet, or letting Ambessa dictate the course of her life, or letting her bloodline shape the path of her city.

The stubbornness that, no matter how hard the world kicked her down, has always kept her standing.

"Yes," she repeats, tipping her chin, "to all of it. All the things we'd have, if not for all this." She gestures: the chaos within, and the chaos without. "Two weeks, and I'll have everything from you. I'll know your measure, as a husband. You will give me every iota of your attention, and more. And you will give it all willingly."

The corner of his scarred lip holds the barest upturn. "You drive a hard bargain."

"I am a Medarda."

"You are, indeed."  The kneading of his long fingers has become a long tender caress, from the juncture of her skull down the wings of shoulderblades to the dip of her spine, then up again. The touch is so lulling that Mel sways to its rhythm. "But, Mel?"

"Mmm?"

"You could, at least, let me escort you belowdeck, and out of that dreadful damp tulle. I'll be the soul of propriety. And if, along the way, I manage to coax the rest of those knots from your shoulders, you'll be a better woman for it. And I, a happier man."

A delicious ripple runs from the tips of her fingers to her toes. His timbre holds that distinctive gravel—smoke-charred and slow-rolling—that is a matchstrike to her senses. It is, she suspects, the tone he'd use to tempt the devil himself into sin.

But a Medarda is a harder sell.

"A generous offer." She steps back. "But no."

"No?"

"You'll have to plead your case with more ingenuity."

In the dark, his smile is a white knife-flick. "It was worth a try."

"Was I?"

With a languid, nearly wistful slowness, he tugs her in. Her chin is tipped up; his mouth descends. The kiss is nearly obscene in its thoroughness. His tongue: chasing into her mouth. His teeth, claiming her bottom lip. His hands: roaming her body. Mel's sigh, trapped between their mouths, is mortifyingly eloquent.

By the time the kiss breaks, she is panting. So is he. The wind has turned. Salt-spray gusts across the terrace. The twilight is ripe with a brewing storm. In the gloaming, Silco's silhouette is of a piece with the sea: dark, long, and unyielding. His lips, glistening, are stained with her lipstick and the last vestiges of her control.

"Oh, treasure," he breathes. "Get inside—before I give ‘em a show they’ll never forget."

 And Mel, adept at reading between the lines, knows this round hers.

"You’d have," she says, letting her smile spread, "to beg."

"I don't beg."

Rising on tiptoes to approximate his height, Mel balances herself with one palm on his shoulder. With the other, she cups the back of his neck, and guides his head down to her level. Lips touching his, she breathes, "Not yet."

A growl vibrates his chest. The challenge has hit its mark.

Nuzzling his lips with hers, Mel pulls away. She does so, with a tantalizing slowness, keeping the contact between their bodies until his breathing has roughened and his hands flex at his sides. The last bit, her breasts sliding past his ribs, is the cruelest. But she'll be crueler still: backing away, one step, then two, until only her eyes remain, a glitter of amber-green promise.

Then she glides off.

"Come," she calls over her shoulder, "before the rain does."

Silco’s eyes, burning, follow her. Then the rest of him: soundless as the tide.

Always, inexorably, giving chase.

By nightfall, the storm is blowing in: a great billowing mass. Lightning flashes. Thunder booms. Wind rattles the windows.

Inside, the revelers are restless.

The smoky air, in colors of lucine jade and blood opal, is heady with leftover tobacco, spilled spirits, and sweat.  They've been treated to the full spectrum of Zaunite hospitality: a superabundance of dissipated delights. Now they are eager to bypass the evening's foreplay for a future of full-bodied indulgence.

All within their reach, if they choose to invest in the Iron Pearl.

Cevila, her face pinked from heat and drink, is already discussing a potential trade bargain with her husband. Hector, his mouth ringed with sugary crumbs, is attempting the buttonhole Kolt for a partnership deal.  Even the Dennings, their lovemaking session sated and a glow to their skins, are huddled together, speaking in low voices that are more conspiratorial than amorous. 

Apart from the six, Mel can hear the others: muttering, speculating, planning. There is an atmosphere not unlike that of a wedding reception: everyone tipsy on scandal, the newlyweds' bed made, and the night yet to be.

Mel wonders if she ought to feel guilty.

They are, none of them, innocents. Each one has had a hand in enriching themselves at Zaun's expense. Now, they are being offered a chance at redemption—to reverse old wrongs and build a new future. Except it's not themselves they are redeeming. Their motives remain the same: craven to the core, with deep pockets and open palms ready to seize whatever is in reach.

And the Zaunites who will benefit from their investments? Their future, and their well-being, is only a fringe benefit.

Goodness, as Ambessa's favorite adage was, is not the lifeblood that fuels the world.

It is greed.

Mel wonders what Ambessa will make of Silco's gamble. She wonders, too, what measures Silco had taken to ensure a winning hand. A gambit as dangerous as this necessitates an ace or two up the sleeve. Only time—or disaster—will tell what shape it takes.

Mel cannot let her thoughts be consumed with the question. That way, she knows, lies madness. Still, she cannot help but wish that her honeymoon could've been simpler.

Simple is not Silco's métier.

Sitting by the alcove, he surveys the guests. His profile is carved against the backdrop of the storm: jagged forks of lightning, and incandescent thunderheads. His expression, as usual, is impassable. Then a deckhand flags him. They confer in low tones.

Mel cannot see the man's face. But she recognizes the posture. The rigid line of his spine, the arms crossed behind his back, the square, wide-legged stance.

A soldier, at ease. And Silco, his general.

Just like Ambessa.

It is a stark reminder that the man right now is not simply her husband. He is the Eye of Zaun, and his ambitions are his own. He has not promised to share them, or his methods, or the plans he has laid in their name. Nor is it any use to ask.

She will not get an answer. Not until she's earned it.

 A heavy hand lands on her shoulder. "Well?"

Mel is jarred from her reverie. "Yes?"

Garlen is a hulking mass. His expression is difficult to read in the low light. But the reek of liquor, mingling with stale cologne and a hint of something else—a woman's scent, musky, and the faint, sharp tang of sex—is off-putting. He must have gotten lucky with the pretty deckhand from earlier.

"Well," he repeats, "When do we talk business, your husband and me? Real business." 

"At the villa, Sir Garlen, there will be time to talk at length."

"And how're we getting there? The storm's set in." He grins, teeth delineated in brown from tobacco. "Don't want the Eye's guests, especially the bride, getting soaked, eh?"

 The innuendo, all slurred vowels, is not lost on Mel. She keeps her smile fixed

"My husband has planned ahead. Indeed, he's anticipated our every need."

"Yeah? How about his, then? You take care of those yet?"

His grin has gone oily.  He must, Mel realizes, have glimpsed her and Silco together on the terrace.

Inwardly, she curses. The lax environs of the Thesaurus, formalities lost in a tide of adrenaline, have caught her off-guard. The shock of Silco's confession took care of the rest. Everything—even her own guests—had been pushed to the edges of her mind.  It's an error she'd never have allowed in a different context.

An exposure—reckless, costly—she'd never have let slide.

Her allure is the most effective weapon in her repertoire. And allure, by virtue of its nature, is remote. To allow herself to be glimpsed as a woman, in all her vulnerability, is to invite unwanted overtures. One the opportunists will leap upon, no matter how high her station or her guard.

A drop of blood, Ambessa always warned, is all they need.

Garlen, in his cups, has sniffed more than a drop. Now he is salivating for his share.

Coolly, she says, "Sir Garlen, you are being far too familiar."

"Oh, am I?" His thick fingers knead into her shoulder. "A moment ago, you were all smiles."

"A moment ago, we were discussing business."

"What's the difference?" He leans closer. "Tell me. Did General Medarda wed you off to that weasel for the Pearl? Because that would explain a few things."

No innuendo this time. Only implication thick as the fumes on his breath.

The implication being: Whore.

"General Medarda," Mel says, sweetly, "would have you flayed for less."

"I'd like to see her try."

"I think you'd find the experience quite unpleasant." 

"So, what: you're gonna be the one to do the honors?" His greasy stare slithers down her body. "Maybe show me a good time, while you're at it."

Across the room, Cevila's laugh, high and merry, cuts through the din. Kolt, a little drunk, is spinning her around the dance floor, the two of them tripping on their feet. Hector, slumped in the corner booth, is fast asleep. The Dennings are still whispering, heads bowed together.

The other guests, too, are turned away. All lost in their own little worlds.

Except Silco.

Mel can feel his gaze. Dark. Heavy. Implacable. A heatwave prickles her nape. Except it is not her he is looking at. It is the man: the hulking Noxian, the thick fingers, the oily grin. Jayce, Mel thinks, would have pounded Garlen into the deck by now. A matter of decency; diplomacy be damned. A lady's honor, he would say, must be defended.

Zaunites don't share the same code.

Their version of honor, Mel knows, is to deal with the offense yourself.

"Sir Garlen," she says, with a voice of cultured silk. "If you wish to keep those fingers, you'll remove them."

"Or what?" The grip clamps down. "You'll tell the Eye on me?"

"Oh, I'll do better than that."

"Yeah?"

"I'll cut them off myself."

Garlen's leer freezes. "What the fuck did you say?"

"You heard me, Sir Garlen. Your fingers. The ones on my shoulder." Mel's eyes lock. The smile melts. Her tone, though level, is sharpened to steel. "I'll still leave you enough to write your name with. Or to sign whatever contract I require. But not much else. We won't need the rest."

Garlen's nostrils flare. The fingers squeeze hard enough to bruise. "Bitch—"

"Do not speak. Or that tongue will be next." Mel lifts a hand, peeling off his fingers one by one. "I'll tell you this, so listen well. You've been very stupid today, Sir Garlen. Drunk on a bit of luck, and forgetful of your manners. So, let me remind you: you are here at my discretion. Not the Eye's. And once my discretion is breached, even the best investment make will not buy back the respect you've forfeited. My mother has her way of dealing with insults. I have mine. If you'd like to avoid either, you will stop now, and remember your place."

Garlen's mouth is working. "You—"

"And," Mel cuts him off, "I will give you one last warning. If you lay another finger on me, or even look at me, in any manner I don't approve of, you will be leaving here minus your legs. Do you understand?"

Garlen's expression is a study in incredulity. He'd expected an easy mark. A soft touch, pliant and pretty. He'd gotten a Medarda. And the fact he didn't expect a Medarda means he knows nothing. Not about Mel, nor her family, nor her city.

"If you’ll excuse me," Mel purrs, letting his fingers fall. "I'd like a word with my husband."

Garlen, his face mottled red, withdraws. Mel glides forward.

Across the room, Silco's stare stays on her. No sign of a smile. But the good eye crinkles at the corner.  Mel can sense his satisfaction. He'd never intervene into her turf unless she needed him to. But nor will he deny himself the pleasure of witnessing her at her fiercest.

At her approach, he tips his chin. "All right?"

"Never better." Mel, serenely, takes her place at his side. "But I am curious."

"About?"

"Our return." She inclines her chin toward the window: the rain, lashing with mad fury against the glass. "Sir Garlen, and no doubt the rest, are eager to reach the villa. Begin ironing out the details."

"As are you."

She levels her most innocent gaze. "And if I were?"

"I'd counsel you to hold your horses."

"Does a hard wet ride leave them so afrit?"

Now he is very pleased. She can tell by the curl of his lip. "I can't answer for your guests. But mine aren't the ones who should be scared."

"Then whose?"

"Whomst."

"That's not a proper word."

"Jinx uses it all the time."

"I rest my case."

"We left rest behind hours ago." The scudding clouds throw his features into harsh relief. His jaw, shadowed with the first hint of stubble, is the hue of tarnished silver. It is the only sign of the day's passage: the rest of him is impeccable, as though he'd spent the afternoon idling in an armchair, rather than wrestling with wind and waves and her. "Though, if we're playing the grammar game, it's 'frit', not 'afrit.'"

"You're avoiding the question."

"Not avoiding. Anticipating." The curl deepens. "The rain will not be the problem. Not with our mode of transport."

"Which is?"

"The Idol."

Mel's humor slips. "What do you mean?"

"When you arrived, you asked me to show you the way out. I did. It's down in the gallery. The hourglass."

Mel's understanding gives way to dread. "Silco, tell me you're not considering—"

"I am."

"No."

"It's the best solution. The seas are too rough for sailing. Especially when carrying full-bellied cargo. And the Woe Betide was instructed to haul anchor by late afternoon. By now, she's already sailed. My informants have received word that she's docked at the Wuju port. The Captain is quite perplexed as to where we've vanished. I'd rather not keep him in distress much longer. Else he'll summon the coast guard."

A thundercloud gathers on Mel's brow. "Why not send word that we'll sail to Wuju by tomorrow?"

"Too risky. The storm's forecasted to persist well into next evening. And it wouldn't do for a wider net of strangers to know the Thesaurus' whereabouts.  If our radio signals are intercepted, the wrong people could learn of its location before the time is right." His thumb touches her temple, smoothing the thundercloud away. "You'll have your honeymoon. It's just a change of plans, that's all."

"Change of plans."

"Yes."

"Namely a relic from the Void."

He smiles now, without pretense. "It's a portal. No different from the Hex-Gates."

"That's different."

"Different, how?"

She glances furtively over her shoulder. Her guests are oblivious. "Hex-Gates operate on the same plane. The physical world as we perceive it. The Void—"

"—is a realm beyond ours. I know. But, so is the sea, or the sky. We'll take a quick plunge, and come out on the other side. There's a glyph near the islet, and my network have established a dry dock close to the island. The storm won't follow us through. We'll take a rowboat ashore. Be safe dry and at the villa before the night's done. In time, I daresay, for a late supper."

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just the practicalities. Stay close, and don't succumb."

"You make it sound as if we're sailing past sirens on the rocks."

"That's a fair comparison."

"Silco—"

He lays one cool finger on her lips.

"I promise no risk." His mismatched eyes are sea and storm. "Not to you."

His hand has dropped. Hers has lifted, reaching for his face. Mel catches herself, lacing her fingers, with forcible self-possession, against her belly. She will not let him see her unease. She is a Medarda, and Medardas thrive in risk. She'd backed Jayce's reckless play to the bitter end. Had sampled, without apology, the splendors that came of its success. She will, and can, do the same again.

Except now, it's not simply her skin on the line.

"All—all right," she says, at length.

"Yes?"

"Yes. Though I warn you: the Dennings are in the throes of afterglow, and won't care. But the others..." She lets her gaze linger on each. "I'll have to work them. Make sure they're not too afraid to step inside."

"Do you think you can manage?"

Mel squares her shoulders. The storm is gathering, and so is her resolve.

"Have you forgotten whom you are married to?"

His smile waxes full. Taking her hand, he drops a kiss onto her knuckles, right on the cold stone of her wedding ring. It warms beneath his lips. "If it isn't too much trouble,” he murmurs, “could you persuade them to leave the liquor behind? A bit of sobriety will serve us better in the Void. It's an odd place. I'd rather they be sharp-eyed for the journey."

"There's nothing sharp about them," Mel sighs. "Sir Garlen, for one, is too far gone."

"Coffee, then. Enough to perk up the dead."

A grim smile flits across her lips. "Consider it done."

"Good." He closes the space between them, "And I'll deal with Garlen."

"What?"

Silco is already detaching. "Concentrate on the others. When you're ready, we'll depart."

"Silco—"

His two-toned eyes glitter. "You did warn him. Now I'll give him my own reminder."

The air, at once, is electric. It has nothing to do with the storm. It is only them: the space between their bodies and the rapprochement of sovereign spheres. Garlen may be Mel's guest. But this is Silco's turf. And he will not stand by the sidelines while she is impugned within its walls. 

"Silco," Mel tries again. "You don't have to—"

Except he is gone: a dark shape, slipping from shadow to shadow. In a trice, he's reached Garlen, and laid a hand on his shoulder. Mel does not catch the words exchanged. But in a moment, Silco has begun steering Garlen toward the exit.

A handful of crewmen, summoned out of nowhere, converge in his wake.

The storm vastness seems to fill the lounge—the atmosphere crackling—to follow their passage. The remaining guests remain talking amongst themselves. No one has noticed the interlude. They are too preoccupied with their own interests.

The door swings shut.

Mel, stranded in the lounge, is left to work her wiles.

While her husband, belowdeck, settles the accounts.

It is touch-and-go.

The Dennings are easy. Having had their fill of wine and food, they are eager only for a locked bedroom and the privacy to enjoy it. Hector, roused from stupor, is no more difficult: a passing mention of the local sweetmeats he'll get to sample once they've arrived at the villa is enough to pique his interest. Cevila, a tougher nut, balks at the thought of stepping into the Void, until Mel manages to coax her and her husband, in the spirit of adventure, to reconsider.

The crewmen begin, with utmost politeness, corralling the guests. Life-vests are fitted back on; coats are slung over shoulders. It's a far cry from the way they'd been manhandled, en masse, from the SS We Betide, and deposited into the Thesaurus.

But then, they weren't high-profile investors. Only cargo.

Now, they're assets.

The guests are ushered back belowdecks. Mel follows, making sure everyone is accounted for. The gallery, after the bluster of the storm, is eerily tranquil. A preternatural chill dwells in the subaquatic space. The Idol is a pulsar, beating its rhythm in time with the sea.

A shiver runs down Mel's spine. Her dress, the tulle long since soaked through, clings to her limbs. She ought to have taken up Silco's offer and changed into something dry. But the moment's gone. Now, the only thing to do is press forward.

Into the dark, where the Eye awaits.

The hourglass, ultramarine, glows behind Silco. His silhouette bisects the radiance; staring straight at it, Mel has the impression of taking in a signpost at the fabric of reality. She is reminded of the moment she'd first met him, in the brightness of the arterial-red sunlight. A monster from a nightmare, and a nightmare all his own. The nightmare who'd been revealed, in the end, to have a man's face, and a man's voice, and a man's dreams.

 Mel, gathering her courage, approaches.

"Where," she whispers, "is Garlen?"

"He'll be along,” Silco says. “All ready, then?"

Hesitating, Mel nods.

Behind her, the guests are a shuffling mass. In the engulfing gloom, their voices have died; they are huddled together, nearly as wary as when they'd first set foot in the gallery. Some are shivering, and not from the cold. Others are glancing anxiously around, as though expecting the Void to manifest and swallow them whole. Only a few—Cevila, the Dennings, and, surprisingly, Hector—keep their gazes fixed on the glowing hourglass, braced despite the dread.

Mel struggles to find her own sealegs. "We're ready."

"Then let's not waste time." His eyes pass from Mel to the guests. The softness of his voice holds a subaudible pitch that seeps directly into every cell, and leaves no room for disobedience. "You'll find the trip quite painless.  To minimize mishaps, Kolt will be accompanying us. The after-effects, while harmless, can be quite unsettling. And, for such precious cargo," the barest sidelong glance at Mel, "I'd rather not take chances."

The guests stir. The murmur of a dozen mouths disturbs the airwaves.

"I ask that you keep your life-vests on. It will make the plunge smoother. And, when we reach the other side, refrain from making any sudden moves. Like a flashbulb going off, after-images will linger. Pay them no heed. They will fade. Reality—our reality—will set in."

A fresh wave of mutters, tinged by disquiet.

"What," Hector dares, with a faux-jovial smile, "if reality fails to make an appearance?"

"It will."  Silco's mouth crooks. "If you would do me the honor of following my lead, I assure you the crossing-over will be without incident."

"How," Lady Dennings asks, "does one cross over?"

"Like this."

Silco, with a slow-motion fluidity, approaches the hourglass. The bottom chamber's gates are open: the sand, hovering a half-inch above the base, is suspended in a state of infinite fall. Each tiny grain seems lit from within: an iridescent crystal. Unknotting his cravat, Silco holds up the white strip of cloth lengthwise between his hands. A magician demonstrating a prop before the trick.

"Watch," he murmurs, and drops the cloth.

It flutters, a pale pennant, into the chamber.  As the fabric descends, the grains swirl, coalescing into a whirlpool that engulfs the silk. At the dais, the Idol glows, pulsing at a steady rhythm. Ultraviolet, then magenta, then red. The colors bleed together, until all Mel can see is an inchoate rainbow that seeps into every sense.

The air comes alive with a strange sonorous hum. It spikes into a crescendo that drowns out every sound.

A blink later, the cravat vanishes.

Silco, in the expanding silence, tips his chin.

"Simple as that."

The guests stare in shock.

"But the cloth—" Lord Dennings sputters.

"Floating its way across the winds of Wuju. Our destination—though not, as it turns out, Sir Garlen’s."

With a look of mute dispassion, he meets the eye of a crewman. A single nod is given. Cued, the crewman opens the door to a storage cabinet. From inside, Sir Garlen is hoisted out, supported under the arms by two burly men. In the cascading blueness of the gallery, his skin is a pallid gray. The whites of his eyes seem a rheumy, bloodshot.

A gash bisects in his temple.

"Sir Garlen," Silco says, without inflection, "has made a last-minute change of plans."

Garlen, head swaying on the gyre of his thick neck, makes no answer.

"He will be joining his comrades on the Noxian outpost at Urvash. He's had his fill of refined company, and is looking forward to, shall we say, the coarser pleasures of the war-campaign. Isn't that right, Sir Garlen?"

 Garlen's throat works in a peristaltic flex. Nothing comes out.

 Mel, with a slow creep of horror, realizes he's been drugged.

"Silco," she says. "What—what have you—?"

"Something to calm him down. He had a bit of a row with my crew. They had to take precautions. The effects will wear off by the time he reaches his destination." Silco's attention shifts back to the hourglass. "Which is, in any case, better than getting tossed into the storm."

The blood in Mel's skull recedes, leaving her lightheaded. "Why did you—?"

"He made advances." Silco's stare locks on hers: unrepentant. "On the hostess."

"That doesn't mean—"

"I'm aware. But the matter is settled. Sir Garlen has changed his mind, and will be his own way." His focus goes to the remaining guests. "The rest of you are, of course, free to take your leave with him. Or, as planned, we can go together to the villa. Discuss our future, and its promise. Because it is that promise that will build the foundations for the new age. One where we may all, shoulder to shoulder, do our cities a profitable service. And, perhaps, carve out a lasting peace."

The guests are breathing heavily. It is not the drugs, or the dark, or the danger that holds them hostage.

It is the man.

His words, sluicing gently from the shadows, are a warning. The old status quo is done. The new order is a beast rising from the depths. Their insults and insolences will no longer be tolerated. Their old privileges are forfeit.  They'd crossed the sea as Mel's guests; they depart as the Eye's allies.  And the price of his allyship is the same as the price of his enmity:

Loyalty.

Mel tastes the fear souring the air. Her language of diplomacy, of elegant solutions and calculated compromise, has no place here.  And yet she herself has not been relegated to the sideline. She can feel Silco's attention on her, holding her to account.

My wife, he'd said—and now she understands.

In offering his hand, he will not hesitate to show his teeth.  And anyone who dares insult her will face the full force of his bite. He is making plain, in the only vocabulary he speaks, that her safety is his.

"I'm," Hector says, whey-faced, "for the villa."

Silco inclines his head.

"As—as are we," Cevila stammers. "And, we must apologize, your Excellency, if our manners were lacking." She jerks an elbow into her husband's midriff. He concurs with alacrity. "Ye-es. It won't happen again."

"Indeed," Lady Dennings breathlessly chimes in. "We hope you'll find us far more agreeable once we've reached dry land. And, if we might presume, a trifle more—uh—open-minded. For the sake of progress."

The remaining guests chorus the sentiment.

They resemble, Mel thinks, a gaggle of geese honking in a language they do not understand. For a moment, Ambessa's specter leaps into her mind. Her mother's disdain for these aristocrats—their venal cowardice, and the easy way their moral fiber could be bought with a few coins. And yet, it is they who will make the new order possible.

A better world that, in a twist of irony, will be born from their inveterate greed.

"I am sure," concurs mildly says, "we will have a pleasant stay." Then, to the crewmen: "See Sir Garlen off."

The crewmen, leering, drag Garlen toward the hourglass. The brigadier lets off an aggrieved string of curses, then subsides into a fit of heavy-lidded mutterings. When he awakens, Mel suspects, his recollection of the night's events will verge of hallucinatory. Any accusations—of foul play, jettisoned cargo, magic portals—will be written off as the byproduct of a drinking spree and a wrong turn in the storm.

In short order, the hourglass is prepared. At the dais, the Idol glows a delirious shade of pink. In the bottom chamber, the sand is a slow-motion whirlpool. The crewmen, Garlen slung between them, advance. A life-vest is fitted over Garlen's shoulders.

Silco, standing vigil, addresses the guests. Despite the dire circumstances, his tone is almost conversational.

"You'll find the trip smooth. It may seem like a long duration of transit. But time, in the Void, is a fluid thing. In a way, Sir Garlen is unfortunate. The first experience of Crossing Over is unforgettable. A glimpse into the mysteries of the universe. For some, it becomes a compulsion." He pauses, his tone softening. "Though not one I'd wish on anyone."

He crooks a finger. The crewmen, Garlen in tow, enter the chamber. Mel hears the sound of their passage: the echo boots, the muffled breaths, a last, slurred curse from the Brigadier. The grains, swirling, close around them. Their bodies flicker. In the next instant, they are gone.

The chamber is empty.

Except for the sand. Twinkling, twisting, then, with a dreamlike sentience, drifting into stillness.

The ventricles of Mel's heart constrict. She doesn't want to look at the Idol. But her spine, as if gripped by an immense force, is turned in its direction. The glow sears into her retinas. Inside her head, a slow, soft, sonorous beat rises. She is struck by the profound certainty that it is the creature’s heartbeat, and that the Void is connected to it, and to her.

Like the blood in her veins, a bond is being forged, and its intimacy will never cease.

"All right." Silco's voice solidifies as if through water. "let's be on our way."

Mel is jolted from her trance.

The guests are shuffled toward the portal. Hector is the first. His life-vest has been fitted so tightly that he resembles a stuffed sausage. His expression is taut, the smile long-gone. Behind him, the Dennings are huddled close. Lord Dennings has enfolded his wife's hands into his own. Their waxen faces are stamped with twin expressions of stalwart determination. Cevila, her lipsticked mouth stamped in a grim line, follows. Kolt, in the background, herds the stragglers.

"Mel," Silco says, "come."

 Mel's belly is in knots. Premonition masses with the force of an impending storm. "Are you certain—?"

"Very."

She hears the undertow in his voice: irresistible as the sea's pull. The Idol's maddening resonance fades.

Folding her hands across her belly, Mel steels her spine. One foot before the other. One step. Two. Three. Then she is inside the chamber, and the sand is shimmering, and Silco is beside her, and the bodies are pressing in. A soft humming begins. It is a sound that Mel feels more than hears. As though, instead of air, she is aspirating pure energy.

A crackle—then the whiff of ozone.

The sand grains, suspended, begin to spin.

The chamber flickers. The glass emits pulses of violet light. It is like watching a supernova, radioactive, flare on and off. Then, the pulse stabilizes. The light, rather than waning, climbs like a wave. It fills the hourglass, the gallery, the arena. Then, with a shockwave, it floods everything.

Mel is no longer her body. She is a particle caught in a vortex. She is a star peeling free from the firmament.

She is falling.

Inside Mel, a tiny core of awareness is all that remains.  The rest: sloughed off. She is no longer Mel Medarda. No longer a daughter, or sister, or wife. She is a molecule, and a pulse, and a wave. Her body, starved, is drawn to an unknown fount. Her soul, a nadir, thirsting to plunge.

If she could only get close, the fount will feed her. Nourish her. Answer every question she's ever had; soothe every hurt she's ever known. Joy, boundless. Power, infinite.

All of it, hers.

All she needs is to say: Yes.

But something stays her. The hunger is not her sole guide. There is the heartbeat, too. Mel has heard it before. It's the one inside her, the one she's always possessed, and now, for the first time, it has begun to fork. Its rhythm, disparate from hers, begins to coalesce into a shape. A silhouette. A body, massing, until Mel can see, with a visceral shock, the face she's spent her life trying to forget.

The one who'd shaped her, and made her. And who she's spent so much effort trying to erase.

The heartbeat has led her to Ambessa.

Mel wants to scream. To flee; to fight. But there is no escape. She is locked in a chamber, and the walls are closing in. The particles are swirling. They are her, and not her. She is Ambessa, and not Ambessa. She is trapped inside her mother's flesh. Her mother, trapped within the confines of her memories. And the Medarda bloodline is trapped, too, inside her.

For a strangling moment, they are one.

Then, with a shock, the fusion splits. Mel sees, not her mother, but a child. Eyes the color of the sea at dawn. Curls that glimmer like blackest silk. A smile, aflame, but with a touch of sweetness. She has Kino's wily ways, and Aziz's golden heart, and Ambessa's iron resolve. And Mel's, too: her ambition, her will, and the strength to protect what's hers.

Mel's arms open, and the little girl—the bright, fierce, darling girl—leaps into her embrace.

Mel can feel the shape of her. All the tiny, beautiful details.  The dark grain of her skin: velvety beneath the pads of her fingertips.  The way she circles her chubby arms around Mel's neck, and dots her cheek with a dozen little kisses. Her laughter, a sonic dandelion bursting into bliss. Her scent: sweet and pure and as the seaside, and wholly, irreplaceably hers.

Their hearts beat as one.

Mine, Mel thinks.

Her treasure, her joy, her future.

"Tell me your name," she whispers, and the child laughs, nuzzling closer. Mel feels the soft, downy warmth of her curls. "Dearest, tell me your name."

A giggle, as if this is the silliest thing in the world.  "You already know."

"Do I?"

"You do." Another nuzzle. "So does Papa."

A coldeness creeps across Mel's nape. "Papa."

"Uh-huh." Her little chin lifts, and the dimples in her cheeks deepen. "It's funny. He knows, and I know, and you know. But we can't say so. Not yet."

"Why not?"

"'Cause it's a secret." Her lashes dip. It's a look Mel has seen on herself in the mirror: secretive, coy. Then, in a mercurial flash, her mood shifts. Her gaze, luminous, is all Silco. The blue of his good eye in both of hers. Both, locked on Mel, with indelible intensity. "You have to keep the secret. Or else—"

"What?" Fear claws its way up Mel's throat. "Or else what?"

"Something bad will happen." The girl's Cupid's bow mouth puckers. "Very bad."

"Will it—will it hurt you?"

"Only if you don't stay."

"Stay? What do you mean?"

"Here. With me." The girl's smile has faded. Her stare is beseeching. "I want you to stay."

"I want that, too."

"Do you?" She lays a plump hand, a tiny mirror, over Mel's. "Do you really?"

"Of course I do!" Mel's arms tighten. Her fingers are digging in. She can't make herself stop. "Please. Tell me your name."

"Only if you promise." A pout. "That you'll stay."

"I promise."

"Say it, then." Her eyes are all the colors of the ocean. "I'll stay."

"I—"

"Say it." Her tiny fingers are beginning to bite. "Say it!"

Her little face is irresistibly sweet. But the colors are washing out. The words come eerily distorted.

"Stay. Stay. STAY."

"I—" Mel begins.

A hand falls on Mel's arm. The little girl, in a gust of wind, fades away. Mel is left with only the afterimage of her. Her warmth, lingering. The memory, a superimposed shadow. Her arms fall around the emptiness, and her heart is in her throat, and she is being dragged backward, the hand's grip inescapable. She struggles, and shrieks, and claws, trying to regain what is hers. Her body is a cage, and the only thing within is a howl.

Then—

"Mel."

With a gasp, Mel falls back into herself.

Silco is enfolding her from behind. The embrace is gentle and ruthless. She can feel the shape of him, pressed all the way down: his lips against her ear, his chest to her spine, his arms bracketing her ribs, his boots slotted beside hers. His palms, covering hers, are knitted over her bellybutton. She feels the pulse beating there: hers, his. 

The heat of connection is shockingly real.

"Don't," he whispers. "You'll regret it."

They are, Mel realizes, still in the chamber. It's only been a few seconds.

A few seconds.

And already, her hands are shaking. Blood rims the crescents of her nails. She realizes, with a sick jolt, that she's dug them into the flesh of her belly.  The fabric of her gown is speckled red. She can't feel the pain. Only a faint throb of heat, far-off, and fading fast. Her skin, her senses, her very sanity is being sucked out of her.

She doesn't care. She'll give anything—anything—to have what she'd glimpsed. To hold the little girl, and hear her laughter, and know her name. It will be the truest, best thing Mel will ever have.

And, if it costs her the rest, then she'll pay the price.

"Please," she whispers. "I saw—."

"Whatever you saw, it wasn't real."

"But—"

"It's the call of the Void." His mouth touches the hollow beneath her jaw. "When it opens, you get a glimpse into a world you were never meant to see. Not yet. Sometimes, not ever. And if you succumb to the lure, it'll devour you."

"Silco, I—"

I saw her.

I held her.

I loved her.

She was so beautiful. So alive. So theirs.

"Please," Mel says again, hoarsely. "Please."

 "Hush. It's gone." He tucks her closer. "Brace yourself. We're about to cross."

The sand grains dance in delirious spirals. They are no longer particles: they are fractals of pure energy. The chamber begins to liquify. The walls are coming apart. Mel has lost the sense of her body, of gravity, of the world's axis.  She can hear a keening, high and inhuman, that is both outside and within. Around her, the guests are writhing. They're not human beings anymore, but puppets in thrall to a single string. Kolt and the crewmen struggle to contain them. Then their shapes are obscured—along with everything else—beneath a brilliant white aurora.

It's a solar flare, blinding. 

Flinching, Mel shuts her eyes. The luminosity is a physical pressure, seeping into her lids. Her skin, her hair, every pore and follicle, feels supercharged.

And Silco, enfolding her, holds fast.

"Trust me," he murmurs. "We're nearly there."

The light hits its zenith. Then, slowly, it subsides. The aurora ebbs, and the darkness returns. But it is not the darkness of the undersea. It is the darkness of a cloudless night.

The chamber is gone. They are standing on a pier.

It is incredibly narrow: a long finger of planks and beams, jutting into the sea. The sky, a rich indigo, is flecked with stars. The fishhook of a moon hangs overhead. In the distance, Mel spies a net of colored lights in a dark mass. The island of Wuju, barely a mile offshore. Beyond the pier is a cluster of boats. A few skiffs, and the sleek prow of a ship. Its name is stenciled onto its hull: SS Woe Betide.

Salt-spray lashes Mel's cheeks. She realizes she is at the edge of the railing. The wood cuts into her hipbones. Below, the sea churns. The drop is nearly twenty feet deep. It would be an ugly fall. 

Backtracking, Mel takes a breath. Her face is wet; her lips are moving. But she can't make sense of the sounds. The taste is like salt. Like tears: sobless, silent. Because she is empty-handed. Because the girl, her precious treasure, is gone. She has slipped through her fingers.  

Or—no.

Not slipped. She was never there.

Silco's lips touch her ear.  "Steady. The first shockwave hits the hardest."

His is still behind her, arms wound around her midriff. One hand is splayed across her belly. Mel can feel the imprint of his ring. The cold, smooth band nestles against her navel. The residue of the magic is still imprinted on her nerves: the phantom of loss.

She doesn't know whether to mourn the girl, or herself. 

But if the Void cannot truly give, then perhaps the Void is nothing more than a reflection?

"Look," Silco says, tipping his chin.

Mel does. In the moon's curving glow, she sees the guests scattered around the pier. Some have dropped to their knees, arms stretched heavenward. Others are being held back, forcibly, by Kolt and the other crewmen. Hector, a quivering mound of limbs, is curled in a fetal position. Lady Dennings, eyes streaming, is sobbing inconsolably. Her husband, embracing her, is staring at the middle distance, slack-jawed.  Cevila, caught in a headlock by three men, is shrieking incoherently: eyes bulging, teeth bared.   

"The journey affects everyone differently," Silco says. "Thankfully, after the first exposure, it doesn't linger." A beat. "Mostly."

He's not smiling. But there's a knowledgeable slyness to his expression that sets Mel off-balance.

"Why—why did it hit them harder?" she rasps. "We all crossed over together."

"Because their desires aren't rooted in the heart. Theirs is an ambition born of envy, or greed, or pettiness. Whereas yours..." His stare flits down. "Yours is different. Deeper."

His palm remains anchored over her navel.  A claim laid down, and stained with blood.

Mel bites her lip. She can feel the sting of shallow lacerations. Reality is creeping back in, and with it, a modicum of dismay. "I—I couldn't hold back." The admission hurts. "If it hadn't been for you, I—"

"Would've clawed your belly inside out."  Silco lays his cheek against hers. The film of seawater clings to his skin. "It was your first time. Most would've given in completely."

"You didn't."

"I nearly did, my first time."

"What?"

She can feel the stirring of his breaths: slow, steady, deliberate.

"With Jinx. Years ago, in the Badlands." He swallows, once. "It's nothing I care to repeat."

Mel shivers. Her body, like a tuning fork's ebbing resonance, still sings. She wonders if the sound will ever truly cease. Or if it will stay, a ghostly echo, in the chambers of her heart.

"We ought to," Silco says, his focus on the guests, "make sure they're sane."

Mel manages a nod. Their bodies disentangle; the warmth dissipates. There is something bereft about the distance. Mel doesn't dare dwell on it.  They are not the sort to cling to each other in public. Displays of affection are a calculated performance: beneath the dazzle of cameras, behind the thicket of microphones, before the crowd's hungry eyes.

Here, the intimacy feels too raw. An exposure past endurance. 

"You're shaking," Silco says. His left palm lifts to curve itself over her bare shoulder. The thumb strokes a soft circle into the skin. "Let's get you inside."

"Inside?"

"The villa's only a short distance from the pier. There are guards stationed to escort us."

Mel nods. She absorbs little—but the warmth of his hand, she understands. The guests, in her peripheral vision, have begun to stir to their senses. She can see the confusion that permeates the airwaves. The same emotions that cling to her, miasmic. 

None of them, she thinks, were ready. Now, they've crossed the threshold to No Return.

"Are you able to stand?" Silco asks.

Mel nods again.

"Take my arm."

"I—I can walk on my own."

"Take it."

His tone brooks no argument. In a strange way, it's reassuring. The Crossing has altered everything. But not Silco. Wherever he goes, he remains the same.

The tide: immutable.

Taking a steadying breath, Mel straightens. The night wind whips at her hair, her dress. Her limbs seem to be made of gelatin; her mind a slurry of conflicting impulses.

But, also: exhilarated.

A strange subspecies of joy is spreading through her. Not the kind she experiences when her schemes are playing out to fine-tuned perfection. Something brighter, purer, undiluted.

A sense of homecoming.

As if reading her thoughts, Silco says, "A mild euphoria can follow the first Crossing. It will fade soon. Until then, I'd advise against letting the eyes wander." 

"Why?"

"Hallucinations." He takes her elbow. "Best not to tempt fate."

"I—I see."

Mel wills the world back into focus. The guests, herded by the crew, have been ushered to the pier's end. Mel makes out the shape of a long rowboat, bobbing gently on the white-capped waves. The guests are being bundled into it. Blankets are distributed; thermoses of hot tea passed out.

Silco, his hand a loose latch on Mel's arm, leads her forward.

"Stay close," he cautions. "The boards are slippery."

Carefully, Mel wends her way along the pier. The path before her has a rippling quality: her balance is off. She focuses on mimicking Silco's sure-footed tread. Glimpsed from behind, she is struck by the slenderness of his silhouette. The spare cut of his torso; the tidy nip of his waist; the lithe swimmer's legs.

He's not a large man. And because he's not, he's always had to assert himself. To stay braced, every moment, against a world that will never be forgiving to those with less.

For the first time, Mel is hit by the full force of his fragility. How little of it he lets her see. How much of it she still doesn't know.

And how much, if she's honest, she longs to find out.

Then it happens.

A cry, loud and shrill, splits the night. Mel falters mid-step. In the frothing blackness of the waves, she catches a flash of dark flesh: a hand, clawing wildly up the pier's planks. Then a figure surges out in slithering increments. The moonlight, ghostly, traps itself in the bronzed contours of her musculature. Her eyes, a fiery gold, are locked on Mel. Her teeth, bared, are the color of old ivory.

Ambessa.

Her uniform is studded with pale encrustations of barnacles. The armor drips, water pattering across the floorboards. The wild gray corona of her hair is plastered to her skull. The rest of her: waterlogged as a sunken ship. 

It's as if she's been dragged across the seven seas.

As if she's a revenant, risen from the dead.

At her throat, a necklace—the one belonging to the Ionian chieftain's daughter—jangles like a garland of bones. The dark glisten of blood limns the coral ornaments. Her features are streaked with it. Her expression: a naked rictus of bloodlust.

Half kraken, half killer.

"You," she spits.

Then she's lunging for Silco.

Mel acts on reflex. Her body shoves his aside. Cursing, Silco staggers off-kilter. His hand drops from Mel's arm. The moment it does, the planks skid from under her boots. Her thighs collide with the railing. Then she is toppling backward.

For a moment, she is weightless. Her body caught in zero gravity. Her mind, a free-floating mote.

Mel registers the details in a series of suspended snapshots: the hypnagogic moon pinwheeling above; the stars, a thousand eyes, blinking in and out; Ambessa, a raging Fury, bearing down. Then gravity pulls. Mel's stomach plunges into her heels. Her arms fly outward. Her fingers claw empty air.

There is nothing to hold on to.

Only the Void's hungry inverse.

The Deep End.

Then, with a giddy quiver of gelatinous peristalsis, the moment erupts.

Mel, a shriek ripped from her lungs, drops.

The plunge is an instant; an eternity. The waves are a frenzied churn. The chill radiates, shockingly cold, and seizes her breath.

Mel has one final cogent thought: Silco.

Then, the water rises up, and swallows her whole.

[fabiansteinhauer]

Die Brandis

1.

Im nächsten Jahr steht wieder ein Familientag der Familie Brandi an. Stamm Paul Brandi, das ist Stamm Essen, also mein Stamm, ist diesmal dran, den Familientag zu organisieren. Das machen mein Cousin Tim Brandi und seine Frau Christiane mehr als federführend. Ich bin mal wieder für Jux und Dollerei zuständig. Wir treffen uns diesmal in Würzburg.

Aus Würzburg kam die Ehefrau von Karl Brandi, Hedwig Regelsberger. Karl Brandi hat nicht nur seinen Opus Magnum dem Karl gewidmet, Karl V. Der war überhaupt vom heilig-römischen Reich angezogen. Hedwig, seine Frau, kam aus Würzburg und als Tochter des Professors für Zivilrecht und Römisches Recht Ferdinand Regelsberger nicht wie gerufen. Sie kam explizit gerufen, dazu noch geladen. Ich will den Familientag allen Hedwigs der Familie widmen, denke dabei nicht nur an Pappa ante portas ("Mir ist eigentlich immer wohl. Nur wenn dir nicht wohl ist, ist mir auch nicht wohl"), sondern an alle heißungsvollen, sogenannten Angeheirateten sowie die irgendwie anders Angelockten.

Die Brandis erzählen sich noch heute auf den Familientagen, dass sie aus Italien kämen. Die entwerfen sich deutsch-römisch, darin lebt das Phantasma des Reiches auf einer etwas niedriger als souveränen und majestätisch erhabenen Stufe nach. Wir werden uns die Residenz anschauen, die hat auch mehrere Stufen und Schichten, bis runter zu den Satyren, Nymphen und ... Anthropofagen, denen Tiepolo auch einen Ort hinter dem großen, atlantischen Reichsteich reserviert. Das Ganze ist schliesslich römisch und katholisch und soll allen Platz einräumen, alles absorbieren und alles absolvieren.

2.

Vor ein paar Jahren hat Cousin Cornelius Brandi einen Familienfilm über die Herkunft der Familie Brandi gedreht und präsentiert. Er ist nach Rondanina gefahren, das ist in den Hügel des ligurischen Hinterlandes das Dorf, aus dem Francesco Brandi im Zuge der napoleonischen Kriege um 1800 aufbrach, seine Familie als Soldat und mit durchziehenden Truppen verlies, um ein paar Jahre später als ausgewiesen unverheirateter Jüngling in Hamburg neu anzufangen. Scheiden geht immer, immer anders. Der Film von Cornelius liefert leichte und fröhliche Dekonstruktion von Familienmythen. In Rondanina leben schon seit sehr, sehr, sehr langem eigentlich nur Brandis, heute noch ca. 60. Auf dem Friedhof also auch: haufenweise Brandi, Brandi, Brandi. In den Kirchenarchiven ist viel dokumentiert, schon weil es bei jeder Heirat einer Dispens durch den Bischof bedurfte. Das kanonische Recht und das, was die Anthropologen Inzest nennen, hätte sonst der Heirat entgegengestanden.

Was immer auch die Brandis sind, auf Diagnosen kann man sich ohnehin nicht ausruhen. Eine der schönsten Passagen in dem Film zeigt Cornelius, der aus dem Kirchenarchiven kommt und sichtbar an der Information noch zu schlucken hat, dass sich Francesco in Italien zumindest rechtlich nie scheiden liess, bevor er in Deutschland Stammvater wurde, indem er Stammmutter Antonie neu heiratete (diesmal war wenigstens keine Dispens vom Inzestverbot nötig) und dann noch einmal frische Kinder zeugte. Ging ja auch gar nicht, sich scheiden zu lassen. Was ging war, einen Boten zu schicken der erzählt, man sei bei einer Schlacht gefallen. Und was immer geht: keine Papiere, leichter Neuanfang. In der Familie, die er als Soldat verlassen hatte, war er nicht Soldat, aber auch kein Kind mehr, sondern auch Ehemann und Vater. Cornelius taumelt mit dieser frischen Information ein wenig durch das Bild in eine Bar, wo gerade sich die Leute aus dem Dorf zerstreuen. Sie singen eine kontrapunktische, endlose Fuge. In den Gesang klinken sich die Leute, die allesamt kommen und wieder gehen, vorübergehend ein und wieder aus. Sie singen phasenweise und episodisch mit, keiner ist von Anfang bis Ende dabei. Diese Szene ist von Cornelius nicht inszeniert, das machen die Leute in Rondanina schon selbst, das ist römisches Einzugsgebiet und nur weil es Realität ist, hört es nicht auf, Theater zu sein. Diese Szene zeigt, auch wenn es keine Versöhnung gibt, wie nahe man der Versöhnung doch kommen kann. Man braucht halt möglichst eine gute Bar und sollte notfalls ein Stück mitsingen können.

Die treffen sich eben am Abend und singen dort ihren einklinkbaren und ausklingbaren Gesang. Cornelius kommt ins Gespräch, der ist auch Anwalt (in Hamburg) und fragt an einer Stelle, woher die Familie Brandi eigentlich käme. Die Antwort lautet, jetzt allmählich erwartbar: das sei ein typisch deutscher Name. Sie seien aus Deutschland oder Österreich, eventuell während der Kinderkreuzzüge nach Italien ausgewandert. Die Brandi oder Brandis sind wohl die Brandlhubers des ligurischen Hügellandes.

Mythen kann man entlarven. Dann hören sie nicht auf zu sein, dann werden sie Schmetterlinge. Alberto Grandis Buch ist fantastische Komödie, das ist wirklich urkomisch, ich glaube jedes Wort sofort. Ich rechne sogar damit, dass irgendwo und irgendwann das G in B und das B in G kippte, ich mit Grandi also verwandt bin. Grandi ist Richter beim (Markus Krajewski, halte dich fest!) Internationalen Tiramisu World Cup in Treviso!! Eine Koryphäe auf dem Gebiet des Mampf und dazu noch sehr witzig.

[wcrwick]

¡ buenas ! yo siempre tarde y nunca apurada, me pueden llamar ponyo o como me conozcan, ponerme seudónimo nada más es para mi propio entretenimiento. debajo del read more les traigo tanto a war como a montserrat (les debo los tableros), espero podamos hacer conexiones / que le inspire para pensar en como pueden chocar o interactuar nuestres niñes. me pueden encontrar en discord como @lightsovt_ o sino en el server como ponyo, pero si le dan like a esto voy yo.

* war fury.

biografía.

i. nació en queensland, australia, bajo el nombre warwick lee. pero la mayoría de su existencia la pasó en california porque sus padres fallecieron cuando el era pequeño. desde entonces lo criaron sus tíos que son los que le dieron una cultura musical y la posibilidad de aprender a tocar un instrumento que no fuera el piano.

ii. aprende a tocar el bajo y la batería en su adolescencia, mucho por oído y por revistas que enseñaban a cosas básicas de los bajos, y de allí comienza con bandas de garage que no tenían intenciones de llegar a más que eso, había prometido que sería útil para la sociedad, que tendría un trabajo de verdad y que era solo un hobbie. a pesar de esto, a medida que fue creciendo no dejó la música nunca, incluso cuando el trabajo en la fábrica era más exigente. así lo terminaron descubriendo tocando en un bar a sus 25.

iii. hoy en día forma parte de una banda y gracias a westbound aprendió un poco de como producir su propia música, le gusta ser parte de la creatividad de las canciones, no se cree capaz de componer frases poéticas, pero era bueno con los sonidos. su preferencia se encuentra en el rock psicodelico.

iv. a pesar de su estilo y a su personalidad en el escenario, explosiva, demandante de atención, siempre buscando más emoción, cuando se trata fuera del escenario, es relajado, quizás más introvertido o serio de lo esperado. y aunque jamás se ha negado a una cerveza con sus admiradores o negado una sonrisa a una admiradora, se sabe que dentro de la sala de grabación o en ensayos es un dolor de cabeza, le gusta exigir que todos estén en el mismo nivel.

* conexiones:

i. gente con quien este en buenos tratos porque entienden sus procesos musicales, que entienden que es tan tranquilo porque deja todo arriba del escenario y que les agrade ver y estar en compañía de alguien más ameno, no tiene problema con que la gente de su alrededor sea ruidosa, excepto cuando su paciencia desaparece.

ii. relaciones de mentor, quizás alguien que quiera aprender alguno de los instrumentos o a producir con él. tiene cinco, casi seis años firmado con la westbound, así que puede ser respecto a esas cosas también. me gustaría verlo como el big bro de algunos ah. también pueden ser gente que haya conocido alguna de las bandas en las que participo fuera de westbound cuando nomás tocaba en bares y eventos (cumpleaños / bodas).

iii. drinking buddies o smoking buddies, again con lo de tener alguien con quien tirarse a pasar el rato, con quien se lleve lo suficiente ver para tener esos momentos de relajación y descargue.

iv. obvio relaciones conflictivas porque pueden no agradarle lo exigente que es, tomándolo por pretencioso o creyéndose mejor que el resto cuando solo quiere que todo suene bien o vemos porque les puede caer mal, es un hombre de cancer ah.

v. cualquier trama o idea es bienvenida, si ven que warwick encaja en alguna trama que buscan me chiflan

* phoenix mont.

biografía.

i. nace en un pueblo del estado de arizona, en el seno de una familia mexicana llena de esperanza que la nombró montserrat pacheco. le debe su nombre artístico a la capital de su estado, además de la creencia de que realmente nació de las cenizas con su música.

ii. habiendo escapado de un pueblo con solo una ilusión, una guitarra y un tonto que creía que la tenía en la palma de su mano, montserrat comenzó a componer canciones que antes no creía que palabras fueran tan importantes como para darles melodías que las acompañasen. su música intenta mostrar una combinación entre el genero country y géneros de origen mexicano con los que se había criado, sonidos que la transportaban a ser una niña haciendo una performance en su casa mientras la limpiaba.

iii. personalidad en el escenario y fuera de este se presentaban como antítesis. dando una imagen dulce, sentimental, brillando cuando tomaba su guitarra, no preparaba a nadie para la arrogancia que la rodeaba, le era difícil comprender que el foco no siempre iba a estar solo en ella, había abandonado al tonto que la había llevado a la fama porque cree en la supervivencia del más fuerte. lo que es innegable en ambos escenarios es que podía ser testaruda, pero el talento y el carisma la habían llevado lejos.

* conexiones:

i. a pesar de su personalidad egocéntrica, la dude es super extrovertida e intenta mostrar su mejor lado, si la aguantan cuando no sabe admitir que esta equivocada, podrían ser buenos amigues de ella.

ii. alguna ex relación de pr que la hicieron tener porque su vecino / ex compañero de duo / noviecito de seguro salió a hablar horrible de ella, intentando manchar su reputación y no podían tener al solecito siendo una arpía.

iii. obvio relaciones de trabajo, gente que disfruten sentarse en una sala a componer, producir o tocar sus instrumentos buscando una lluvia de ideas, no tienen porque haber colaborado más allá de opiniones o sugerencias mientras producían las canciones.

iv. enemistades o relaciones conflictivas por choque de personalidades, quizás montserrat hizo un mal comentario o escucho que tu personaje hacía un comentario sobre ella y desde entonces hay tensión y malos tratos entre elles.

v. cualquier trama o idea es bienvenida, si ven que montserrat encaja en alguna trama que buscan me chiflan.

[goodeevilgirlintentions]

Alarma suna la 5 fix. O închid repede sa nu te trezească și ma duc sa pregătesc micul dejun.

E gata așa ca vin să te trezesc cu sărutări din ce în ce mai apăsate "Bună dimineața, Soare ☀️!"...niciun răspuns de la tine 😁mormăi ceva, te întinzi ca o pisica și te întorci cu spatele la mine dezvelindu-ti fundul 🤤... Ma abțin sa îl degust asa ca iti dau o palma peste el...deschzi ochii așteptând o continuare dar.. "n-avem timp acum roșcato, ți-au ajuns 2h ore aseară 😁, hai sa plecam ca se face lumina"

Peste 30 de minute suntem deja pe autostrada în drum spre mare... Ești încă somnoroasa, asa ca deschid geamul un pic cât sa iti fluture prin par, ne privim și dam muzica tare, îți desfaci centura și te apropii periculos de mine cu gura la ureche și o mana între picioare 🙈. "O sa iti placa weekend-ul asta... Promit! " aud în urechea dreapta și privirea ta îmi spune ca ma paște o surpriză. 🥰.

Ajungem în Vama și e surprinzător de liber, Soarele abia răsare... Asa ca te rog sa cumperi niște apa, iar eu ma apuc de instalat cortul pe plaja. Avem noroc sa fim primii lângă apa 🤩 asa ca usa cortului va fii mereu deschisa.

Începe sa fie cald, am transpirat și tu nu mai apari🤔. Scot telefonul și pana sa apelez aud din spate "Edddd!! Ia uite ce am gasit!!!". Ma întorc și va vad... Tu și Blondi, buna ta amica😈, va țineți de mana, iar sticlele de apa rece v-au udat tricourile pe sub care nu v-ati obosit sa purtați sutien 🤦🏻‍♂️.

"Heyy! Ce faci Blondie? De unde ai apărut și ce e cu ghiozdanul asta?

Blondi sare la gatul meu, ma pupa, ca și cum eu sunt BFF-ul ei, nu tu😁, ii simt o mana cum ma strânge de spatele transpirat și îmi spune nonșalant "Pai mă plictiseam acasă, am luat un tren și un microbuz și uite-ma! 😂 Doar ca n-am cazare și nici bani asa ca dorm la voi😁. Ce părere ai? "

Zâmbesc și ma uit la tine, îmi faci cu ochiul și deja am un feeling ca stiu ce surpriza ma asteapta😈. "Da normal, nu e prea mare cortul dar are vedere la mare 😂, și eventual dacă nu e loc dorm eu în masina🤪"

Va uitați una la alta și incepeți sa râdeți 😂

"S-o crezi tu!" se aude la unison. Iti dai hainele jos, prin spate ii dai și ei tricoul jos fix în fata mea, o iei pe Blondie de mana și fugiți amândouă semigoale în apa... 🥰

Eu va urmăresc cu privirea și deja imaginile sunt în slowmotion cu voi doua ca să va pot admira sanii și bucile cum se misca în alergare 🤤... Mi se scoala instant... 🤦🏻‍♂️ Asa ca ma întorc la treaba fără sa știu ce aveam sa patesc la noapte.

Pe zi am stat la plaja, am ras și am glumit toți 3, v-am privit cum va dădeați sanii cu crema una alteia🤤 și ne-am împrietenit cu o gasca de studenți cu care am baut câteva beri pana a apus soarele.

Ne întoarcem la cort și adormim toți 3 răpuși de căldură...

La miezul nopții ne trezește muzica de la clubul de pe plaja și decidem sa mergem sa dansam un pic.

Va trageți câte o rochita pe voi sub privirile mele socate ca ati decis împreună să nu purtați chiloți și pornim către plaja de unde vine muzica.

După câteva pahare și dansuri împreună ne așezăm sa ne tragem sufletul pe o barca trasa la mal. Ne aprindem câte o țigară.

" Ma duc sa mai iau o sticla, vreau sa îmi fac de cap pana dimineața" zice Blondi și pleacă către bar. Nu face doi pași iar tu sari pe mine și ma săruți flamanda, îți simt căldură ce vine de sub rochita și deja regret ca nu am 3 mâini cu care sa iti ating atât sanii cât și dulceata. "Edd vreau sa adorm în orgasme în noaptea asta, du-te după Blondi și hai în cort".

Te privesc și deja înțeleg ce îți dorești. Asa ca având aprobarea ta alerg către bar înainte sa apuce Blondie sa comande. Ajung înainte ca barmanul sa ii ia comanda asa ca o cuprind pe la spate și ii șoptesc la ureche "Blondo, lasa bautură, prietena ta ne vrea în cort pe amândoi, acum!"

O vad cum zâmbește și face ochii mari, apoi îmi ia o mana și ma pune sa ii ating interiorul coapsei pana sub rochita, lăsându-ma sa descopăr cum sucul ei s-a prelins deja pe picior "Credeam ca nu ma mai invitați odată! "

Ajungem în cort și te găsim goala pe spate atigandu-ti clitul și jucând-te cu unul din sfarcuri, ne spui "sunteți cam îmbrăcați pentru ce urmează dragilor! "

Asa ca dintr-o mișcare ii ridic rochita Blondei, iar ea ma scăpa de pantaloni și tricou într-o secunda, cuprinși de dorința o apuc pe la spate începem sa ne sarutam în timp ce eu ii masez sanii iar ea își scuipa în palma și începe sa mi-o frece violent... Nu-mi vine sa cred ca fac asta în fata ta 🙈, dar te privesc cum te arcuiesti uitând-te la noi și îmi dau seama cât de mult iti place.

Ne faci semn cu degetul sa ne apropiem, iar Blondie mi-o ia înainte și se napusteste între picioarele tale unde începe sa sărute și sa lingă tot ce ai tu mai dulce...

Am în fata o roșcată hot linsa de o blonda voluptoasa cu fundul spre mine... Nici nu știu cu care sa încep...

Imi aduc aminte totuși ce umeda e gura ta asa ca ti-o aduc deasupra capului, iar tu fără sa eziți ii iei capul în gura după ce ii dai de câteva ori târcoale cu limba, mana ta îmi strânge coaiele ușor și le trage spre tine asa încât pula mea e toată la tine în gura pana în gat... 🥰. Nu mai poți respira asa ca ma retrag repede admirând toată saliva dintre gura ta și pula mea. O mai iei de câteva ori asa și simt cum Blondie își face treaba bine acolo jos pentru ca de fiecare data când îți suge și musca clitul... Tu iti inclestezi maxilarul și asta creează o senzație grozava pentru mine care sunt adânc în gura ta...

Te arcuiesti, dar vreau sa te mai chinui un pic asa ca ma duc în spatele blondei care nu se mai satura de mierea care izvorăște continuu din tine, ii dau câteva palme peste fund sa știe ca urmeaza ea, iar după ce ii trag de par capul pe spate, ca să se oprească din lins, întru încet dar adânc în ea. Tu ii vezi ochii mari și surprinși și zâmbești în timp ce o tragi spre tine ca să va puteți săruta flamand cum ti-ai dorit de când ai văzut o azi. "Am udat-o bine înainte? " o întrebi, iar ea printre răsuflari, pentru ca încep sa ma mișc din ce în ce mai rapid și mai adânc iti zice ca "As vrea sa o uzi mereu pentru mine dacă se simte asa, promiti sa îmi faci bucuria asta mai des?" zâmbești, ii bagi mâinile în par, ii sugi limba și ii spui "bucură-te de moment și mai negociem, Edd e cel ce are ultimul cuvant😈"

Înnebunit de discuția și privirile voastre simt cum se apropie extazul maxim asa ca încetinesc ritmul, o scot din Blonda și o bag în tine, suficient cât sa dai ochii peste cap surprinsa de mișcare dar nu pt mult timp pentru ca o surprind înapoi le Blondie și alternez între florile voastre ca o albină, minunadu-ma cât sunteți de ude amândouă și cât nectar de al vostru e la mine pe pula🤤.

Obosesc puțin și tu ma simți, ii șoptești ceva blondei la ureche și ma trezesc deodată trântit pe spate, tu lingadu-ma pe lungime de tot lichiorul blondei "Blondie, dar ce aroma bună ai!" după care te așezi ușor pe vine și ți-o potrivești în asa fel încât atunci când te lași de tot, eu sunt adânc în tine... 🥰 Nu apuc sa ma bucur de priveliște ca ma trezesc cu fagurele Blondei deasupra gurii mele, pe care încep sa îl gust fără retineri. Nu vad dar simt. Tu sari înnebunită în mine, iar blonda și-o freacă de fata mea înainte și înapoi, și aud cum va sărutați ca și cum ar fi prima oara. Gemetele noastre se aud probabil pana în Mamaia, dar nu va pasa, sunteți înnebunite de moment iar Blondei se freacă din ce în ce mai tare, limba mea e adânc în ea, nasul meu ii masează cercul maroniu iar clitul se atinge de barbă... O simt cum nu mai rezista și explodează într-un squirt pe pieptul meu, e de vis🥰... Întinzi tot lichidul pe abdomenul meu și te opresti din mișcări. - "E delicios Blondo!" - "E rândul tău Roșcato!

Imi place când cooperati, și în timp ce Blondie se așează la loc pe fata mea, tu te lași ușor pe spate sprijinita într-o mana și începi sa te misti la fel de adânc.. Simt cum te contracti și cum capul pulii mele iti cauta punctul ala 😈... Nu durează pana îl găsim iar în timp ce te masezi la clit...izbunesti într-un squirt exploziv de care Blondie se bucura în hohote și care odată prelins de pe sanii ei îmi ajunge și mie în gura 🤤. Suntem un triunghi perfect❤️

Îți tremură genunchii așa ca te lași pe spate, iar Blondie ca o prietena buna se napusteste asupra ta într-un 69 perfect. 😈. O vad cu cata pofta te savurează iar și nu vreau sa o întrerup, eu sunt norocosul care mai primește și acasă zilnic desert din asta🤤, asa ca ma pun în spatele ei și întru cu pula în ea și cu un deget umed ii masez cercul maroniu care o face sa scoată un sunet diferit dar la fel de sexy😈... Tu te bucuri de priveliște și decizi sa iti plimbi limba peste coaiele mele provocându-mi senzații noi😈... Te simți nebunatica și limba ta explorează și mai mult... Nu rezist mult și la ultimele mișcări adânci Blonda cedează lăsând-se cu toată greutatea pe tine iar eu din câteva zvacniri o umplu cu crema ta preferata ieșind ușor din ea și lăsând soarele care tocmai răsare sa îmi ofere cea mai buna priveliste: sperma mea se revarsă din Blondie direct pe limba ta care așteaptă insetata🤤🤤🤤😈😈😈. Ma las răpus pe spate, iar voi ca doua prietene bune veniți peste mine de-o parte și de alta și împărțiți dulceata printr-un sărut suculent❤️.

"Mâine vă duc la munte fetelor :))!" e tot ce mai pot zice înainte sa va privesc cum adormiți în bratele mele.

[thecrazyworldbuilder]

A way of using Vulgarlang for creating fast dictionaries for conlangs

Go to vulgarlang.com and follow these instructions:

1

Open two tabs of Vulgarlang. In both, click Phonology and enable Word Structure. Note: not Advanced Word Structure.

2

See those languages listed below? Click any. Let's go with English for starters.

What we need to do is copy some of those groups of letters and paste them into the Tab 2.

3

Now hit Generate on top of the page in Tab 2.

In this case we have a combo of English initials, Finnish medials, Hungarian finals and Korean vowels.

a /a/ v. gain, earn, reap

appa /ˈapːa/ n. note

bad /bad/ n. cotton, cloth, fabric, textile

béé /bɛː/ n. net

bizt /bizt/ n. skin, crust, leather

blee /bleː/ n. climate, temperature

bloobb /bloːbb/ v. vomit

blǔǔ /blɯː/ n. silk, thread

břaa /bɹaː/ conj. while

břirsh /bɹirʃ/ n. assassin

břǔ /bɹɯ/ v. wonder

bǔkkeb /ˈbɯkːeb/ n. air, breeze

cha /ʧa/ n. health

che /ʧe/ n. interview

chiish /ʧiːʃ/ v. catch

chu /ʧu/ n. craft

chúú /ˈʧʌʌ/ n. moisture

daansh /daːnʃ/ v. complain

danni /ˈdanːi/ n. goat

deerka /ˈdeːrka/ n. wolf

dhaaǰ /ðaːɟ/ n. item

dhék /ðɛk/ prep. including

dhizt wǔg /ðizt wɯg/ n. geography

dhonhǔ /ˈðonhɯ/ n. cat

dhǔlléǰ /ˈðɯlːɛɟ/ v. report, notify, inform

dillúshú /ˈdilːʌʃʌ/ n. truth

dot /dot/ n. toy

dřasht /dɹaʃt/ adj. real, authentic

dři /dɹi/ n. condition (requirement, stipulation)

dřoog /dɹoːg/ v. open

dřuuz /dɹuːz/ v. tear, rip

dúll /dʌll/ n. plot

dǔǔsh /dɯːʃ/ adv. not

e /e/ adj. big, great (very large), huge, massive, enormous

eǰ /eɟ/ n. crystal, prism

fahdéétoo wopsúnsh /ˈfahdɛːtoː ˈwopsʌnʃ/ n. barbecue

fez /fez/ v. miss (not hit)

flalv̌o /ˈflalʋo/ n. rod, shaft, bar, axle

flish /fliʃ/ n. potion, elixir

fo /fo/ n. tea

forto /ˈforto/ n. altitude

fřee /fɹeː/ n. store, shop, business

fřom /fɹom/ n. harbor, port

fřúlǰalt /ˈfɹʌlɟalt/ v. recognize

fud /fud/ n. style, fashion

fuumarts /ˈfuːmarʦ/ adj. smart, intelligent, clever

gag /gag/ n. dirt

gééshsh /gɛːʃʃ/ n. key

gi /gi/ v. like

glaa /glaː/ adv. ever

gli /gli/ num. thousand

glov̌uv̌o /ˈgloʋuʋo/ adj. tall

glup /glup/ n. acid

gooz ward /goːz ward/ n. cafe

gřalduǰ /ˈgɹalduɟ/ n. worker, employee

gřeent /gɹeːnt/ v. bake

gřilv̌ǔ /ˈgɹilʋɯ/ n. chance, odds, luck

gřoo /gɹoː/ v. dream

gřún /gɹʌn/ prep. before

gřǔǔ /gɹɯː/ n. dog

gú /gʌ/ n. friend

halt /halt/ n. meal, feast

héú /ˈhɛʌ/ n. fun

hooo /ˈhooː/ n. perception

hǔl /hɯl/ n. factory, mill, laboratory

hwansh /ʍanʃ/ n. shit

hwom /ʍom/ n. shape, structure, system

hwǔǔbb /ʍɯːbb/ n. pepper

jat /ʤat/ n. anxiety

ji /ʤi/ n. table, counter (flat, elevated surface), plateau

jú /ʤʌ/ n. planet

ka /ka/ n. fat (bodily substance)

kapsét /ˈkapsɛt/ n. map, menu

ke /ke/ n. change

kera /ˈkera/ adj. sad

kigoo /ˈkigoː/ n. behavior

kiryoog /ˈkirjoːg/ n. seed, grain, cereal

klants /klanʦ/ n. guess

klesu /ˈklesu/ v. flirt

klú /klʌ/ v. watch, look, monitor, peer, study, examine

kom /kom/ n. mass

křaay /kɹaːj/ n. game

křil /kɹil/ n. needle

křǔnts /kɹɯnʦ/ n. row

kúhtu /ˈkʌhtu/ n. support

kutt juny /kutt ʤuɲ/ n. souvenir

kǔǔrt /kɯːrt/ adj. aroused (sexually)

kwalch /kwalʧ/ v. meet

kwo /kwo/ n. muscle

kwútt /kwʌtt/ prep. with (accompanied by)

lap /lap/ n. valley

léryo /ˈlɛrjo/ adj. good, appropriate, hot (attractive), nice, moral

lolméé /ˈlolmɛː/ n. harmony

loongoo /ˈloːngoː/ n. protection

lǔǔ /lɯː/ n. chest

mal /mal/ v. shock, startle, stun, surprise

mé /mɛ/ n. stitch

méttuǰ /ˈmɛttuɟ/ n. lawyer

moorhaa /ˈmoːrhaː/ n. parcel, package, bundle

munt /munt/ v. follow

mǔǔtúrts /ˈmɯːtʌrʦ/ adj. possible

nantúk /ˈnantʌk/ v. listen

né /nɛ/ n. rate

nerduǰ /ˈnerduɟ/ n. gardener

noo /noː/ n. mud, cement

nualt /ˈnualt/ v. record

nuuz /nuːz/ n. sport

ot /ot/ v. cure

pak /pak/ n. train

pimistany /ˈpimistaɲ/ v. keep (store), store

plall /plall/ v. serve

plég /plɛg/ prep. to, towards

plǔ /plɯ/ n. cup, mug

pot /pot/ n. strategy (plan), tactic

přéy /pɹɛj/ v. drive, ride, steer

přoǰ /pɹoɟ/ n. visit

přunts /pɹunʦ/ adj. empty, vacant, naked, nude, tired (needing rest)

puǰ /puɟ/ n. vendor

pǔǔ /pɯː/ v. might

řaa /ɹaː/ n. corpse, carcass

řéé /ɹɛː/ v. grab, clutch, grip

řiilla /ˈɹiːlːa/ adj. best

řimppi /ˈɹimpːi/ v. chase

řitú /ˈɹitʌ/ n. difference

řoooo /ˈɹoːoː/ n. victory

řun /ɹun/ v. improve

sa /sa/ pron. nothing

sap /sap/ v. hang, dangle

seemmoolǰ /ˈseːmːoːlɟ/ adj. plain

shaa /ʃaː/ n. cell (room in a prison)

she /ʃe/ v. remember

sheposko /ˈʃeposko/ n. daughter

short /ʃort/ prep. down

shřezoo /ˈʃɹezoː/ n. discovery

shřo dřa /ʃɹo dɹa/ n. dagger

shřuu /ʃɹuː/ n. alcohol, liquor

shuu /ʃuː/ adj. light (weight), fragile

skaa /skaː/ n. dress, costume

skéétt /skɛːtt/ n. wife

skovoov̌ú /ˈskovoːʋʌ/ adj. broken

skřo /skɹo/ v. smell (emit odor), stink

skúmmo /ˈskʌmːo/ n. uncle

skwat /skwat/ det. every, each

skwoosh /skwoːʃ/ n. bill, check

sléélǰ /slɛːlɟ/ n. letter (of an alphabet)

slony /sloɲ/ v. doubt

slúppu /ˈslʌpːu/ n. hint

sméé kwú /smɛː kwʌ/ n. candle

sminch /sminʧ/ num. six

smú /smʌ/ n. party

sna thaab /sna θaːb/ n. drought

snee /sneː/ v. bend, fold

snont /snont/ n. doll

snuu /snuː/ n. committee

sony /soɲ/ n. crime

sot /sot/ n. dialect

spe /spe/ v. lie

spild /spild/ n. money, wage

splanaǰ /ˈsplanaɟ/ adj. personal

splu /splu/ n. crown

spřaǰ /spɹaɟ/ adj. cultural

spřoo /spɹoː/ n. ass

spú /spʌ/ n. test

ste /ste/ v. steal, rob, snatch

steshshod /ˈsteʃʃod/ adv. usually

sto /sto/ prep. like

střad /stɹad/ adv. well

střilch /stɹilʧ/ v. drop

střǔ /stɹɯ/ v. rise

stuyt /stujt/ adj. quiet, silent, subtle, elusive

sǔn /sɯn/ n. message, note

sǔǔl /sɯːl/ conj. than

súyt /sʌjt/ n. sheep

swi /swi/ n. belly

swúǰ /swʌɟ/ adj. economic

taa /taː/ v. miss (long for)

tash /taʃ/ n. bug

téyt /tɛjt/ adj. awful, terrible

thall /thall/ n. ash

thay /thaj/ n. orgasm

théyt /thɛjt/ adj. famous

thish /θiʃ/ n. sign, signal, symptom

thoo kuy /thoː kuj/ n. middle class

thřét /θɹɛt/ v. deserve

thřooskoo /ˈθɹoːskoː/ n. bottle

thul /θul/ n. trunk (large box)

tii /tiː/ n. east

toosht /toːʃt/ n. vagina

třapuu /ˈtɹapuː/ v. stop, halt

třilan /ˈtɹilan/ n. security

třooalt /ˈtɹoːalt/ v. lose

tu /tu/ n. will

tushsh /tuʃʃ/ n. strap

twaasúl /ˈtwaːsʌl/ n. machine

twe /twe/ adv. also, as well

twǔ /twɯ/ conj. either

ǔny /ɯɲ/ num. nine

uushsh /uːʃʃ/ n. victim

vartoov̌úod /ˈvartoːˌʋʌod/ adv. finally

viipunoo /ˈviːpunoː/ adj. skilled

voor /voːr/ n. success, benefit, profit

vǔrt /vɯrt/ v. drown, drench, suffocate

wanuu /ˈwanuː/ n. effort

wi /wi/ adv. maybe, perhaps

wishǔrsh /ˈwiʃɯrʃ/ n. library

woo /woː/ pron. everybody

wǔguǰ /ˈwɯguɟ/ n. scientist

wuult /wuːlt/ n. fool

yeed /jeːd/ n. prostitute

yolch /jolʧ/ adj. available

yuudúz /ˈjuːdʌz/ v. leave (let remain), let

Definetly not like English - already good for a foreign language if you ask me.

Now, let's transfer those rules to Awkwords.

1

Open an alphabetic text sorter. Set custom separator to "/"

Put all of the categories (initials, medials, finals and vowels) through the sorter and paste the results (separately) into the Awkwords site.

2

Set the syllable structure to (C)V(KV)(N), enable duplicate filter and press Generate.

3

You can then sort all of this alphabetically, again, with the separation being linebreaks

And honestly? If you already know IPA, you can read all of these rather easily. Here you go, boom - a dictionary. Not speaking of the one we already generated on Vulgarlang.

Afterwards if you wanna get spicy, take your output and go to the Procedural Name Generator site.

1

Paste your output into the Current Data field.

2

In result, you get words that are following the rules of your protoconlang and thus can be used further later. Though the unneeded capitalization might be annoying, you can always visit the Convertcase site.

[garciapimienta]

goodbye camp nou 😭😭😭

[clubxoda]

Miguel Manjarrez [Foto]

Crónica de la visita de Vondré en vivo desde El Callejón Bar, León, Guanajuato, México

SINVERGONZONERÍA

27 de mayo del 2023

Aunque me encuentre en estado crítico por las desventajas de mi humanidad, voy a sentarme a escribir lo mucho que me divertí esa noche. En cierto punto, es algo hermosa la putrefacción que me viola en estos momentos, porque ayer pude rosar la gloria con todos mis sentidos. Se presentó Vondré en El Callejón y justo la semana pasada había quedado conmigo en reaprender a sentir las experiencias. Así que había llegado la excusa perfecta para tratar de que se me pegue algo de la juventud de estos tiempos apocalípticos. Creo que cuando uno envejece se expone de brazos abiertos a la nada, por eso últimamente creo que ya no sé quién soy. Mientras estaba en el corazón de ese concierto; un fenómeno natural llamado #grunge me arrolló a su paso y me hizo sentir bien rico por dentro.

28 de mayo del 2023

Yo solo recuerdo que ése fue justo el nivel perfecto de satisfacción en pequeñas dosis que había recibido en mucho tiempo. No creas que está mal sentir cosas que nadie entiende. Está mal no compartirlas con los demás y más si eres Ana Cristina Espinoza. Oh Anita, me convertiste en creyente con algo intangible y hermoso que salió de tus entrañas. Te admiro mucho y ojalá nos veamos otra vez.

"Esto está bien sabroso" (Léase como una sola palabra y pronunciada por un vulgar pujido).

Un wey le decía a su morra y ella le confirmaba bailando algo parecido a la macarena, pero más aesthetic. Hoy por hoy me duele un chingo el cuello y estoy infinitamente agradecido por ello.  

Había llegado al concierto antes de las pruebas de audio y aun así llegué tarde para verlas empezar a tocar. La obra maestra "No Me Impulses a Ser Así" rompió el silencio y todos en chinga se pusieron a mover la cabeza. ¡ALV#! Nomás me acuerdo y me dan ganas de explotar. "No quiero regresar a mi vida artificial". Ahora que no las estoy viendo creo que están pensando en mí, pero también creo que me dejaron bien tocado. Algo movieron en mi percepción que me hizo creer en milagros.

29 de mayo del 2023

Sigo remando las aguas profundas de estos pinches recuerdos. Es que ¿Qué puedes decir cuando ves la expresión libre y sin tapujos? La sensatez encarnada en cuatro personas. Había más de mil asistentes en esta conferencia sobre la verdad en el parlamento leonés. No, la verdad es que no éramos tantas personas, pero a mí me lo pareció. La última vez que me había metido a los empujones en el slam del concierto, había sido en un festival de garage en la CDMX del 2019; WILD O’FEST. Solo porque soy un melancólico. Ya sabía que me hubiera arrepentido de no participar en esos rituales satánicos. A parte, las leyendas que se presentaron en ese show no se parecen a los Vondré para nada. Hay algo exquisito en apreciar las pequeñas diferencias de entre los géneros musicales. Cómo son todos lo mismo, pero diferentes al mismo tiempo. Envidio a los músicos porque hacen tanto por mí y yo no hago nada por ellos. Alcanzar un nivel de expresión tan propio. Creo que esa es la característica clave de la originalidad. Construir algo apegado a ti se convierte en tu estilo. Atestigüé la originalidad. Somos millones de habitantes donde todos somos iguales (según), pero cada uno tiene su estilo propio (según). Depende de cada quién. Vondré es original porque se saborea la autenticidad de su estilo atravesándome el cráneo a guitarrazos weros. Nirvana, Sonic Youth, Garbage, Marilyn Manson, Smashing Pumpkins se quedan cortos. Llegó la nueva ola.  Ya pertenezco a está generación futurista que vive únicamente el momento que pasa frente a nuestros ojos. VONDRÉ es lo de hoy. El viernes celebré el alumbramiento de la salvación del rock mexicano. Le dieron posada en el chiquero favorito del condado, y un montón de gente se dio cita para visitarlo. La historia se me hace familiar. Creo que ahora sigue resucitar de entre los muertos. Bueno, soy un experto en eso.

Amen.

Del verbo amar.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

[solidando]

Lembrança de lembrar

Bêbada em uma quinta-feira, te encontrei sob a baixa luz da sub-consciência. Você passou por mim, o cabelo voando. Eu gostaria de falar algo naquele dia. A busca das raízes do melancólico era admirável, eu te disse. Sentados lado a lado, eu te agradecia pela escrita mas por um desvio de atenção, o lobo occipital recebeu as imagens do sorriso e enviou para as associações. Eu não sabia e nunca tinha reparado. Quase 1 ano desde aquele dia eu afirmo veementemente: maldito seja o dia em que eu fui agradecer por uma escrita e recebi o sorriso mais bonito do bar.

Desde então, a minha vida se emudeceu e eu não consigo mais falar. Bloqueada pela repressão, sendo vítima do Mal - estar eu não quero sentir, eu não quero dizer eu não posso sentir, eu não posso dizer É pecado se apaixonar pelo modo como alguém assopra a fumaça do cigarro, lançando para cima e olhando pro céu. Foi assim que você fez eu reparar que haviam muitas coisas bonitas e que eu gostaria de apreciar e dizer. E eu as disse, sob a baixa luz da sub-consciência. É nos breves momentos de retraição do superego que a gente se torna mais vulnerável ao desejo pelo outro, não há medo de dizer. Apesar disso, eu temi. Sentia que poderia expor o coração e ganhar um nada. Veio pior, era a linguagem da indiferença que entrava em cena.

******, tem uma região entre o teu pescoço e a raíz do teu cabelo. Abaixo da orelha, bem ali. Não existe nenhuma superfície no mundo em que eu gostaria de encostar, nenhuma comparável àquele lugar.

Certa tarde, me peguei jogada na cama. Meu corpo pesava. Talvez era apenas a anemia posta em visibilidade ou a fraqueza da jornada tripla. Mas eu só sei que pesava e tudo ao redor era a mensagem que eu não conseguia compreender. Se você riu comigo nos outros dias, o que tinha acontecido então?

Eu nunca soube entender aquele dia de agosto Eu nunca soube o que de fato te afastava de mim. Senti o aperto no corpo todas as vezes em que você deixou a ausência aparecer em relevo. Eu não consigo sequer acerta na palavra, não chego a dizer exatamente o que é. Em análise, perco minutos e minutos e me interrompo. Busco desvios e tento contar o quanto todas as suas partidas me feriram. Mas eu nunca chego no ponto. Eu gostaria que você tivesse gostado de estar comigo e que te fosse uma lembrança de lembrar. Não esqueci de palavras. É "lembrança de lembrar" mesmo. Sabe quando a informação é associada com o colorido emocional, lá do sistema límbico? Quer dizer que a memória importa, deve ser lançada ao longo prazo. Ela volta e faz a pessoa sentir a falta, faz querer reviver. Eu sentia falta do lugar no pescoço, de alguma coisa na sua fala que parecia Cazuza. Sentia falta da meia borboleta. Me era estranho relacionar os bons momentos ao teu lado com as ausências repentinas e repetidas. Você deixou de estar tantas vezes que eu achei que não lembrava mais nem meu nome.

Ia voltava ia voltava ia voltava iaaaaaaaaaa voltava iaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa voltavaaa iaa voltav iaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa e tentou voltar.

Doeu tantas vezes que parecia a primeira vez. Naquela tarde eu chorei como não queria. Imagina sentir tristeza por alguém não ter lembrança de lembrar de como é estar com você? Eu senti todos os dias e sinto até hoje. Foram tantas as vezes em que você deixou de ficar que parecia fácil demais. Chegou o ponto que eu quis aprender. Queria referências, tutoriais, aulas práticas. Queria acompanhar o teu jeito de não estar comigo. Mas minha conformação não facilita jogar o jogo, usar as táticas. Sair fora, tratar o outro como se fosse uma tarefa de dias. "Dias sim, dias não. Talvez só no outro mês eu apareço para você."

Doeu como uma verdade. Apareceu no corpo e fez pesar. Naquele dia, tocava "Agora Eu Quero Ir". A música daquelas duas meninas que eu nunca soube o que cantavam. Naquele miserável dia elas falaram por mim. Eu nunca vou poder te contar como doeu aquela vez que você disse que era só o jeito teu de ser. Jeito de ficar disperso e não ter lembrança de lembrar. Aquele dia meu sofrimento pareceu migalhas diante da tua indiferença. Diante da tua indiferença de meses. Eu só conseguia pensar: "o que eu estou fazendo esta madrugada? se eu tivesse sentimento bonito, se eu tivesse cuidado do meu pequeno ser, se eu tivesse me amado primeiro..." Macabéa! Aquele dia ficou claro que eu era mais sozinha do que imaginei. Estava sozinha há meses, com o coração e com as lembranças do sorriso. Lamentando uma partida que se fazia de novo, que eu não sabia. Nem ele sabia, pois não era uma lembrança de lembrar.

O maior de meus erros foi ter te permitido voltar todas as vezes. O apaixonado é, em síntese, alguém que sente e esconde o sentir. Sente o bom, esconde que sentir o bom esconde o que de bom faz sofrer. Esconde que as vezes sentir dói mais do que faz bem. Mas o sentir é tão bom. Eu gostava de tantas coisas em você e eu nunca tive vergonha de dizer cada uma delas. Hoje eu vejo que foi um erro. Mas não mais do que ter permitido ir e vir para mim todas as vezes que fosse do teu desejo. Eu nunca achei a forma de fazer você ficar aqui por mais alguns dias. Baixinho, tranquilo e sem exigências. Do jeito que eu imaginei que poderíamos ser. Não era muito, não era demais. Eu gostava de você de um jeito que ainda existe e me faz sentir tristeza. Tem uma enigma sem solução entre você e eu. A depender da fortaleza que se põe entre nós, a mesma que te aprimora cada vez mais na linguagem da indiferença, nós não estaremos juntos de novo. Eu queria ter a oportunidade de dizer que as tuas idas e vindas me fizeram sofrer, bem mais do que eu gostaria de admitir. No final das contas, teria sido melhor ter te ouvido dizer que não gostou de ter comigo. Tudo teria sido melhor do que a sua saída pela dispersão.

Eu escrevo como quem pede para não ter mais lembrança de querer voltar. Eu sinto saudade todos os dias e dói saber que estou errando comigo. A vida precisa ser vivida. Estou triste por ter esbarrado em você na escuridão daquele bar, eu jamais saberia que ali se iniciava a trajetória do sofrimento pela indiferença.

Espero poder perder as lembranças de lembrar e de nunca mais voltar a sentir, pelo menos não enquanto não aprender a ser como alguém que é você.

[evilneo]

HAI MAL ^_^

29. How many known parts do you have, if you can count?

24. Do you have an inner world? Whether you do or not, what would be a safe space for your parts?

21. When you feel safe sharing about your parts with someone, which part is the “easiest” to introduce/explain about?

18. Are there any reoccurring themes or symbolism in your system? Would you like to share about it?

29: i wanna say. 46 counting subsystems

24: i DO have an innerworld but its not super. detailed? it is but it isnt yknow.... void. with thing and places sometimes

21: probbbably me, but barring me, Fern (takes over from me when stressed), Tusk (backs up Fern, caretaker) n Millie (trauma holder) 👍 those three are like. a good introduction to alters and system roles

18: .... well. i will just say that there are Definitely Reoccurring Themes of certain types of traumas, and im gonna leave it at that LOL. otherwise nonhumans + AI/robots (ME) are common. also, curved noses is a v common trait for some reason. probably bc we r swagful

[hitchell-mope]

Revolting children by the Vks

Mal: Woah

Never again will she get the best of me

Never again will he take away my freedom

Jay: And we won't forget the day we fought

Evie: For the right to be a little bit naughty

Carlos: Never again will the chokey door slam

Never again will I be bullied and

Uma: Never again will I doubt it when

Gil: My mummy says I'm a miracle

Vks: Never again

(They start dancing in formation)

Never again will we live behind bars

Never again now that we know we are

Revolting children living in revolting times

(The core four, Uma and Gil join in)

We sing revolting songs using revolting rhymes

We'll be revolting children 'til our revolting's done

And we'll have the villains bolting we're revolting

Squeaky and Squirmy: AAAAHHHH!!!!

Uma, Freddie and Celia: We are revolting children living in revolting times

Carlos and Diego: We sing revolting songs using revolting rhymes

Jay and Gil: We'll be revolting children 'til our revolt is done

Persey, Hadie, Mal and Evie: And we'll have the villains bolting we're revolting

Carlos: We will become a screaming horde

Freddie: Take out your hockey stick and use it as a sword

Celia: Never again will we be ignored

Diego: We'll find out where the chalk is stored

Jay: And draw rude pictures on the board,

Uma: it's not insulting

Vks: we're revolting!

Hadie: We can S P L how we like if enough of us are wrong

Mal: Wrong is right

Freddie: Every word N O R T

Quinn: Why?

Persey: Cause we're a little bit naughty

Anthony: You say we oughta stay inside the line

Jay: If we disobey at the same time

Mal: There is nothing that the villains can do

Quinn: She can take her hammer and SHU

Carlos: You didn't think they could push us too far

Uma: But there's no going back now we

The core four: R E V O L T I N'

Carlos: REVOLTING TIMES!!!!

Uma and Gil: We're S I N G

Dizzy and Celia: U S I N G

Persey and Hadie: Yeah, we'll be

(In the dungeon)

The Hook’s (nodding along to the music): R E V O L T I N G

Carlos (dancing in Quinn’s face): It is 2 L 8 4 U

E R E volting

Hadie: OH!!!!

(The Vks are all carrying the core four, Uma and Gil on their collective shoulders)

Mal: We are revolting children

Jay: living in revolting times

Evie: We sing revolting songs

Carlos: using revolting rhymes

Uma: We'll be revolting children

Gil: 'til our revolt is done

(They’re put down on the dais. They’re all dancing in formation again)

Mal: It is 2 L 8 4 U

Uma: Never again will she get the best of me!

Vks: We are revolting children living in revolting times

We sing revolting songs using revolting rhymes

Mal: Whoa-yeah!

Vks: We'll be revolting children 'til our revolt is done

Jaylos: Down-down-down-down!

Vks: It is 2 L 8 4 U E R E volting!

[toriaurorawriter15]

Love Torn

Chapter 6: Audrey's Letter

Today is the first and last time Ben will ever enter Gaston's Pin Bar with two of his guards on both of his sides.

Ben wasn't sure why the cottage-core-like home with animal skins and the heads of several dead wildlife animals was popular.

The King now knows this practice is a coping mechanism for all men in his kingdom.

According to Jane, this twenty-by-thirty dark bar is where Prince Chad Charming Jr would be.

Since my wedding ceremony to Mal, Charming Jr. has become friends with every bottle he comes across.

According to Ben's mother, Queen Ella is worried about his health!

The last time Queen Ella talked to his mother, Ella and Chad's younger sister Choely stopped by to explain that he hadn't been the same since he received a mysterious letter.

It is a light pink parchment letter given to him by one of the three fairies, Maryweather.

"I should have realized that Audrey's disappearance would be Chad's undoing... Oh, Aud, where did you go?" Ben thought as he entered the gloomy bar with his guards.

Several scattered two-seated high tables surround a stage, and five more are outside on the indoor patio.

It doesn't take long for the young King to stumble onto one of the table settings, but Ben keeps walking farther into the stinky bar.

"Your Highness, I found him!" The guard on his right side announces.

Ben turns towards the brunette man's direction before seeing the guard's middle and index fingers point toward the back bar.

Behind the bar is a chubby man named LeFou, whose hands are cleaning the counter with a white towel.

Right next to him on the opposite side of the counter is a blond man with his head covered by his arms.

'What happened to you, Chad?" Ben thought as he took in the prince's appearance.

The once clean-shaven man was disheveled, his neat bob hairstyle was nowhere to be found, and he smelled strongly like hard-core whiskey.

Prince Charming Jr was leaning all his weight onto the black counter as he slept off his hangover.

Within seconds, Ben walks toward Charming's direction.

"Aw, Your Highness!" LeFou exclaims, "Are you here to finally get this man out of Gaston's bar?"

The guards behind Ben snicker over LaFou's question while they hear Ben respond, "Perhaps!"

Ben stands beside Chad and comments, amused, "Before I do, I need to sober him up so he can answer some of my questions."

A raspberry escapes Chad's lips before seeing the prince move from his position.

"Oh, now you want to know what about your Ex?" Charming replies, "Are you done with playing happy family with that dragon?"

Anger rushes through Ben's veins before replying in a firm tone, "Do not disrespect your Queen."

Charming laughs at Ben's comment as he brushes a tear that escapes from his right eye.

Ben starts to feel his chest rise and fall as he tries not to find it within himself to punch his so-called best mate.

"What is so funny?" Ben asks while he clenches his teeth.

Charming stops laughing and casually states, "Let me guess, the V kiddos think Audry took revenge on your dragon wife. Jane told you about the letter that could answer all your questions." a hic-up comes out of his thin lips before hearing him add on with amusement behind each of his words, "It is ironic- that you are hoping to get answers- from the one woman- you left heartbroken- because you couldn't be faithful- both of us know- she didn't get any answers from you- when you embarrassed her in front of all our peers at the prep-rally!" He takes a deep breath in before ending his speech by stating in an uncaring tone, "Never mind!- there is no point talking to a guy who can't see- that his decisions- affect those around him!

Guilt comes across Ben's heart from Chad's declaration before turning away from the drunk prince.

The once-confused boy wanted to say Audrey was a horrible person and she deserved it, which is true!

Until Ben remembers his mother's last comment after meeting little Audrey for the first, "Not everyone comes from a loving home."

Ben witnessed Audrey's family's dynamic, and the eight-year-old prince couldn't take her away from that horrible place.

Audrey's grandmother was very abusive towards her granddaughter.

Queen Leah said many hurtful words about Audrey's posture and how she presented herself.

Besides those jabs, Queen Leah would sometimes leave physical bruises on Audrey.

Sometimes Chad, or himself would find nail prints on her shoulder or bruising under her ribs.

He remembers the many times she would escape her home and sob into his mother's arms.

Tears were always running down her brown doe-eyes as his younger self would console her after a meeting with her grandmother.

Queen Leah controlled every aspect of Audrey's life. He- ruined that one piece of happiness in her life: their relationship by allowing Mal to believe she manipulated him into falling in love with her.

For the sake of his kingdom, Ben had to act inhumanly.

So he stares at his two guards with no reaction as they look at him with anticipation.

He takes a small breath in and out before ordering, "Go and guard the front doors of this bar!"

" We might be here a while," he whispers.

Both guards nod to his request and leave the room.

He then turns towards LaFu and asks, "Please leave the room."

The Englishman nods before leaving the room quickly.

Well, kind of. Ben notices LaFu hiding behind the stage, but he lets the bartender listen to their conversation. After all, they know everything that happens at this bar.

Once the area is clear, Ben tries a different tactic and returns his direction towards Charming.

"Please tell me what Aud-Audrey wrote, Chad!" Ben begs, "I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important! Mal was murdered in her sleep last night, and I think Audrey may know why."

Chad's honey cone eyes glare at the King with nothing.

Ben grows angrier from his lack of response and hits the bar's counter with his right fist.

"Dam it, Chad!" Ben starts, "You need to realize that this secret you have will get you killed!"

"Yeah, so what!" Chad spit back, I have no other reason to live".

Ben takes a deep breath in and out before stating in distress, "I get it- I messed up!"

Ben looks down at the dust counter and states, "Chad, you need to understand!" My son just lost his mother, and now you want him to be without a father! - Why?- I don't know the answer to that question! All I know is that I will be in danger! So please tell me; what happened to Audrey."

Chad takes a moment to think about his response.

"Don't say I didn't do anything for you," he replies before reaching into the inner pocket behind his heart.

Within minutes, Ben sees the wittering light pink parchments of paper.

He takes it from Chad's dirty fingers before seeing Audrey's cursive words in blue ink.

"You can keep it." Charming states in defeat, "I have memorized it since I received it."

Ben nods to his comment before reading the letter.

Dear Chad,

My grandmother has exiled me from Auradon. Can you believe it!

She is exiling me from this universe.

Gosh, I don't know where I am going, but I can't step foot in Aurdon.

Chad, I am so scared!

There is nothing I can do to make her change her mind!

My mother isn't going to survive with this rash decision of her.

Yet, I can't do this more!

If I say anything else on this paper, it could get back to her, and I must protect my unborn child.

Yes, I am expecting! :)

I don't know when they will be delivered.

However, I promise you!

I will love them with every piece of my heart.

They will never spend a night in bed crying at the thought of never being enough.

People always say a bundle of joy can change you as a better person.

Well- I will certainly make sure their life is better than mine.

But that isn't why I am writing this letter to you.

There is so much I want to say to you.

Yet, I need you to do a favor.

Well, two.

First, tell Ben that I am so sorry for whatever happens next.

I don't know what my grandmother's plan is.

But it must be something drastic.

Let him know I cannot forgive someone who I love.

If that last statement breaks your heart, I am so sorry.

Still, you must know that I tried to give you everything.

We both know Ben owes my heart.

Second, please take care of yourself.

I can not be the reason why you can't breathe.

It will break me to pieces if I find out that you died because I left.

Chat, I am not worth your heartache.

Believe me!

Plus, you must think of Choley!

She needs her big brother to teach her everything.

Oh my goodness, I am so sensitive!

Dam, this must be the hormones I read about in the library! lol.

I hope you can do those favors for me, and I will miss you!

Always your friend,

Audrey Rose! -Crown, Heart Emjoi-

"She is expecting, and I am not the father," Chad says in a bitter tone while he looks ahead in anguish.

Ben puts his right hand above Chad's torn shirt and replies, "I wish I knew what I did to make her fall in love with me. Nevertheless, she is right! You are love-torn. You need to put the broken pieces of your heart together, and I will help you. That is a promise I can make for you."

Chad doesn't do anything for a moment before nodding in agreement, "For Choley and my mother, I will try."

Ben disagrees, "No, you will do it. And by the sound of this letter, Aubrey will need you in the future."

Chad nods in agreement.

The rest of the night, Ben and Chad spent it rekindling their friendship.

It will amaze their friends to see them being able to put the past behind them.

However, it won't be the same as before Queen Mal came into the picture.

Chapter 5