#drab-tinted

[textmel8r]

[ DRABBLE + SMAU ] 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ! ( seventh installment ) in which you find toji fushiguro’s number off a sugar baby site .

୨୧˚ part; one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight.

୨୧˚ incl; toji fushiguro

୨୧˚ cw; sugar mommy! reader , sugar baby! toji , masturbation , angst , profanity , descriptions of violence , toji being a pathetic little sicko :D

୨୧˚ an; sorry this part is on the shorter side😅😅 it’s more of a filler chapter but i still like it!

It’s well past midnight when Toji slips his way back into his motel room. It’s dingy and drab, the once-white walls twinged a sickly yellowish tint from chain smoking guests. Ugly bedspread details different flowers that Toji couldn’t name, the same aged pattern clinging to the drapes that were pulled shut over the front window, never to be opened. It smells of heady sweat and open wounds, though maybe that’s just him. No, it definitely is him. He’s hyper aware of the grimy layer of filth that acts as a second layer of skin. It’s gritty and uncomfortable.

The bathroom cubicle is claustrophobic; if Toji were to stand in the center of the room, he could easily touch all four walls that boxed him in. He sits on the closed toilet seat lid, staring at his hands. They’re huge, intimidating. Trembling, spattered in blood that’s long since crusted into a dark concretion, cracking at the hinges of his fingers. His hands that took the lives of two innocent men just hours prior. Toji didn’t want to kill them, but they wouldn’t cooperate. Oh, how they shrieked and hollered for their lives as he dragged them into that alley. They just kept fucking screaming. 

“Fuck…” The man sighs grimly, letting his head dip forward to rest in the cups of his filthy palms. His bangs feel matted and crunchy with remnants of sweat. Disgusting self-pity blooms at the base of his hollow chest, and suddenly Toji has the urge to ram his skull into the drywall. Or dislocate his finger. Or do anything to punish himself for that feeling of defeatism. The nerve to possess such a shameful victim mentality, as if he deserved sympathy. He’s a killer; the best he deserves is a fucking electric chair.

Toji showers. A long, scalding shower that singes him to the bone. Water stained red cascades down the rippling wall of muscles that was his body and swirls down the rusty drain. These post-slaughter showers used to be blank canvases of his life. Ones where Toji’s brain would shut off and try to forget the atrocities committed by his hand. He would scrub his flesh raw, scrub scrub scrub mindlessly until he ached all over. But now, he only thinks of one thing.

You.

Maybe it’s some sick coping mechanism, turning to thoughts of you in times like these. In a pathetic form of self comfort, he reminisces. Your hands holding his face, your know-it-all smile, your way with words. God, your fucking way with words. 

“My sweet boy,” Toji whispers under his breath, touching himself. As if he could replicate the delicate way in which you spoke to him. His eyes shut, desperately clinging onto the mental image of you beneath him in his bed. Your arms outstretched, reaching for him like you want him. Like you love him. “My sweet…” Toji tries to fade into the warmth of the spray, imagining it to be your body heat encapsulating him instead. But the water is far too hot, it hurts; you wouldn’t hurt him like this. He tries so damn hard to disassociate into the pleasure, as if his hand would magically dissolve into yours. Yeah, right. His hand is too big to ever compete with yours. Too fucking rough and gritty and mean.

The flat of his palm finds the greasy tiles of the shower wall. Toji fucks himself with all the roughness he deserves, lower lip staked between two rows of teeth to cease its quivering. He’s going to cum. Your face appears in his psyche once more, but this time, it’s from the first time you visited him in the hospital all those months ago. He can see the picture so vividly, it scares him: you seated at his bedside, poking and prodding over his obliques, muttering a stream of concerned questions. But you were never upset or angry. No, despite the worries, you were still smiling. At him. 

Fuck, he’s really going to cum.

Toji grits his teeth, climaxing with a harsh shudder and a broken gasp of your name on his lips. Small jolts force him into a twitchy state, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against the tiles beside his hand. Semen paints the wall below, too far to the left for the shower spray to rinse it off. He doesn’t bother to clean it off. He’s too repulsed by himself to do much of anything. 

The plasticky sheets stick to his skin. Sleeping in just a pair of boxers was probably a stupid idea, bed mites were a real cause for concern, or so Shiu had told him. But it’s hot. He’s hot. And restless. And uncomfortable. He always had trouble falling asleep in foreign beds. Lidded eyes peek over to the alarm clock perched on the side table, its cherry digits splaying 2:47am. You were asleep. 

He reaches for his phone anyway, wracked with guilt all the while. The tension in his thighs still persisted, still succumbed to the aftershocks of his orgasm he fucked himself to with your face in his mind. He’s fucking gross. This is gross.

She’s sleeping, jackass. Don’t wake her up because you’re lonely.

Be a fucking man and lick your own wounds. That’s what his father would say.

He texts you anyway.

He presses the call button. It only gets through half a ring before the line cuts on and he hears a groggy “hey” filter through the receiver. How long has it been since he’s heard your voice? Not that long, only three days and yet it feels like it's been three lifetimes. And that’s truly the moment when Toji knows you’ve fucked him for life, because when did he start thinking such sappy shit like that?

“Hi,” he answers, melting back into the stiff mattress. His gaze wanders along the waterlogged ceiling, tracing the abstract damp stains that have settled in its popcorn surface. He thinks offhandedly that one of them vaguely resembles a rabbit. “Sorry for waking you.”

“You already apologized, silly. I told you it’s okay.” There’s a pause. “It’s nice to hear your voice.”

It’s nice to hear yours, too. “Go to sleep.” 

“Yeah, okay.” The sound of sheets stirring crackles, Toji assumes you’re tossing in bed. “You’re sleeping now, too, right?”

He paws at his stomach, the pads of his rough fingertips tracing the gutters of his abdominal plates before he sinks his blunt nails into his own flesh. “In a bit.”

“Soon. It’s late, Toji.” You order him to bed like a mother would her child.

He nods as if you could see the gesture. “Soon, then.”

You bid him a good night, turning once more into bed before settling back into the depths of the slumber Toji had interrupted. He clasps his cell between his ear and shoulder, basking in your gentle breaths. It’s the same sounds you made the night you fucked him. He slept upon your chest, head over your heart, listening to its beats. You drooled on his pillow, he gave a quiet scoff at the memory. Are you drooling now?

Toji never sleeps.

likes and reblogs are appreciated !

tags . • @4imhry @sugurubabe @mastermasterlist1p1 @mikisspeak @fluttershyfangs @iluv-ace @xstom @bratbby333 @mizzfizz @sserafin @wo-ming-bai @maexc @r0semultiverse @r0ckst4rjk @aesukuni @taelattecookie @purple-obsidian @hqtoge @khaothick @saintkaylaa @ya9amicide @crayzyaarna @saiki-enthusiast @haesify @nyamocka @sixxze @lifesucksweswallow @darkstarlight82 @megumisdivinedogs @celestialol @yunho-leeknow @ghostfacefricker6969 @aizawa19 @lupicalbestwolf @nymphsdomain @makuzume

[politemenacephd]

Monster!Mig Vol 4. (+18)

Werewolf!Miguel O'Hara X GN!Reader

Masterlist

Content: Established relationship, Monster/human relationship, Fear kink, Hormone smelling, Oral (reader recieving), Rough PinV Sex, Size Difference, Belly bulging, Claiming Bites, Knotting, Creampie.

Notes: i got the flu real bad so we're feeling feral today boys i swear i will be back w more stuff soon Word count: 4162

‘There, nice and tight, right?’

You gently jangled the chains that you’d just tightened around Miguel’s chest, ensuring that they were immovable. They clanked a little against his rounded pecs, and while they could be moved about an inch or so they remained taut and firm.

Miguel kept his eyes on you as you checked them.  ‘I’m—sorry we have to do this again’ he murmured.

‘Nah, don’t worry about it’ you said, giving him a cheeky smile to ease his worries. ‘I knew what I was getting myself into.’

‘I- I mean I did my best to warn you, but—’

‘Mhm. Mhm. You did your best, and my god, I just did not listen’ you sarcastically sighed. He let out a little snort of a chuckle in response.

‘I just want you to be safe’ he murmured. ‘I couldn’t- stand, anything happening to you.’

‘Oh my god, stop being so stoic, pup. Just relax’ you teased.

‘You call me pup again I will bite you’ Miguel grunted back, ‘and I don’t mean because of the change. I will happily do it regardless.’

‘Oo, please do. But, later. For now—voila!’

You stepped back and admired your set up. This was your so called ‘panic’ room, a totally bare attic space with enormous, shackled chains bolted into the hard brick wall. It had one window overlooking the night sky, allowing cool light to filter in and highlight the dust in the air, but beyond that there was nothing else.

It was horribly drab, however, that was for a reason, for the floor was covered in years’ worth of claw marks, and the bricks showed signs of being gnawed by giant, hardy teeth.

You looked back down to Miguel on the floor and noted the slight tint of yellow showing on his warm red-brown eyes. His pupils were already dilating.

Your dear Miguel, your beloved, would soon turn into a ravenous beast for the night.

‘I’m gonna miss you’ you said softly, your sentimental heart unable to keep up your cheerful, teasing façade.

Miguel gave a slight smile and scoffed. ‘It’s one night. One night to keep you alive. You’ll manage.’

‘Mm, I dunno. Maybe death would be better.’

‘You’re so dramatic’ he said bluntly.

‘I’m dramatic? Me?’ you said as you dramatically pressed your hand to your chest. ‘You’re the one who can’t see a full moon without murdering everyone in sight. THAT’S dramatic!’

Miguel scoffed a second time and let his head hit the brick wall. He was playing the exasperated partner, but you could see his eyes lingering on you in the dimming light.

‘Yeah. I’ll miss you too’ he said, his voice softening as he looked you up and down.

You smiled as your hands fell to your sides. You looked oddly coy. ‘Mhm. That’s what I thought.’

You carefully bent down to his level as the urge to kiss him became too strong. He strained against his chains to meet you with drooping eyes. You made it to your knees, even allowing your lips to brush, when you smelled something that gave you instant pause.

‘Is, that—’

It was. It was that familiar musk, the smell of fur and earth and beasts. You glanced at Miguel’s eyes and found them even more dilated than before.

‘Shit…’

The two of you glanced in unison towards the one rickety window in the corner. You could see that the sun was slowly setting as the sky turned from red to navy blue, the emptiness glimmering with the first few speckled stars.

The little blocks of light cast onto the dirty floor were turning from a soft yellow to a hazy white. Moonlight.

You sighed. ‘Okay. Okay, um—it’s time for me to go.’

You managed to sneak one gently kiss to his cheek, leaving a lingering little print of your scent before you reluctantly withdrew. Miguel’s sad puppy dog eyes followed you all the way to the door.

‘Good luck’ you whispered, pausing on the precipice of the doorway. ‘I’ll stay up. Make sure nothing gets out of hand.’

‘I’ll be thinking of you’ Miguel murmured back. You smiled before locking the door at your back.

…

For the rest of the night you stayed up in your room. You knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep so you decided to cuddle up in your loosest pyjama’s and watch videos until the early dawn.

You wanted to be able to sit beside him, but Miguel was staunchly against such a thing. He couldn’t risk the temptation of having you nearby, and you knew he didn’t like you seeing him in this form.

You knew you wouldn’t care but you didn’t want to push it. You agreed to stay separate.

As the clock struck midnight you glanced over to where the curtains on your bedroom window were lightly waving. You could see the full moon beyond them, bright and bold and uncovered by even a single cloud.

An ominous sight to someone like you.

Your eyes instinctively glanced up to the ceiling. You knew he would have changed by now. You wondered as you always did; was it painful, the change? He said it wasn’t, but you knew he could just be covering to save you the worry.

You wondered what he must think about in that state, if he even thought at all. You wondered if he did miss you. If he thought of you.

God, you really did miss him. You missed his warmth, his biceps around your waist as you spooned, his warm breath on your neck. You missed resting on his chest. You missed kissing him. You missed- well, everything.

You missed his body. You missed his soft praise and barely concealed possessiveness as he held you down. You missed his calloused hands and sharp claws gripping you tight.

You felt a soft pulse in your lower sex and shook your head. No, you shouldn’t get worked up tonight. You needed to be on guard.

But… you did miss him, so, much…

BANG.

You jumped in bed at the sudden noise.

Luckily, you were used to this. When the moon hit he always tried to escape, and it’s that which kept you awake all night. The sound of that poor beast struggling against his chains, snapping and howling. It’d been painful the first few months you’d had to hear it, then it’d gotten annoying, but now it was just normal. It was like adjusting to your partner snoring at night.

You yawned and leaned back into the pillows.

The banging continued as you’d expected. You heard chains rattling, boards being torn and ripped. You dozed through it all in a half-asleep daze, barely paying attention to the video you put on.

It was at about 2am, when the clock struck, that you heard something more alarming.

You heard metal clanking hard on the floor, and jolted upright in bed. Wait, you’d never heard that before. His chains didn’t reach the floor?

But that was definitely what you could hear. You could hear metal on wood, scraping its way from one end of the attic to the other. Your head slowly tilted as you followed the sound.

‘Shit’ you hissed.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Not tonight. Not now.

Another loud bang rang out, and this time you physically jumped in shock. It sounded like wood splintering, and it was coming from the side of the attic that you knew the locked door was on. The side opposite to where Miguel was meant to be.

A low, warbling howl filled the silence. Your heart sank.

You heard the door upstairs slowly, painfully, creaking open.

Oh no. No, no, no.

You jumped from your bed and instinctively went to hide beneath it, but somehow your luck took an even worse turn. As you jumped your feet landed directly on a loose board. It creaked, loudly, and the footsteps stopped.

‘Shit’ you hissed again. He knew you were in here.

For a couple of seconds, all was still. All was silent. In the dark you couldn’t tell what was the house settling and what was a predator on the prowl.

A low, threatening growl filled the air, and you bolted.

In a moment of panic you dove out of the bedroom and down the stairs, just barely missing the enormous muscled figure of Miguel as he dove at your head.

You had only one hope. Miguel had left his taser downstairs in the living room. It was just a precaution, one you’d never used before hence why it was in such a random spot, but you needed it now.

You stumbled into the living room with Miguel hot on your heels. You made it halfway across the room to where the taser was sitting on the edge of a table. You reached, your hands grasping, but right at that crucial moment you tripped.

Your toes went under the rug on the centre of the floor and you fell hard on your face, knocking the taser to the floor in the process.

‘FUCK—Ah, ah…’

You spun around onto your back as the floor creaked.

Miguel crawled towards you on all fours. In the dark you could only barely see his face, with the light of the moon and the red of his eyes highlighting the contours of his body. The curves of muscle breaking through his torn shirt, the ruffle of dark fur on his back and arms, the shimmering coat over his talons, all of it highlighting how deadly he was.

He still looked like him, like your Miguel. That slicked back dark hair and rough brown skin, those almond eyes and that chiselled square face, with his enormous chest and shoulders sat atop that smooth curved waist.

But you could see the monster breaking through. The fur bursting out in patches on his arms and chest, the claws erupting from his fingernails, the tufty ears erupting from his head, and most of all the teeth. His usually soft expression was drawn back into one of animalistic malice, and you could see the most enormous fangs in his maw.

He bared those same teeth and snarled.

‘Mig, Miggy—Miguel, hey, it’s me’ you panted.

He drew his lips back even further.

‘Miguel’ you repeated desperately. ‘Miguel—’

He took a few steps closer, forcing you to scurry on your back. You couldn’t run. You would never make it to the door, nor the window nor the corridor.

In a panic, you could think of only one thing to distract him. It might have seemed mad to anyone else, and yet to you, there was a lingering shard of a memory teetering on the edge of your terrified mind. The memory of Miguel mentioning the importance of scents, and how the smell of you always drove him mad.

You grabbed your pyjama pants and shifted them down.

It was just an inch at first, as you were laying awkwardly on the floor and they kept catching on the wood, but as you slid them you noticed him slowing his predatory approach.

You saw his eyes darting. He sniffed, smelling the air.

‘That’s it’ you whimpered. ‘That’s it, it’s me. You know that, don’t you?’

You lay down on your back as Miguel crawled over you. The scent of your kiss must have stuck in his nose, as he seemed to remember through the haze even a small part of you, but more than that the smell of your bare body was enticing.

He bent his head and sniffed from your neck down to your belly and finally to your thighs. He growled there, and in a panic you yanked your pants further. You pulled them right down to your ankles.

‘Ah—there, there, shh—’

He gave a grunt of what you assumed was satisfaction as you kicked them aside. He moved in, and you lay back in submission. He pressed his face right against your bare pussy.

‘F-Fuck—’ You bit your lip to stifle any noises. This was a dangerous ploy, especially as you’d made yourself so vulnerable, but you wanted to trust him. You had no other choice.

You closed your eyes and prayed.

It was then, in the dark and the cold, unseeing and tense, that you were jolted by the most abrupt spasm of pleasure.

Something long, wet and warm was lapping at your bare pussy, eagerly and curiously winding between your lips and up to your clit. Your legs spasmed at the sensation.

‘A-Ah—Mig?’

You opened your eyes and looked down, only to find that he was licking at your bare sex. He was clawing at the wood as he curiously tasted you.

‘A-Ah…. Miguel, that—mm—’

The soft little fluttering pulses in your clit that you’d tried to ignore before had left you extremely sensitive, and his rough tongue was making it hard to see. You were trying to stay on guard, wary that he might still lose himself again, but fuck did it feel heavenly.

He’d always been a fan of pleasuring with his tongue, but this was something else entirely. His increased size allowed his tongue to cover your entirely labia when flat, covering every single little spot of nerves he could get at. You whimpered on the floor.

He kept licking. Kept tasting, kept curiously flicking the tip on your clit, kept getting so close that his tongue delved right into your cunt. All the while his claws were dangerously close to slicing your ankle, and worse, his teeth kept grazing the sensitive skin of your folds.

You knew you were going to cum from this, but you didn’t want to startle him with any loud noises.

To your horror, as the pleasure rose, you had to try and bite you down.

You forced yourself to cum in silence. Your hips bucked a little, your legs involuntarily spasming as he kept licking through every ripple of pleasure, but luckily it didn’t seem to bother him. You rode out that sweet, guilty pleasure as you screamed in your mind, before slowly relaxing as your muscles de-tensed.

Thankfully Miguel drew himself back just a little while after your silent orgasm, his mouth dripping with slick and spit. He drew himself up to your head and snapped at your cheek, baying you to lay still. You did as told.

‘A-Ah… you really are still Miguel, huh?’ you said with a shaky laugh. He grunted.

You realized then, as the adrenaline and the pleasure wore off, that he was naked. You hadn’t really taken it fully in before now, but the change must have torn his clothes to shreds.

He was naked, and his enormous veiny cock was pulsing between your legs as he hunched over your body on the floor.

You baulked a little in shock. Fuck, had the change made him bigger?

You didn’t have time to ponder that as he began to push himself between your legs, his claws settling beside your shoulders. He was getting into a missionary mating press.

‘A-Ah… ah, fuck, Miguel’ you panted. He wanted to try and fuck you? Like this?

His eyes on you were still burning with that beastly haze, but you swore you saw something in them that looked like him. Something soft, something affectionate, beyond the curdled animalistic lust.

You felt his cock nudging at your tight hole, smearing the spit and slick he’d left behind as he coaxed you to take him. You could feel his bulbous member twitching.

Your eyes shifted, and you realized that the taser had fallen on the floor within arm’s reach. You could feasibly bring him down now, if you wanted. If you had to. You could grab it quick and render him limp.

But… Your eyes involuntarily drifted back. You were so sore, your pussy throbbing as your blood pulsed through it, your thighs sodden and shaky. The thought of the release, the relief, of your beautiful Miguel fucking you raw with that fat rod, it filled you with fear and unescapable excitement.

You bit your lip as he growled again. Fuck. Your hormones had certainly won him over, so, at least your plan worked, right? At least with this, you were safe. At least like this, he couldn’t go anywhere else.

‘O-Okay, you… That’s it. Stay here with me’ you stammered breathlessly. ‘Stay with me, Mig. That’s it.’

You lay still, and you let him take you.

It should have felt familiar. You’d taken him so many times before, but this? This was different. You felt the size difference immediately.

His cock was obscenely fat, and it was splitting you open as he stretched you wide. He hit a point about a third of the way down his shaft where he could get no further, and with a dissatisfied snarl he started to rut harder. He was pushing you to your limits, and as he edged deeper you felt the sudden influx of burning in your core.  

‘F-Fuck—’ You squirmed a little, trying to adjust to the size, but a sharp snap at your cheek forced you back to stillness.

‘O-Okay, okay, just—careful, please—’

You weren’t sure how much of him remained lucid, but something definitely seemed to make him slow down as you winced. He started to pause between pumps, letting you shift and settle, and even nudged your cheek to see if you were okay.

He never stopped, though. He continued to pump his shaft into your cunt, easing it open inch by inch to take him, and when he finally bottomed out it was because you physically couldn’t take any more.

 He managed to get most of it inside you, but he couldn’t fit it all. You were embarrassed to see a good two inches of thick, throbbing cock surrounded by dark hair still sitting uncovered, accompanied by the sight of your belly bulging where he’d settled.

You felt it nudging at your cervix. You felt it throb, you watched it throb, and grit your teeth. You were shaking, but fuck, it was good.

Miguel snarled again, his teeth bared against your cheek. You could feel him breathing a little harder as he shifted his pelvis. You knew he was feeling you, tasting you, pausing to savour the sensation of your insides squeezing him tight, and you liked it.

‘It’s okay’ you stammered. You felt his drool hit your cheek. ‘I-I’m okay. You- You can have me.’

Miguel throbbed again, a pulsing sensation so hard that you felt it in your guts.

‘Mine.’

You blinked in shock. Was that, a word?

Miguel bared his teeth a second time as he took one, hard thrust inside you, one that threw your entire body and sent both sharp pain and toe-curling pleasure through to your soul. You groaned in shock.

‘A-Ah, f-fuck—’ you whimpered.

‘Mine.’

He repeated that single, guttural word, and you knew he meant it. You nodded.

‘Y-Yes. Yes. Yours. All yours.’

He growled deep in the back of his throat, a motion which made his Adams apple jolt.

‘Breed’ he snarled. You shuddered as he dug his claws into the wood beside your head.

‘Breedable. Mine.’

You grit your teeth in anticipation. You could feel him gradually beginning to slip his cock in and out. Without another word, that enormous beast started to rut back and forth.

He was rough from the start, even when he was exhibiting some form of control. You had to dig your nails into his biceps for support as he threw your body with every thrust. Luckily, he didn’t seem to mind. He was happy to bend you, pushing you into a deeper mating press.

You could see his talons by your head. You could feel his hot breath, could smell the stench of fur and metal and musk. He was panting with each pump.

As you trembled and moaned, taking each deep thrust of his cock, some of that animal rage in his eyes seemed to dissipate. Did he look, hot? Was he, moaning back?

He was definitely grunting with each thrust he took. You could feel the veins on his cock pulsing against your gummy walls, begging for release.

As his grunts got louder he started to pump harder. It was all you could hear. His grunting, his panting, the sound of skin clapping skin, the whine of the wood being raked by his claws and the wet squelch of his cock moving back and forth.

He was getting close. You realized, in a brief moment of lucidity as you were fucked brainless, that he was going to try and cum inside you. All you could think was one thing: How would he even fit that in you?

It was while you tried to comprehend this question that one of his little werewolf habits reared its ugly head; the need to bite. The claiming bite.

You squeaked audibly as he abruptly bit down on your neck and shoulder, pinning you hard to the floor. You could feel the burn of his teeth as they sank beneath the skin, the pure power in his jaw. If he moved too hard, he could absolutely cause a lot of damage.

‘M-Miguel’ you whimpered. ‘Miguel—’

With your body clamped and frozen he started to buck harder, driving his cock into you with a frantic and animalistic force. You clung to him as tightly as you could.

‘Miguel—’ you cried, ‘P-please, ah—’

He thrust, and he growled, and every hair on his body stood on end. With a seething grunt he orgasmed inside you.

As you’d expected there was just no space inside you left to fill. You had to experience the full sensation of his unloading with so little room between his cock and your sensitive walls; the pulsing, the twitching, the thick spurts of cum that oozed out only to immediately start dripping down your ass to the floor. It sounded so obscenely wet.

‘Ah…. There, good- good boy, good boy’ you panted. ‘Miguel, fuck—’

Then you realized, one other little thing Miguel had mentioned to you in confidence; he was going to knot.

You gripped his arms tighter to support. ‘F-Fuck, fuck—’

Sure enough he knotted on the last spurt, plugging you tight as you squirmed. He hissed on your cheek as he did so. It was a primal display of possessive need, a sign of ownership as his cock swelled and pushed you to your limits. You could feel the thickness of his cum inside you, now unable to escape. You panted.

‘F-Fuck…. Ah, o-okay big guy, there you go. You- You okay now?’

His growling lowered to just a gentle whine, and slowly he drew his teeth back from your cheek. He simply held you there beneath him, impaled on his shaft, panting and beading with sweat from the entire ordeal.

Eventually you felt the knot releasing. It was like feeling a stranglehold on your neck finally unclench. The relief was intense, and you immediately began trying to ease yourself off.

But you barely made it an inch before being pinned by Miguel’s clawed hand. His fur brushed your cheek as he grabbed your chest, holding you still to the floor. You rushed to soothe him. ‘A-Ah—okay, okay. Shh, you’re okay big guy.’

He bared his teeth in that same territorial display. You met his gaze. You locked on to each other, naked and joined at the hip, throbbing around each other in a pool of primal sweat and cum and slick.

‘It’s okay. It’s okay’ you repeated. ‘I’m yours. I’m yours. See? Your- your little, prize.’

You gently shifted your hips to draw his attention there, and predictably his eyes did a little roll as your pussy clenched his shaft. He pulsed back, his veins pumping with hot blood.

‘Mine.’

To your continued surprise, he started thrusting again. His erection hadn’t lost any stamina, and if he was feeling overstimulated, he certainly wasn’t showing it. You, though, were showing it quite overtly.

‘MM--!’

A raspy moan escaped your lips as he winded you with the force of his insertions. His previous load was now being squished out with each thrust, but he didn’t care. He was making way for more.

‘A-Ah—f-fuck, Miguel, you—you really, need, more? MM—’

His hand pressed a little harder against your chest as he started to pick up speed. He was smacking you down against the wooden floor, his pelvis turning your hip bones numb. He tilted his head and growled.

‘Oh fuck—fuck that’s so—good—’

Your eyes rolled as that sweet dumbification kicked in. His cock easily fucked away all of your inhibitions, drowning your fear in heavenly pleasure as he rutted you raw.

If this is what it took to keep him distracted all night, then this is just what you’d have to do.

[opluffys]

Personal-

posted first to my archive- you can read ‘mentor mentee’ for more context if you’d like, but you can also read this blind! pls let me know if there are any errors and i hope you enjoy!

tags- rough sex, size difference, size kink, angst, toxic relationship, internal conflict, creampie, vaginal sex, mating press, fem reader.

4k words.

-Ghost x Reader-

-nsfw/smut-

Forcing yourself to drag your stare from the monotonous and drab documents onto him, standing there in all of his terrifying glory. Mountainous and big, all of him, from his behaviour to his looks. You were tired of it, of him. Lies.

You wondered what brought him in this time. Part of you had already known, though.

"Did you fuck him again?"

You scoffed, clicking your pen and setting it down gently, the dark ink setting to dry over the tinted pages. You had wanted to tell him a false truth, but is it really false? A growing bit of you had wanted to scurry back to Price, sticking to his side just as you'd done for Ghost.

"Why does that matter?" You began to kick your shoes off, knowing what would happen in the next few moments. Bent over the desk and fucked until broken sounds left you, like always.

Ghost stilled, displeased with your response. He'd not yet closed the distance between you two, not yet sealing your fate for the night. To be sore and stuffed full of him, is what you'd anticipated, thighs squeezing together as you started to reminisce.

What good were you though, if you were just made to say yes? To always listen and mindlessly obey whatever Ghost would say and ask of you. You attempted to will away whatever lecherous thoughts that compelled you, standing from your office chair.

"There's always something I've wanted to ask you. Something I've been too afraid to even think of." You laughed, a saddened and dry sound. You forced yourself to continue on with your complex dialogue.

"Can you tell me Ghost? What you and I are to one another?" Your question was desperate, tone shaky and eyes glossy. You'd constructed a perfect answer within your muddied mind, hoping that he'd say what you'd wanted to hear, overcome with something to falsify that answer.

You waited for his reply, your stare stuck on his dark one. You loathed looking into his eyes, because they told you everything you'd wanted to know. You knew he had an answer, one so intricate and lengthy, he himself was unaware- the thing that had been so utterly amusing though, was that you were equally as unknowing, too.

And like a true spirit, he'd left as silently as he'd appeared.

•

A muted moan left your lips, bent and folded in an impossible, nearly, position, taking Ghost into your pussy. His large and gloved hands were on the backs of your knees, pushing and folding your legs to compress your entire being. The large and ill-fitting shirt hung off of your body as he pushed into your heat, oddly gently, eye contact starting to make you nervous and nauseous.

He continued to feed his large cock into you, leaving just a bit of him to keep you stretched open before shoving himself back in. You cried out to him, your hands tangled into the cheap sheets of his bed, and- his bed? Your eyes popped open, scanning your surroundings, and oh, how the hell did you end up here? In his supposed safe haven, his fucking home.

How had the stars aligned for the two of you to get a break at the same exact time? Not so much as a break, more like a medically related one for Ghost, and you'd been forced to go watch over him, since he was notorious for not trusting other hospitals. The man barely trusted anyway, this was not at all surprising. This all made sense, but how you'd gotten into this position hadn't.

A soft squeeze at your plush flesh had your eyes flickering back to his, "Look at me while I fuck you."

Your breath hitched, legs opting to close, being stopped by him. He pulled out again, slow, slower than he's ever gone with you before. You were used to a rabid and animalistic pace, one that would shake you back and forth from his thrusts alone. But this? Leisure and slow, powerful and strong thrusts of his cock inside your walls, deep eye contact, those honey eyes with light lashes staring down at you. Ever so slightly narrowing when you'd squeezed him in such a way, tight and snug around his thick girth.

You, for once, stared right back at him. Through your tears at your waterline threatening to flow, through thickened lashes, you stared at him, just as he'd wanted you to. Just his tip was inside of you now, and he waded himself back in, watching and appraising your reaction. Every twitch of your body, how your legs tried to close, how your pussy spasmed around his cock and tried force him out- all of it.

Ghost struggled to get all of him inside of you, so used to just having you sit atop him and laze back, often in your own seat. He'd watch, somewhat amused, as you rode him, so fervent, hands behind your back while you would moan and whisper whatever it was you'd said. He'd, when feeling generous, roll his hips up into you to meet you halfway, watching as your eyes opened in shock when you felt him just a little deeper.

So, at a new and all too personal angle, he continued to work his dick into you, hearing your small 'it's too much,' or 'you're so big' spur him on with every minuscule movement from him. Ghost wasn't one to try new things, opting instead for something familiar. Like maybe having your face buried into the sterile cot as he fucked you from the back, fast and unforgiving speed always having you moan out to him in pure ecstasy. But, he was open for new things at times. Sharing you with Price (once was enough for him), having you set the pace, trying new positions.

He briefly questioned if you'd enjoyed the change, too.

Cutting through the silence, he spoke, "You like getting fucked like this? Feelin' me right- fuck, right here?" His large hand fanned out over your abdomen, pushing down and able to feel himself inside. Your hand scrambled over his, cold leather meeting you. The sensation of the provided pressure too much, per usual.

"God, don't, don't do that again." A whine left you, your body betraying you as you pushed his hand down, a timid ask, again, please.

He listened, pushing that spot over your stomach down, the cold material of his gloves making it feel a little less personal- because to be completely true to yourself, you had to admit how badly you'd wanted to touch him. To feel his hands, without the leather barrier, to hold them and wonder how they would feel in your smaller ones. Your hand enclosed over his, raising it a bit, fingers attempting to lift his glove off. You wanted it to feel personal. You were tired of it not being such.

But you were also so fucking scared of it becoming just that, too personal. As every aspect of your day to day life had some of Ghost in it, your conscious and mind having the most of him within, constant thoughts plaguing your mind. These thoughts, for once, hadn't deterred you, continuing to ease the leather glove off of Ghost's hand.

He didn't seem to take note of what you'd been doing, lost in your tight insides, his eyes fluttering closed at the pleasure you'd provided him. Maybe that's why he'd chosen you, because you were the only one who could take him like this, take him any fucking way he'd chosen. You had been the only one able to give him a similar sensation of pure euphoria, just as he'd given you.

"Ghost, I-" A sharp inhale from you as your cunt continued to struggle with his size, "I want to touch you." So sudden, your voice was airy and light, almost as if you'd pass out at any given moment. And from how lightheaded you'd felt at both your request and at the way Ghost had slowly been fucking into you, it didn't seem too far off from actually happening.

Your brain hadn't even had the time to concoct whatever negative scenarios, as he spoke up, "Why now."

Not a question, a statement. He's right- why now? You'd always despised loved the idea of touching him, and you'd so desperately wanted to put that idea into fruition, even though the rightful side of you, the more logical one, had attempted to warn you that it wasn't a good idea. If you'd felt him, then perhaps you'd grow even more addicted than you already were.

You'd take your chances, though.

"I don't know why, just, oh, fuck," You forgot what the hell you were even talking about, feeling his cock just about bottom out inside of you. "Please."

He stopped, hovering over you, a single hand keeping your leg spread while the other was entangled with yours. The ambient and low lighting framing him with an odd glow, one that had you wanting to cower in fear.

Lightly, so much so that you almost hadn't noticed, he squeezed your hand back, an answer to you, fine, yeah okay. It was unsure, just as his demeanour normally was around you. You pushed the glove off, the item falling to the floor with a barely audible sound. You, for a moment, held his hand. Not too long, because then you knew that he'd retract it and slip that glove back on, that sense of protection back on, his sense.

His hand was rough and calloused, but so warm. Heavy in your hand and against your touch, you laced your fingers with his before squeezing, looking up at him, his figure blurry through tinted lenses.

"Go faster, please." A shy appeal, something which your body couldn't even handle, your insides unable to withstand the spare inches that Ghost had yet to fuck into you.

"You can handle it, can't you?" He rolled his hips upwards, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that had you feeling dizzy.

Words had failed you, so you nodded, anchoring yourself to him just by holding his big hand. Your eyes etching shut, before widely opening from a particularly harsh and deep thrust by Ghost.

"Keep your eyes on me."

You attempted at a nod before throwing your head back and gasping, air refusing to fill your lungs as Ghost had nearly pushed the entirety of his dick in. He was filling you to the fucking brim, stuffing you full of him, his flushed tip threatening to bash into your womb again and again.

You held the position that he'd folded you into, thighs beginning to burn at the abnormal angle. You then remembered, he'd crowded into your space while you bandaged his abdomen is what began this all. You don't even remember what he'd said to you, what he'd done, for you to end up beneath him- a sight that you'd witness on the regular. He's never had you so close to him, his face merely inches away from yours. His deep and dark stare never leaving yours, spare for the few times he'd straighten his posture and sound his own moans. Gravelly and low, shutting his eyes while his blonde lashes fell over his cheeks in bliss.

You briefly looked down towards your hand, staring at the larger one that had been loosely holding yours. You'd never even seen his hands before, always clad with leather and never showing his actual flesh. It was scarred, and big- just like the rest of him, full of protruding veins and tendons. The size of his lone hand could fit both of yours within it easily, making your face have a warm heat fan across. You began to think about how his hands would pin yours to the wall, the mattress, whatever, while pounding into you. Feeling conflicted between lust and love, no, this isn't love, it never will be.

Yet, you clutched onto him like it was.

You wanted to commit this sight, this entire night, to memory, because you knew that the next morning you'd criticise yourself for it. Endless questioning of how you'd allowed him to get so close to you, to hold you like a lover and fuck into you like one, slowly, oddly carefully for him too- it never made any sense. He'd either be too cold, which is the Ghost you'd known, or he'd slightly warm up, handling you with care instead of typical rag-doll fashion.

You'd handle your emotions in the morning.

You squeezed his hand, tightly, drawing his attention back to you. "Faster," You plead, feeling his hips slowly push against you, the soft material of his gray sweatpants soft against your exposed skin.

"You know to ask nicely, love."

You hated adored when he'd call you pet names, they just made you feel more attached. Nevertheless, you obeyed, "Please, please go faster, Ghost."

He hummed lowly, pleased at your obedience. His leisure speed hastened, his forehead pressing against yours as your eyes flitted closed, little whimpers and moans leaving your agape lips.

"Fuck, so good, you're so good." He grunted, bottoming out inside of you at last, hearing you cry out in slight soreness. His nose was brushing against yours, his eyes on you, brow furrowed. He's so fucking pretty, and you hadn't even known what he'd looked like.

"You're so deep," Your words slurred, feeling his cock rub up against your slick walls deliciously.

"Yeah? You like it, don't you?" He groaned, sounding like a deep growl rumbling in his clothed chest. His speed was dizzying now, slamming into you with fervour.

You nodded, feeling his hand pin yours on the mattress, the soft and laced hold now turning into something filthy, a means to hold you down.

"Use your words, don't go dumb on me just yet." He teased, returning to the slow and downright tortuous pace he'd once been at.

"Yes, I like it, I love it," You stopped yourself from saying something that you'd soon regret, those three words remaining unspoken.

"I know you do." A long and drawn out moan left him, his hand grasping your wrist as he continued to ram into you.

A sudden wave of uncomforted emotion consumed you, thoughts of how close he'd been making you feel queasy. You wanted to get him off, while simultaneously wanting to pull him impossibly closer. You didn't know when he'd feel like this again, so you felt like you were taking this entire situation for granted- but those conflicting thoughts were eating at your very sanity, making his close vicinity unbearable.

Looks like Ghost shared your sentiment, backing away from you and removing his hand from yours. Instead, he looked down towards you as his cock continued to drive in and out of your wet cunt. You hated how he had known how to fuck you just right, making sparks fly within your synapses, always coaxing multiple orgasms from you, he had always known what to do with you.

His ungloved hand reached up to the bottom of his balaclava, and you clearly froze up. You had to be hallucinating, because if just touching him would make you feel so utterly confused, you couldn't even begin to fathom how seeing him would fare.

That cloud of constant anonymity surrounding Ghost made things easier between the two of you. While you had shown and intimated at your true feelings, albeit rare, you have done it before. Typically when seating yourself on his cock wasn't enough, and you had actually wanted to feel something between you two. You couldn't lose that, because then you knew that you'd fall for him, it's already happened, hasn't it?

He pulled the fabric up, acting as a striptease while shallowly thrusting into your heat. He stopped just shy of showing the bridge of his nose, and you turned away before you'd even gotten a glimpse of him. You didn't care how badly you'd wanted to see him, see Simon and not Ghost. You didn't care at all, staring at the bland and blank white walls as you were moved up and down due to his hips colliding against yours.

It was sudden, his bare hand on your face, nearly smooshing your cheeks together, roughly bringing your stare back to him.

"Not a very good listener, are you? Look at me."

Your stare never met his, tears prickling at the edge of your eyes, please, don't make me see you. I don't want to fall in l-

A harsh thrust forced you to meet his gaze, and you felt an odd sense of relief rush through your system as his entire face wasn't exposed. Just the bottom half, which you have seen a few times, in a more clinical setting, of course. He's never shown you himself whilst balls-deep inside of you.

Well, until now, anyway.

"Good." A quick praise that had you melting against his welcomed touch. You were unaccustomed to seeing his lips form the very words he'd said, yet you could watch it all day. He removed his hand from your face, instead tugging at his loose shirt, bringing it to catch on his teeth.

Fuck, that shouldn't be that hot.

His eyes were on your trembling figure, at times glancing down to watch his thick cock disappear inside your greedy pussy. Gripping him in a way that you thought he wouldn't pound into you again, foolishly wrong as his cock returned within your cunt with a low groan. The gauze covering his abdomen following every light twitch from his stomach having you watch with embarrassing intent.

Your thighs burned as they were spread to their limit, one of your hands grabbing at the sheets as your very life depended on it. The the other was clutching tightly at his inked arm, nails biting into the decorated skin, he grunted as your nails raked over his arm, his thrusts halting as he felt his own orgasm creep up on him.

Normally, he would speak during this period, tell you how perfect you were for him. But, he kept quiet, due to the fabric of his shirt in his mouth, or maybe he just wasn't in the mood. You didn't know, you didn't care, you were lost in the way his cock would push right up against that spot that had your vision blacking out. Your own hips lowering to meet his in mutual thrusts, eyes rolling back in pure pleasure and liquid ecstasy shooting through your own spine, every disc lighting up.

Ghost's hot and heavy dick continued to punch into your drooling cunt in such a way that nearly had you bawling. You felt your toes begin to curl as all of the signs were leading up to your own orgasm, something of which you'd been chasing, yet delaying, for you knew that those rose-tinted glasses would shatter.

Again- you didn't care though.

His gloved hand reached to rub at your neglected nub with passion, having a high pitched moan leave your lips. You jerked into his touch, a greedy imploration for more, your body betraying your very mind and virtues.

Your ask hadn't been ignored, the tight circles he drew becoming neater and more attentive to every twitch and move from you. You whimpered his name, feeling his fingers on you and his cock ruin and pick you apart being too much, even for you. You, who had been moulded and formed to his very imprint, wanting and constantly ready for him.

A brush of his fingers and feeling his cock drive into you just right had you sobbing. Your back arching up towards him, your nails making crescent shapes over his exposed and inked skin, as you had finished over his fat cock. He groaned at watching your orgasm wash over you, humming deeply while he witnessed your comeback to the scene. Your sensitive nerves not getting a break as his pace had only hastened, cock driving into you at the most proper and precise angles.

With a huff, his shirt dropped down to its correct spot, hiding his body from you. He groaned as he felt your insides squeeze him with a vice grip. His mouth was agape, stubble framing his jaw beautifully, kissable lips forming a sentence, "He can't fuck you like this. Not like I can. Nobody will ever be able to, because you're mine." His words were rushed, his thrusts becoming sloppy as his cock twitched inside you.

God, you nearly unraveled under him once more at his very words. You already knew who Ghost was speaking  of, and no matter how good Price was in bed, he was right, he couldn't fuck you like Ghost could.

You didn't confirm his words, though. You couldn't, because then you'd have to admit he was right, right about you belonging to him. And oh, how you'd wanted that to be a cruel reality, held in his virulent grasp.

You heard his sounds grow in quantity and felt his thrusts quality begin to deteriorate. You knew he'd been close, "Inside, please."

"Not goin' anywhere else."

While fucking Ghost, you quickly learned that he was obsessed with the idea of finishing inside of you. You quickly had to start the pill, lest you wanted to carry his child. You didn't know why he loved it so much, maybe it felt good, maybe the sight of your pussy leaking his cum after being stuffed to the absolute brim was such an arousing sight to behold. But no, it was a means to claim you. To mark you as his in a way that no other would have the ability to.

And he'd do just that, again and again, and again, and again, andagainandagain-

He groaned, such a low and addicting sound as he doubled over you. His cum filled your cunt, his heavy balls slapping against your skin as he continued to fuck his seed back into you, your knuckles blanching at how tightly you had held both the sheets, and Ghost's arm.

The both of you were unmoving, his dick softening inside of you before he'd pulled out. He untangled himself from you, stare stuck on how your abused hole leaked his essence, using his thick fingers to push it back in. You remembered what he'd said before while doing so, 'Not good t'waste,'.

You laid still, regaining your breath as well as your ability to form thoughts while you felt a warm cloth tidy you up. His touch would sometimes linger on you for a moment too long to be considered an accident, yet you'd shake it off and consider it as one.

You clothed yourself, pulling on a set of bottoms, ultimately unnecessary, as the shirt you wore was like a dress on your shorter stature. You don't know how Ghost's article of clothing had ended up in your hands- on your very body nonetheless, his scent embracing you, yet sneering at you, feeling attached?

You checked his wounds and re-bandaged any as necessary, as you were still a doctor, after all. You'd had plenty of things that remained unsaid, to both yourself and to him. You'd wanted to tell him your true emotions towards him, but you were so afraid. Afraid of him, or rejection, or both. It wasn't clear, and it wasn't feasible to build a relationship with a man like him, anyway. With a man so fucked up and broken, incapable of feeling how you felt, even a sliver of it. Is what you had thought, anyway.

Ghost watched as you shoved on a windbreaker in a hurried way, slipping your shoes on as you'd wanted to run. Sprint off into the sunset and forget whatever fucked up relationship was between you and Ghost, if you could even call it such a thing. What the two of you were was truly complex, forever unknowing to you and him. Despite this, he yearned to say a single word to you, a pathetic beg forming in his mind.

He'd wanted you to stay.

[eddiediaaz]

Hi! I was wondering if you had any tips on how to color the flashbacks in the begins episodes, because they have that weird green tint that's so hard to get rid of? Would really appreciate any advice you had! Love all your gifs :)

hellooo! that is really nice of you to say, thank you <3

yeah flashback scenes in 911 can be tricky to color. i don't know why they made the el paso flashbacks look so drab, or the hershey flashbacks so glowy and green lol. anyway, i have two flashback examples on how to go from this:

to this

steps under the cut (:

CURVES

the first thing i always do is usually use a curves layer to white balance the colors automatically. it can be quite handy, but it's usually not enough. it can be a great place to start though. on the top right you can click the 3 lines menu and choose "auto options..."

then you can play around with the different settings in the algorithms section, and the snap neutral midtones. there's usually one that's better, so i just toggle between them and choose which one looks best.

if the auto settings don't work well for your shot, you can always do this manually with the black and white droppers with a curves or levels layer. becca/@yenvengerberg did a great tutorial on it here (in the step one: curves section)

both gifs with curves auto color correction:

as you can see it brings the colors in a more neutral zone and less saturated, but the coloring still needs more editing.

COLOR BALANCE

i used a color balance layer to bring back some warmth into the eddie gif. i started by giving it a bit of red in the shadows, then with midtones and highlights, i simply played with the sliders until i got something i liked (knowing i'll grade the colors more specifically later).

CHANNEL MIXER

for the maddie & buck gif, i wanted to reduce the yellow/green tint. i needed to add some blue to counter the yellow and channel mixer worked better than color balance for this one. this channel mixer tutorial by kate/@aubrey-plaza goes into so much depth, much better than i ever could, but here's how i did it:

SELECTIVE COLOR

my favorite and most used layer! i use it all the time. for the eddie gif, i wanted to make it warmer and less drab. i always start with deepening the blacks, then i want to make sure the skintones are good with the reds and yellows.

then the rest is mostly small adjustments to my liking, especially with cyans, blues, neutrals. this particular gif doesn't have a lot of blue tones so it doesn't change a lot tho haha

selective color results for eddie:

then for the maddie & buck gif, i went pretty much in the same order: blacks, skintones (reds and yellows)

then blues, cyans, neutrals:

maddie & buck selective color results:

FINAL TOUCHES

now that the gifs are color graded, what's left is to add final touches, aka more vibrance, contrast, exposure, etc etc.

for the eddie gif i added these layers

here's the layer order and final result:

for the maddie & buck gif, these are the layers i added:

and the layers order and final result for that one:

that's it, i hope that helps a little!

there's also this great tutorial by ace/@ajusnice on how to color yellow tinted shots, it's a great reference.

[hardlyinteresting]

A good day's work

Day 10 of the #MarchHotchness event. Find the other days HERE Thank you to @hotchfiles for creating this event 💕

As always Request here! | Masterlist

Your paint-splattered clothes lay scattered on the en suite floor: white and pale blue, smudges and speckles of colour tint your old t-shirts and jeans. A breeze runs through the house, bringing in the cool evening air, and the sound of cricket chirps. It carries away the smell of freshly coloured walls. 

A rare day off left you and Aaron free to stop by the local hardware store. What was supposed to be a short trip to pick up lightbulbs ended two hours later in the paint department, carding through colour chips, determined to find the perfect shade. 

The desire to repaint the master bedroom had been a topic of conversation since the day you moved in together. The pale beige walls were drab and dreary in the space. With the bedside lamps on at night, the colour glowed with a yellow undertone that left the room anything but relaxing. After long days, and nights away from his family, Aaron deserves a place to unwind and destress. 

You had considered grey for the room. Aaron said the shade reminded him of the concrete in his office. You immediately vetoed the colour. 

Green felt too upbeat. Positive, and inviting? Yes. Tranquil? No. Purple had been too bold for Aaron’s taste. The shade you’d selected was muted, and warm like a hug, but ultimately too much of a deviation for his taste. 

The bedroom looks beautiful in blue. Ataratic, and soothing. In the daylight, it felt as warm as the open sky outside. You both breathe deeper into the space, exhaling a great deal of your stress and anxieties. By the time you’re completing the second coat, the orange gleam of the setting sun casts a brilliant reflection on the wall, it envelopes you and leaves you beaming. 

The blue handprint he leaves on your hip draws your attention back to the blot of paint you had dabbed on his nose earlier in the day, and the flecks of colour that have dried on your arms. It’s a good reason to pull him into the ensuite shower. Dutifully, he washes away smears of blue from your cheek, and then the rest of you. He watches the pigment dilute itself, melting away with the soap suds. He can’t say for certain, but he thinks that this might be what peace feels like. 

The bed is still in the middle of the room, pulled away from the stilling drying walls. Unsure how to enjoy the sense of amusement, or child-like satisfaction the vaguely chaotic sight brings him, he chuckles. It’s more exhaled air, than any real kind of sound, but it’s enough to convey his joy.  The half-huff leaves you bubbling with your own laughter. You’re both safe to do that here. 

In the soft moonlight, the room is no brighter than the endless night sky. The depth of the shade soothes you, it wraps you up and holds you, not unlike the arm he drapes across your waist. Falling asleep comes easily and with no complaints. A good day’s work deserves a good night’s sleep.

[electronicwitchcollection]

request written for @stygianoir for “love at first sight fluff” starring Szayelaporro, Mayuri, Aizen and Adult Uryu. I added the prompt “kiss me” because I’ve been wanting to use it for a while 😂 had to do it as headcannon(esq) otherwise it would’ve been 30k and taken me three/six weeks. Aizen is also written slightly different, I couldn’t match his personality with the pure emotion of love 🙃 First time writing for three of these, they’re not my usual, so I struggled, hope I didn’t disappoint 💜

Szayelaporro

*When Szayelaporro first laid eyes on you, you were bound tightly, bag covering your face

Aizen had entered his lab, dragging you along behind him, ignoring the muffled protests coming from you.

* "Aizen sama? To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence in my laboratory this morning?"

*"a gift"  you were thrown forward, hitting the ground loudly"to do with as you please "

*Intrigued and almost giddy with the prospect of a new body to experiment on, Szayelaporro lifted you easily in his arms, dropping you unceremoniously to the large metal operating table situated in the middle of his lab.

*Pulling the bag from your head "let's see what we have under here" his whole world stopped spinning on his axis when his eyes caught your own. A defiant gleam in your eyes overshadowed the unknown fear as you stared him down

* You were magnificent. A truly breathtaking specimen. Every curve of your face, the rose colour tint of your lips as they bit down over the fabric gagging you to silence. Perfection personified.

* His heart froze, tightly pinching in his chest as the scenery around you blurred into washed out white.

* Fate. He had heard the absurd phenomena used by humans. An unknown series of decisions dictating the direction your life lead. And until that moment, the scientist had brushed it away as unfounded nonsense.

*Until he laid eyes on you. You were made for him, he was sure. No test or experiment could offer physical proof of what he felt in that moment.

*You were his and he was yours. He fell in love in that moment.

*He brought you to live in his palace, warning all the underlings that if any harm came to you, they would be subjected to the most horrific experimentations, they would spend the rest of their days pleading for death

*He came to your room often, showering you with gifts, inventions he had made for you. A synthetic flower he created in a glass jar sat next to your bed. It had arrived the day after you confessed you missed flowers, something unable to grow in the dark barren wasteland of hueco Mundo.

*You talked, late into the nights. Listening intently to his excitement regarding new experiments, sparing you the gory details. Offering your own intelligent insight

*He touched you often. Pushing your hair behind your ear. Hand settling at the small of your back when he accompanied you in strolls. Yet you seemed oblivious to his advances, never returning your own

*"Am I not sufficiently fulfilling your needs?" He asked you suddenly one evening, as you sat together reading

*You closed your book, regarding him with a confused look "Szayelaporro?"

*"why do you not reciprocate my love for you?" He crawled closer to you on the couch, lifting your hand in his own.

*"your love?" Your mind started swimming. He loved you? How have you not noticed? Your eyes scan your room, no longer feeling like a prison.. it hadn't felt that way for weeks..

* The flower he gifted you next to your bed, covered in brightly colours blankets and pillows to bring a pop of colour to the drab space.The piles of books he brought for your entertainment. The sweet human treats you didn't even give thought to how he came in possession of...

*"I have loved you since the first moment I laid my eyes on you. You have burrowed your way into my every waking thought. Every decision I make, I make with you in mind. I yearn to see your smile, that mischievous grin. I..."

*"Szayelaporro,"  you interrupted him breathlessly "kiss me"

Mayuri 

*The 12th gave you the creeps. You hurried down the corridor, following the twists and turns. Trying to ignore the suspicious screaming coming from behind closed doors, the strong aroma of chemicals. Your Captain had asked you to deliver the most recent numbers regarding Hollow attacks, and you were desperate to get in and out as fast as you could

*The door to the main lab opened with a whoosh. The darkened space made it difficult to see as you walked in "excuse me, Captain Kurotsuchi. I have the report from ... ooof" 

*You had walked into something solid, papers falling from your hand to scatter on the floor as you reached out to stable yourself

*Mayuri froze as you gripped onto his captains coat. The instinct to cut off your arm, modify it to chase you around and beat you across the head quickly evaporated as Your warm delicate fingers, seeped your warmth quickly through to his skin. His body rose in temperature, heart burning with desire as he saw your startled face.

*Too soon you let go. Apologies falling from your pretty lips as you knelt on the floor, gathering the reports he couldn't care less about in that moment.

* Embarrassed you gather the repot, laying it neatly on the desk. With a final apology you all but ran from the room

*"Nemu... who is that girl?" Mayuri asked, staring at the space you last were as if by sheer willpower he could materialise you back there

*"YN... from division 3"

*"YN."  He tasted the way your name sounded on his lips "write to the third Captain, I want YN to deliver the reports from now on" 

*"yes, Mayuri sama"

.*You plagued his thoughts for the rest of the week. Your face swimming in his vision in the most opportune times. More than one experiment had ended in an explosion due to his lack of concentration.

*He was obsessed. Head jerking around every time the door opened, heart sinking when it wasn't.

*He gave himself a physical. Jotting down his symptoms. Lack of appetite.. insomnia.. heart palpitations.. sweaty palms.. Hallucinations . He drew blood and analysed it himself. There was no tangible proof of an ailment. No scientific explanation of his behaviour 

*His heart throbbed as he read the results, everything healthy. He didn't dare speak what he already knew. It was absurd. Love. In that one moment he laid his eyes on you he had fallen in love. Pathetic, useless feeling. Held no weight in the world of science.. and yet.. 

*He couldn't wait any longer. Summoning a hellbutterfly, he summoned you to his office. He paced the floor, drying his sweaty palms on his clothes. He caught his reflection in a large metal container and stilled...

*while running tests on himself he had removed the white and black makeup he usually wore. He looked so.. human. The thought sent a shiver of disgust through him 

*you knocked on the office door, heart hammering a Mile a minute. You couldn't understand why you would be summoned personally to see the 12th captain,, unless he was mad about you bumping into him 

*the door whooshed open, and you tentatively stepped inside. "Captain Kurotsuchi?" You call into the thankfully well lit room 

*A handsome man with blue hair spun to face you at your call. You appreciated his defined jaw, subtle rugged hood looks. "Excuse me, do you know where .." you stop... he was wearing the 12th captains coat   "Captain Kurotsuchi?"

*he nodded, mouth suddenly drying of all moisture. He closed the distance to stand before you. "I have called you here because.."

*"I'm sorry" you interrupted "Im sorry I bumped into you."

*"no, that's  not why I..."  but you cut him off again

*"did I rip the report? I could write it up again for you" 

*"no. Listen. Since the day you came to my office I.." 

*"did I break something?" You worriedly asked, you didn't remember hearing anything break.. but it did and you had to replace it, you didn't much fancy asking your captain for a part of the budget

*"WOMAN! Will you stop interrupting me!" He shouted, throwing his arms up in the air and pacing the office, grumbling to himself "absurd. Love.. maybe I can cure it? Create a drug to stop the processors in my brain." 

*love? Did you hear that right? What has live got to do with your reports? Had someone fallen in love with a hollow?

*"Captain?"  You Interrupt his thinking out loud "I'm afraid I don't understand"

*He walked to his desk to pick up a peice of paper, all but thrusting it under your nose. You took it in your hands reading quickly, blood results.. clear.. symptoms including heart palpitations... loss of appetite? "Are you sick?"

*"you are as enragingly obtuse as you are beautiful "  he muttered under his breath, taking the paper from your hand and throwing it to the floor "these symptoms have been plaguing me since the moment you bumped into me. I can't stop thinking about you. I can't eat, my work is suffering because all I can think about is you. Why? How? How have you entered my thoughts? Why are you all I can think about?"

*You stare, mouth agape at his confessions. You? He was in love with you? The thought didn't scare you as much as it probably should have. 

*"you should test your theory" you whisper

*"how?! I've taken blood, run tests..."

*"kiss me"

Aizen

Aizen had everything planned. Every aspect of his plan had a plan and a back up plan. Nothing happened that he didn’t foresee. That he didn’t sculpt and manipulate to mould to his desires

that was, until he laid eyes on you

You were the great unknown, the one thing he could never foresee, not for himself, not now.

You were perfect, flawless. The crowning jewel on his accent to the top of the world. You were made to be by his side, share with him the new world he envisioned, the new world order he would create and reside over.

He had to have you, the moment he laid eyes on you, you were his. There was no one who could match your beauty, your grace. None were fit to call you their own, no one but him

The time had come to leave soul society, create his kingdom, his loyal army in hueco mundo, with the help of the  Hōgyoku

You were tightly held by Tosen, his loyal subordinate during the great accent.

The moment you arrived to your new kingdom, you were freed, crumbling to a heep on the floor

“Aizen…why?”

He knelt in the dirt before you, large hand caressing your soft cheek, directing your tear filled eyes to his cool gaze

“because I love you, YN. From that very first moment I saw you, I knew, you belonged to me Your place is here, at my side. You will be queen, my dear”

”I will never join you Aizen…”

”my dear YN, you’ll have no choice”

Adult Uryu

You screamed, suspended in thin air, a tight, invisible grip around your middle. The rancid hot breath of a monster you were unable to see, the vicious sound of teeth snapping together closing in on your face…

You heard the snap of a bow, the whoosh of an arrow slicing through the air. An ear splitting scream and suddenly you were falling

strong arms caught you, pulling you to a hardened chest. The pale, chiselled face of your saviour the last fleeting image before you blacked out

Uryu held you close as he made his decent, could feel the moment you went limp in your arms

he laid you down on the ground and pushed your hair away from your face. All the air got sucked from his lungs the moment he saw you for the first time. You were beautiful. Soft features, unblemished skin. Truly a vision of the purest beauty he had seen.

His heart beat rapidly in his chest, hand quivering over your face, tracing the bruise left by the hollow on your cheek

He knew in that moment, he needed to hear your voice, know your name

that you would be the one he would spend the rest of his life with. He had to see your face everyday for the rest of his life

He stayed with you until you woke. Explained about hollows and Quincey’s.

You thanked him for saving you, threw yourself at him in a hug that set his body alight. He wrapped his arms around you, vowing to never let you go

every day he would visit you. Get to know you little by little, fall deeper in love with every tiny detail you shared about yourself

And he exposed his heart to you, every fear, every dream.

The usual knock came at the usual time. Uryu had come to see you again. The biggest smile on your face as you opened the door, letting him into your home

”so, is it usual for Quincey’s to visit everyone they save?” You had asked him teasingly

“no” he answered seriously, wetting his lip nervously “I just can’t seem to stay away from you”

You couldn’t make sense of his confession, didn’t understand the burning passion behind his eyes

“was it something the hollow did?” You ask worried, what if that monster did something to you?

”no, it’s you.” Your breath caught in your throat

“me? But I haven’t done anything ”

”it’s not what you’ve done. It’s who you are. The way your smile takes my breath away. The way your laugh fills my chest so fully I’m afraid it’ll burst. How for the first time, I fear death, because I finally have something I’m too afraid to loose. I can’t imagine my life without you by my side YN.. I’m in love with you ”

Your heart swells with emotion… finally having a word to describe the feelings you had; Love

“I love you too”

Quicker than you thought possible, he had you in his arms, holding you just as tight as that first time he held you

“Uryu..kiss me”

[transhuman-priestess]

Lesson

A short story, by Ivy Michaels.

The following story contains a graphic depiction of surgery, with all the drugs and violence involved. It also includes graphic descriptions of pain. That is, in fact, the idea behind writing it.

And yes, this is smut.

“You know, dear, you’ve been such a good pupil these last few weeks.” Her voice comes to me through the curtain. I hear the click-clack of her heels on the linoleum floor, making an off-beat rhythm with the beeps and hums of monitors and pumps. She draws closer, and continues, “I think we’ve worked enough on theory, it’s time to move on to your practical lessons.”

The curtain is drawn back and I open my bleary eyes to see her. She’s dressed in the uniform she always wears. Rubberized olive drab canvas, sleeves pulled over the gloves, all seams taped over. Her face is mostly obscured by a surgical mask. Her hair is tied up under a paper hair net, though I can see a few strands of raven hair. All this despite the hood she wears with the clear face plate. I think she likes hiding her face from me, she’s never let me see it. Not all of it, not all at once.

“My darling,” she says, as kind and bubbly as ever, “you did so well on your nephrology unit last week, that I thought I’d give you a little treat!”

Images flash in my head. A slideshow of dissections. Parts of organs labeled. Ureter, renal artery, nephrons.

“Ah!” she says, approvingly, “I see you remember well!”

This is how it always is. She always knows what I’m thinking. I don’t know how that works. I have vague memories of sitting in a chair with my head in a device to immobilize it, but I can’t remember if that was a dream or an actual procedure. Memories are like that here. I know I haven’t been here long, but it feels like forever.

“I know you don’t understand, honey,” her voice falls to a gentle coo, “but don’t worry, I promise you will, eventually.”

I don’t mind it here, really. She’s very sweet to me. She teaches me things about myself I never knew. The other day, I think, she showed me where the vagus nerve is. I had forgotten what the bones in my palm are called, so she showed me how easily I could be disabled simply by applying a small electric shock to that nerve. The name of the bones was “metacarpals”.

That might seem harsh but she means well. Not in the sense that I’m rationalizing, either. I may not be able to remember why I’m here, but I sense that I am here by choice. I know it in my core It is, in fact, the only thing I know for certain.

“So, dear, are you ready?” she asks, “I’ve prepped room #5. The one with the seafoam green tile. I know it’s your favorite."

I hardly have to think about an affirmation. The bed thunks beneath me as she releases the brakes and begins rolling me into the hallway. One of the few things I recall from my time outside is this sensation, when I was very small, of being rolled through a hospital corridor on a cot. I can’t remember why I was there.

We turn a corner and my eyes come to rest on a pair of two-way doors, steel painted beige, with thin sheets of stainless to protect the doors from the impact of a gurney. Small windows of reinforced glass. The doors swing open and the cart jolts with the transfer of momentum.

Inside there are three other figures, all dressed identically to her, save for tinted, opaque faceplates. They are standing off to the side. Sometimes, they observe closely, sometimes they aren’t present at all, but always they listen to her commands, and never do they touch me without her explicit instructions. It makes me feel safe, knowing that she is the one in charge.

“Alright, dear, hold still while we move you to the table.” She grabs me by the shoulders, gently cradling me. One of the other figures grasps my legs, and together they move me onto the operating table. A second figure connects an IV line to the port in my arm. There’s a large mirror on the ceiling, so that I can observe.

“For this one, dear, you have a choice. Would you like the pain, or no?”

I want the pain. I always want the pain.

“Very well then. Paralytic only.” She nods to one of the figures, who hangs the appropriate bag on a hook above the table.

“Flex your fingers, dear.” She commands. I comply. After a few seconds I experience the sensation, curious as always, of being unable to move. An electric thrill of anticipation flies through me. It is almost time.

She unbuttons my gown, starting from the top, exposing first my breasts, then my stomach, and finally my groin. “Oh!” she says, “someone’s excited.” Of course I am. She’s never taken off my whole gown. This is something special.

“Oh,” she says, “I almost forgot, we’ll need to intubate.” One of the trio of assistants wheels over a cart with a ventilator. She takes a tube from it and tilts my head back, ever so sweetly. I feel the tube go down my throat, down past the epiglottis, my body trying to fight but finding itself disarmed by the paralytic. For ever so brief a moment I cannot breathe, and then I feel the beautiful sensation of air returning into my lungs.

“You did so well. I’m so proud of you!” she praises me as she applies tape hold the breathing tube in place.

“You know, this hood is very warm.” She says, and reaches up to unzip the hood from her suit. This is new. She hands the hood to one of the assistants, before bending down next to my ear and whispering, “I’m so proud of you.” And then she kisses me on the forehead, through her mask.

Standing back upright she says, “Okay, I’m going to make an incision…here.” she traces a line gently with her finger, from my sternum down, around my navel, ending at my pubic bone. “Are you ready?”

I am so ready that, if not for the paralytic, I think I might sob. She looks at me through the overhead mirror. I can see her smile through the surgical mask. “Very well then.”

She presses the scalpel to my flesh. Just a light pressure at first. Then, a stinging, and finally the burning, electric sensation of nerve endings being torn from their neighbors. It is the most incredible, all-consuming feeling. I can feel my brain trying desperately to force my limbs to push her away, to run from the room. I don’t want to, but I cannot, by myself, suppress the survival instinct. I feel tears well up in my eyes and flow down my cheeks.

“Very, very good.” she tells me, reaching up and stroking my hair. “You’re doing so well. Now, let’s see if you can tell me the names of everything in here.”

And gently, ever so tenderly, she slips her hand into my abdomen. I can’t remember what sex feels like, but I’m sure it doesn’t even come close to this. Knowing she’s so close to me is intoxicating. I feel her hand touch my small intestine.

“Very good!” she says, as she works her way up, to my stomach.

“That’s right” before moving on to my liver.

“That’s three for three! Very good!” the warmth in her voice fills my heart with joy. She’s so gentle. The pain is incredible, but it feels so good, because I know she’s the one causing it. I know she loves me, and I love her.

“Moving further down,” she continues, pulling her hand out, much to my disappointment. “Oh dear, don’t worry, I’ll be right back in in one moment”

And once again she plunges into my abdomen. The white-hot fire of the incision has faded slightly to merely red-hot smoldering. I feel her touch my sigmoid colon. “Excellent.”

Her hand moves to my left kidney. “Very good!”

I feel her grasp my bladder. “Perfect.”

She sighs, “It’s a shame I can’t reach your prostate from here, love.” A laugh.

“But that will be for later.” She stands and looks at one of the assistants. “Okay, sew her back up. Be gentle.” She must sense my disappointment, though, because she turns back to me. “Oh don’t worry, my dear, there’s one more thing left.”

It takes a while for the assistant to finish closing the incision in my abdomen. Time moves strangely in here, so I couldn’t say how long. By this point my body has numbed the incision area all on its own, leaving only the faint pulling and tugging of the sutures to be sent to my brain.

She walks back over and stands at the foot of the table. “You did so well there. I’m so proud of you. As a reward for how well you’ve done so far in your lessons, I’m going to perform one last procedure today.”

And with her most gentle touch yet, she pulls my legs to either side. “I know how much these bother you.” For a moment I panic, but she’s quick to reassure me. “Oh, not your legs, hon.” And it clicks.

“I’m going to cut right here.” she traces a line down the center of my scrotum. “And you’ll be rid of these forever.”

I feel the cold steel of the scalpel press in. The faint sting followed by the roaring thunder of pain. That high, heady feeling of endorphins rushes in again. I feel her, very faintly, reaching in and grabbing my right testicle.

"So, I know you hate these things. I hated mine, too.” She squeezes, hard, sending yet another rush of pain up and into my abdomen. “So I figured, why not simply take them away?” I feel the odd sensation of cold steel on my vas deferens. “Are you ready?”

I am.

I feel, for the briefest moment, a zing of pain and then the loss of signal that indicates a part of my body was severed. I feel her tying off the end.

“That’s one down. Time for the other.” Another hard squeeze on my left. “You’re taking this all so well! I’ll be sure to reward you when you’ve healed.” That same zing, that same loss of signal. I feel tears welling up. Not tears of pain, but joy, and love. I feel the repeated sting and tug and sting and tug as she sutures me back up.

“Okay love,” she says, at my side now, stroking my hair. “we’re going to push the painkillers now, and bring you out of the paralysis.” And with that, I feel the rush and the heady fuzz of opioids entering my system, the relief washing over me like a cool shower on a hot summer day.

“I want you to flex your fingers. Just keep flexing them.”

At first I can’t. I try and I try. But slowly, I start to feel them twitching, and after not too long I feel myself able to make a weak fist.

“Very good. You’re such a good girl.” Before I can say or even think anything, she reaches up, and removes first her cap, and then her hair tie. A shoulder-length crop of raven curls falls out. And then, to my amazement, she reaches up to her ear and removes the mask.

I see her face for the first time. I’m able to take in her sculpted jaw, her chin. She has a beauty spot on her right cheek. Her green eyes fill with warmth and, for the first time, I see her smile. “Let’s get that tube out.” She removes the tape on the tube. “Okay, I need you to take a deep breath. On three, I want you to exhale as hard as you can. One, two, three!” I blow and the tube slides out. I cough quite a bit.

Rather uncharacteristically, she tosses the tube aside. “You did so good today babe.” She comes in close, leaning over me, and our lips meet. Her kiss is so soft, so tender. I’m so lucky to have her. After what might be hours, or maybe no time at all, she pulls away.

Shakily, with a voice that hasn’t seen use in a long time, I say, “Thank you, Teacher.”

[clove-pinks]

Not to be Ohh Mister Waffles at 2 in the morning, but I am not over Mr. Waffles, from the 1852 novel Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour by Robert Smith Surtees.

Mr. Waffles was a "pretty man." Tall, slim, and slight, with long curly light hair, pink and white complexion, visionary whiskers, and a tendency to moustache that could best be seen sideways. He had light blue eyes; while his features generally were good, but expressive of little beyond great good-humour. In dress, he was both smart and various; indeed, we feel a difficulty in fixing him in any particular costume, so frequent and opposite were his changes. He had coats of every cut and colour. Sometimes he was the racing man with a bright-button'd Newmarket brown cut-away, and white-cord trousers, with drab cloth-boots; anon, he would be the officer, and shine forth in a fancy forage cap, cocked jauntily over a profusion of well-waxed curls, a richly braided surtout, with military over-alls strapped down over highly varnished boots, whose hypocritical heels would sport a pair of large rowelled, long-necked, ringing, brass spurs. Sometimes he was a Jack tar, with a little glazed hat, a once-round tye, a checked shirt, a blue jacket, roomy trousers, and broad-stringed pumps; and, before the admiring ladies had well digested him in that dress, he would be seen cantering away on a long-tailed white barb, in a pea-green duck-hunter, with cream-coloured leather and rose-tinted tops.

[...] He had always been a most important personage among the ladies, but as the men couldn't marry him, those who didn't want to borrow money of him, of course, ran him down. It used to be, "Look at that dandified ass, Waffles, I declare the sight of him makes me sick;" or, "What a barber's apprentice that fellow is, with his ringlets all smeared with Macassar."

HELLO????

And of course he's illustrated by John Leech!!

I have never read R.S. Surtees other than skimming him, but Phillis and Cecil Cunnington used him a lot as a source on clothing and fashion for Handbook of English Costume in the 19th Century.

[melodiousmonsters]

"Humbug (Insecta hymenoptera) average around 7ft/2.1m tall. They are lightweight monsters that travel long distances to collect the nectar and pollen from the flowering megaflora of the monster world. They are an integral species to all of the temperate to tropical environments around as they are a major pollinator of those megaflora.

To travel around faster they evolved to be able to glide on the interdimensional fabric making up the world with their unique membranous wings. It works best in humid environments, but will work anywhere. Their heightened ability to orient themselves in the multiverse helps with navigation.

They primarily feed on honey that they make. The honey making process starts with the wax that forms from glands on the bottom of their abdomens between the plates making up the abdomen. Humbugs chew this wax and then form it into hexagonal combs they secure to walls or floors of their homes. They then go out and collect nectar from plants and store it in a special variation of a holding stomach (When I make a post on basic monster anatomy I'll explain what a holding stomach is) used solely to store nectar. They then deposit the nectar from this stomach into the combs and fan off the extra water occasionally for about a month. Then they cap off the honey and store it for later consumption. Humbugs eat honey about three a month so they have plenty of time to make their food.

They don’t feed solely off of honey as commonly believed, for protein they eat pollen they brush out of their fur. They have specialized leg joints that have a special groove in the back that functions as a press. They put the pollen between this press and press it down into a solid chunk they can eat more easily than the stray powder. They eat this pollen almost every day during the flower breeding season. They will store extra for times when flowers aren’t producing pollen.

Contrary to popular belief they aren’t that venomous, at most their sting will cause mild irritation unless you are allergic to it. What they are is highly poisonous, which isn’t a worry to you as you aren’t going to be eating one of these fellows. They have their bright banded coloring as a warning sign, and their distinctive sound spells out danger for any potential predators before they try to eat the Humbug.

(Just a quick reminder that these are written by a Bowgart character I made) Fly Humbugs are native to earth island and have a reddish tint to them, two pairs of arms, compound eyes, and a different mouth. They evolved their unique mouth to lap up fluids rather than drinking them. And instead of the sweet syrups the common counterpart consumes, fly Humbugs consume carrion and rotting plant fluids. Quite rancid stuff, but you can’t yuck someone else's yum, as a Bowgart other monsters often think it’s gross that I eat frogs and I find that quite annoying.

The reason they evolved their drab coloring is unknown, as they are highly venomous and don’t have a reason not to stand out. Speaking of venom, their venom is not only a major blood clotting agent it’s also acidic and can dissolve things unlike the common’s very mild sting.

Snouted Humbugs have blue stripes, have beaked faces, two pairs of arms, and have a bunch of balancing organs to orient themselves while traveling through dimensions. They completely lack stingers or venom so instead they amped up their toxicity and developed bright colors that stand out anywhere to warn creatures that may try and eat them.

They eat plant fluids that they suck up with their beaks. They prefer fruit fluids but most plants don’t want all the energy they put into producing fruits to attract creatures to their flowers so they kept evolving tougher skins to keep the humbugs out. But the humbugs keep evolving sharper beaks in a never ending evolutionary arms race. Though some plants took the more productive route and evolved to drop pollen on whatever eats their fruits rather than relying on things getting their faces close enough to the stamens like other flowers.(Monster digestion works differently than ours so fruits serve a different purpose in the monster world)

Humbugs live in warm, preferably damp environments, most of them live in the poison affected parts of the pocket dimension and the overgrown caverns in earth island. They construct their homes with materials around them and use their wax as an adhesive to stick things together. Because of their natural inclination to build homes they make excellent carpenters. When a large group of Humbugs get together they will often use the larger amount of wax to create wax-based hives for them to all live in.

Humbug eggs hatch in similarly warm and wet environments as their adult counterparts. Humbug undergo complete metamorphosis and have two larval and a nymph stage of life. They start out as a very basic, three-segmented larva, no limbs, only nubs of what develop to be their fingers. Then they molt into the toddler larva after about five years, which have simple fleshy nubs, the upper two sport those aforementioned fingers. Then once they reach about 10-12 they enter their teenage nymph phase where they just look like less fluffy wingless adults. Slowly they grow in fur after a few molts and once they reach 30 they grow their wings.

[axieta]

Hungry eyes

Chapter 8

Henry Winter x reader

|An eye for an eye|

I never got to know what real love feels like. Not in the empiric, soul-bonding way some of us do. I never fell in love, never threw myself into the emotion with hunger and abandon Shakespeare would want to describe, nor did I find my other half, and my appreciation of physical beauty had never developed into the admiration of a soul, not really. But I got to know what it looks like.

I watched it simmer like a small coal in the slowly dying fire, blazing like the wild fires of Mount Olympus, engulfing but at the same time strangely warming. Heating smiles and cheeks, glimmering in the throwaway glances. Or blooming slowly, spreading its soft, petals, blushing delightfully in the warm array of feelings that fertilised it.

I saw it in the pale hands conjoined, twisted, one inside of the other, when their proprietaries thought no one was looking. I saw it in the soft, quick pecks on lips, on cheeks, on foreheads, and in the rushed adjustment of crooked glasses by a hand too small and too slim to be their owner.

I heard it in the hushed giggles, soft and melodic like the thawing creaks of Parnassus, and the murmurous baritone going lazily through the passages of Argonautica Orphica.

I knew it was love, despite never experiencing it myself. How could I not? One look at those tangled hands, flushed cheeks, relaxed figures… one note of those soft laughs… one glance at the creatures of my interest, children of Helios, dreadful idols with lovely hair and human voices, and there was no denying it. No matter how deep down they pushed it, how well they thought they were covering their tracks. I was the hound thirsty for all that, feral for just the slightest morsel of that warmth, seeking them and constantly on the look-out.

And what I had discovered is that L-O-V-E is not an emotion in itself, rather it is a state one might find themselves in. A complicated arras of emotions, behaviours and interactions woven larger and tighter by those tangled in its threads. It is happiness, elation, impatient expectancy, worry, idyllic calm. And that is the good part of love. After all, all good cannot exist in its purest form alone. To every good notion, there is its bad counterpart. Even in love. Dialectical monism, some may call it. I call it life. So, soon enough, the other emotions – wrath, anger, despair, hurt – they all followed suit. After those, I discovered that love, this crystal pure tapestry I admired so, can get ugly, and that to love truly, and most ardently is to endure this engulfing darkness and stop your loved ones from crossing one too many lines. It is the worry for them that keeps the flame of love alive, that gives it the gas-stained, blue tint. To let the fire completely consume you and be wholly miserable afterwards. My two friends unfortunately taught me that. Their love soured, rotted, bitten and diminished by the things Henry had done to keep it alive. It was not my pain to hold, and yet the hurt that comes with the thought of that sorrowful affair, drabs me with tiresome regularity. It died, that love, the second Henry decided what to do with Bunny. But for some time, for those few blessed weeks I was content to watch and soak in the exuberant light of purest, most delicate kind of love.

In the weeks following our excursion to the beach I witnessed some secretive behaviour from both Henry and her. Suddenly, the two of them were too busy to do anything. Sunday dinners at Charles and Camilla’s? No can do. Studying together at the library? Sorry. Quick visit at Francis’? We’re preoccupied. And always that damned ‘We’. Never singular ‘I’ from those two, always plural and unified.

It had become so excessive that we, as the whole class, saw them only during the lessons with Julian. And even then, they seemed quizzically distant. They kept to themselves, going as far as to cunningly changing places, Forcing Francis out to the back of the class, and only working with each other. Inseparable, the two of them seemed even more unachievable, unapproachable for us than ever before. There was this unexplainable glow about them, as if their hair became lighter, their eyes brighter, minds clearer. As if for hundred generations they had been walking the world, drowsy and dull, idle and at their ease, until they stumbled upon that beach and suddenly, like in Symposium, they came to be one, humans before they became humans. Four arms, four legs, and no faces for us to see, for they always stayed turned towards the other.

One time, when I was walking to the class, I saw them. Two dark blurs against the backdrop of white. Rare, in those weeks, the sight of them. Like a pair of white ravens glimmering amongst trunks of a forest. So, I had to stop, take a look at them. Safe in the cover of arches of loggia I was strolling through, I hid myself amongst the shadows, an undetectable spectator.

The weather was harsh. The biting cold ready to freeze off any uncovered parts of human body. In my case, it was the nose that suffered the most. Red, furiously maroon, only after a couple of minutes on free air. Not even the sharp, white light of the winter sun offered any respite from all that cold. It seemed to be mocking all the people beneath it, it shined, brighter and stronger that in any other day. And the sky was clear, a sharp blue of a polished sapphire, not a cloud staining its Persian tile. In the parabolic curves of the outside corridor’s arches, it might’ve looked like a silky fabric spread flat between the darkened stones. The ground beneath it seemed to be moving, as the sun flexed in the white, waved surface, bejewelling the snow with a trembling spark of diamonds. The beauty of that landscape, the wonderful colours of regal jewels and the absolute, charming waviness of it all should indicate a temperature fitting for such a charming view, closer in its degrees to the feeling it evoked in the chest of an observer. But no. the cold bit with a ferociousness comparable to the ninth circle of hell.

But Henry and she, they did not seem to be bothered at all by all that. Neither the cold nor the ascetic landscape reigning over them could ever scare them away, discourage from doing whatever they were doing. Not when heat came off their bodies in heaps of white vapour, swirling around their bodies, their breaths mingling as one in the still air. The fume coming off her lit cigarette almost indistinguishable amongst the white haze of their delighted whispers.

They were hopping over ice ridges, swift and agile, cutting through the white plain of the field, kicking up the powdery snow. She led the two-man procession, dragging Henry behind her, black, thick scarf hanging from her extended hand. I could not see Henry’s face, but judging by his swooping, resilient walk, every fibre of his body was hell-bent on catching up to her. He shouted, out of breath in his pursuit after her. Oddly enough, I could not hear any trace of contempt or irritation that would usually accompany him. More than anything, the words that came out of his mouth flew in a clear tone of amusement.

‘Oh, you little minx! How stubborn can you be? Come, put it on this instant!’

‘Like hell you’ll force me to do that!’

Volatile as ever, she jumped out of his grasp and right into a frozen cap of snow. White powder flew up and glimmered in the noon sun like thousands of tiny diamonds, though I could swear on my life, that her feet had never touched the ground. It must’ve amused her, because she carried on through the knee-high, white barrier, kicking her feet high, high to her chest, giggling deliriously while doing so. Soon enough, the floating snow settled onto her, clung to her loose hair and the dark wool of her coat, and if anyone cared to look her way in that moment, they would probably think that a small yeti somehow got onto the perimeters of Hampden and the tall, limping fellow chasing after it was some kind of crazed scientist, persistent to drag the creature to his laboratory.

And far from crazed Henry wasn’t. Covered in a thin sheet of snow as well, he tore through the infinite white after her with a mad grin on his lips. His teeth shined dangerously as he screamed after her in Spanish, profanities, even I do not feel comfortable sharing. Finally, he caught up to her, after all it was not as if she really tried her hardest to get away from him, and with a ferocious, triumphal yelp he threw himself at her, tackling her to the plush hills of snow. The tackle was in every bit of it, professional. Not like I would see on the small field stretched before my old high school, no. It carried impact, stile, technique. The way he tensed before the jump, and then loosened when hitting her body with his, not to hurt her too much. Or the way his arm wrapped skilfully around her waist, and then the other, just around her neck, the palm of his hand cautiously protecting her cranium, as if he had done that move a hundred times before. Oh, and the fall! How he landed not on her, but rather chose to lighten the fall with his knees, ending the whole sequence hovering over her. It all screamed effortless beauty. Well, it would, if moments after, she wouldn’t manage to tilt him over, and onto his back. Now she howled in victory, saddling his chest like an experienced jockey. Henry huffed and leaned back into the snow, resigned, as she waved the scarf, still in her hand, before him, its fringes teasing his nose.

‘Never gonna win with me! Never gonna win! Never, ever!’ She laughed in a sing-song voice. Henry only rolled his eyes, like one might roll their eyes at a petulant child, and with no effort he sprung up, sending her once again to the ground. ‘Oh, come on, you brute!’

And then, with a terribly delighted shriek, she disappeared underneath the dark folds of Henry’s coat. He covered her with his whole body, engulfing her shrill form into himself as if to introduce her into his system. Henry made sure that she didn’t lay in snow for too long, wrapping the flaps of his coat around her, cocooning her further. Laughter shook this newfound dual species of man, as her legs kicked the tail of his coat up in a miserably unspectacular show of defiance. Only her hand managed to slip out of that smothering mass of Henry and like the last wave that a man drowning throws into the air, she swung the wool scarf far away from them. It swayed in the air and then plopped on the snow, not even disturbing its white, parabolic surface. But that only made him laugh even harder. Sliding down the twisted spiral of giggles, his arms snaked around her torso and with one hard push he sent them both sliding up, and forward. His nimble hand swiped it right out of the reach of her outstretched fingers. Quick and precise like the hand that deals with cards he wrapped one end around his wrist and then proceeded to swirl it around her neck. She never left the safe confines of the cocoon, nor did a singular snowflake fall on her, that’s how he was careful with her.

‘Listen here to me! I’ve just heard that someone died in the city! A student! Frozen to death during the night! If you’re not careful you might end up just like him!’

One, two, three loops around her neck he spun, until the scarf covered completely and tightly all off her neck and a part of her mouth, so her screams of protest came out inaudible and muffled.

‘No! No! It scratches!’

She tossed and turned as if possessed, and to be honest, they made a brilliant match in that department, because he as well, giggled like a madman.

‘Better to be scratched a bit than to freeze to death, now don’t be stupid and keep it on! Or do you want Khione to bite your ears off?’

She struggled then some more but with no certain conviction.

‘No, no. Stop, ahhh, you scooped in snow with it.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

His nose, mindlessly circling her cheek and temple, drafting small arches over her brow seemed to make her docile, good. Frost kissed their faces and glossed them, over with shimmering, rosy colours.

‘I, personally, like you better alive.’ His boyish, thin lips lingered for a while on her brow. ‘And warm.’ Then on her nose. The motion of that mouth was languid, decelerated, sure of possessing all the time in the world, not even bothered to purse and grace her skin with a full-fledged kiss, just with slow feline nudges. ‘And healthy.’ His arms travelled up to her head. They encased her from above and successfully shielded her face as he, and I was sure of it, dipped down to capture her mouth with his. ‘With ears.’ She giggled slightly into the kiss, as did he, their lips smoothing over each other, gazes bore into the depth of the other.

I stared at them from my agreeable distance. My mind completely numb, soaking in that dreamy imaginary. I studied their bodies, their hands, the subtle play of light and shadows breaking over Henry’s coat. The giggle that his fingers elicited from her when he rubbed her earlobes between index and the thumb was like the purest symphony to me. Carmen of all laughs.

But I was too scared, or maybe too timid to come even an inch closer. That was an intimate, although a public moment, and watching it like that, from deep within the shadows gave me a strange, unnerving feeling. It settled on my nape like dew and dripped from my pits, down my arms in cold streaks of sweat. I backed away, one step after the other, very slowly, not to make any noise. I found out, more than a week before, that stealth was my biggest asset and greatest friend. I managed to escape without a hitch, blended back into my solitary, murky reality, to my arches and cold stone. But as soon as I averted my gaze I instantly longed for their light. For the warmth they shared between each other, and the smiles dedicated only to the other, impossible to see for an outsider. So even though I felt ashamed of snooping on them like that, spying even, for nothing more than my own pleasure, there was this pathological need, burrowed deep inside of me to continue my, as she called it many times before, Tom-peeping, or peep-tomming, I forget. I just needed to… I don’t know… see them, I guess.

From that moment on the thoughts of them plagued me day and night like an infection, inflamed, festering wounds in my soul they kept me up, sweaty, with my brows furrowed as I laid tangled in my bedding. It physically hurt to long for them so, even when they did not long for me at all.

There was no remedy for my strange illness. No antidote, but them.

Them, them, them. That plural, inseparable pronoun rattled about my skull all the time. And I couldn’t help myself. I started following them.

Once I had spent close to forty minutes lurking outside of her lecture halls, hunched over, tucked into myself on one of the benches like a hen perched in her coop, anxious with the anticipation of my foxy executor. Not once in the span of those forty minutes did I question my actions, not once had the thought occurred to me that what I was doing bordered on insane or stalkish. In all truth, I hadn’t thought at all. Without them, without their proximity, their stark image together, I was non-existent, vacuous in my whole demeanour. Suspension overtook me in detail and overview. And only when she emerged from the building, a gemstone in the grey, muddy mass of other, rather dim-looking students, and he, right behind her, a shadow, I let out a breath I had no apparent idea I was holding in. I sunk into the darkness of the eve, as they passed me by and then followed their careful steps with a longing stare. Sunken into the shadows I was invisible to them.

Contrary to that snowy morning, on which I spotted them in the commons, the evening was gloomy and dark, covered with an ashen layer of drizzle. The day before was quite warm, at least in the general perception of winter, and some of the snow happened to melt. In the night the temperatures dropped drastically, and the thaw froze over the cobble-stoned paths of Hampden. The thick, misty shell of ice held on strong throughout the day and when the drizzle came, the already slippery surface turned murderous. I had already seen a few people trip and fall on the section of the pavement. I had heard many shrieks of pain and unflattering nosegays of curses already, but it never occurred to me that one of them could ever succumb to the fate similar to our peers. After all, in my mind, the both of them, at all times glided at least half an inch over the surface of the earth. All that conviction crumbled to the ground with a singular slip of her feet. Suddenly, the air broke with a miserable squint of her soles on the ice. With face frozen in utter surprise and a scream half-dead on her tongue she swung back, her body bending as if boneless. Horror befell me, but before I could do anything, anything at all, Henry stepped in. The unmovable force that he was, he caught her elbow half-swing and yanked her up, into a standing position. He didn’t even look in her direction, as if what he did just then was but a non-emphatic activity, a slip of a mind. A natural, almost tired gesture. She slid towards him with the forced of his pull and stopped just at his side. His hand fell from her elbow to tether into hers.

‘Videte,’ I heard him huffing a small laugh. She just shook her head at that, but I could see the relief slowly blooming on her features. The whole affair, short and in that shortness, terrifyingly dangerous, seemed to have no effect on them whatsoever, as if the act – of her slipping, falling to the ground, and him catching her without a hitch – was a simple regularity in their lives. That made me think, her limpness when she fell stood as a testament of her sure helplessness in that situation, or rather pure sureness that no matter what happened, he was there to catch her. Maybe it was not something practiced between them, but a natural reaction in the closeness they shared. The trust that they build and felt allowed her to fall like that, unpreoccupied and carefree, as well as it forced him to react. I was sure, if he was the one to slip, she would sure as hell try and uphold his towering figure.

‘It’s those new shoes. God damn it, I need to finally break them in.’

Henry did not let go of her hand as they went on, clearly unsure of his footing as well now, he opted on anchoring himself on her, as she did on him, and supporting one another like that they carried on forward with tiny, penguin steps. Their hands joined together pulsed slowly one in the other, swayed to the rhythm of their steps like a little, pale heart.

There is this painting – Nighthawks – if I remember correctly. Edward Hopper was the painter’s name, I think. I don’t remember much from the modern art class I took in high school. Truth be told, I only attended that particular lecture, simply for the fact that, as I had heard from someone, the professor handed out credits as if they were fresh buns. And that was true. All you had to do, was attend the class, and bam! – a credit. I never paid much attention to the classes having no deeper interest in contemporary art as presented, I usually took the extra hour as an opportunity to do my overdue homework, or study for upcoming quizzes. But during one of those dull lectures, the professor showed us that painting. Nighthawks. I remember raising my head then, disoriented and compelled to do so by some foreign, unknown force, and zeroing in on the old, yellow wall, on which he was projecting his presentation. Dark mass of bottle green and copper red stared back at me, illuminated with a strange, fluorescent beam of light coming from the presented diner. The light in that painting was sharp, man-made, but did nothing to swallow the overwhelming darkness swarming in the corners of the canvas. The diner stood out from that obscure scenery like the last stand of hope amongst the waves of anguish. Four people sat inside: two men, a woman in red and a waiter. I think one of the men, the one sat beside the woman was barely stroking her hand. The woman might’ve been smoking or talking to the bent-over waiter. the latter man sat alone, surrounded by empty bottles and glasses. The painting was so utterly gloomy and strangely lonesome, yet I could not bring myself to tear my eyes off it. Beaconed to it, like a seafarer seduced by a siren, I stared and stared completely disconnected from whatever facts and history was the professor gracing the class with. All I could focus on were those four figures. How together, and yet, strangely lonesome they seemed. The maybe’s and perhaps’s that my brain created while looking at them – ‘they might be holding hands’, ‘maybe they know each other, maybe not’, ‘they might leave the diner together, and never speak to each other again’. The series of near misses and suppositions got me so hypnotised, that it was only after a good chunk of the lectured passed by, and I noticed that the oil diner had no way of entry… and I thought how strange it was how we, the viewer, were left alone, in the dark, wholly cut off from the saving grace of the diner, with no way to enter. How we could only observe, never interact. I remember walking out of that class numb and disoriented, a foreign craving forming somewhere deep inside of me, right next to the pancreas. I had forgotten about that lonesome, swallowing feeling, right up to that point. But when I saw the two of them – tall and lithe, surprisingly standing out against the background of the grey mass of our peers, them, the only two figures reached by the warm light of campus lanterns I felt that craving nudging at me anew.

I waited a bit before getting up. I figured it would be best not to bump into them on my way to the dorm. I much preferred the solitary designation of an observer, to a distasteful intruder. But the air was getting colder, and my nose more and more red. Finally, I had no other choice but to get up and go, especially because a few other students started to throw concerned looks my way. I thought I had perfected the art of invisibility, but no. I think there must’ve been something in my face, in my eyes that alerted them so of my existence, a certain wetness. But it felt uncomfortable to be like that, seen, judged, so I scrammed.

On my way down to the dorms I walked past by a particularly pretty blonde. She walked with a furious verve, a warrior’s glint in her eyes. I think it was Camilla, but I couldn’t say for sure. It was dark out, and the girl’s face was so scrunched up with anger, it could’ve been anyone. In the distance swayed two figures, hand still together, despite the fact they reached the more frequently used, iceless path.

I tried dabbling into sketching. Something I had never done before, seeing as I possessed no artistic spark, nor presented any inclinations of a hidden talent in that department. But I found it hard to force words out of myself and onto the paper, as I did many a time before, and I had to find some kind of an outlet, otherwise I felt I would combust. The then ever-present memory of the Nighthawks sparked an idea in me, one I could not forget or ignore. The subject of the dreaded ‘them’ pushed at my guts terribly now with every breath that I took. Where before words flooded my notebooks, now an array of hasty, shaky scratches appeared. Black little blurbs, primitive depictions of trees and little silhouettes pacing underneath them and blank surfaces imitating snow appeared, as did crooked walls of library and miniature books with random titles squeezed into their outlines. And as a centrepiece of every sketch – two people. A woman, sometimes with curly, other times with straight or frizzy hair, and a man, never changing, constantly clad in a dark, long coat. Drawing Henry was quite simple, elementary even. But with her I always struggled. It was improper in my mind to capture her likeness, so no matter how many times I tried, and what I intended to draw, she always appeared as a faceless woman, back turned to the frame of the sketch. I found my drawings cathartic.

Still, I sometimes gave them titles, or scribbled something on the margin, there was no method to it. But I had never sketched alone. Never, ever. Only when I could see them, under no other circumstances. Otherwise, the drawings would come out soulless, boring and ugly.

One day I followed them into the campus library. As they sat in the window niche and pulled out their books and notes, I situated myself strategically almost opposite to them, slightly to the right. Crammed between the bookshelves I stalked them through the gaps left by rented books and with the greatest abandon I scratched with a rough image of them. First, the window, large, arched and a bit yellowed with age. Its shape on my paper was simple, angular, and so was the concrete frame of it. Then the shelves on both sides of it. Dark oak appeared as nervous jagged strokes of black, and the books were just a bunch of vertical rectangles, although their edges appeared so wobbly, I doubt anyone would have the courage of calling them that. The checked floor and a few lamps witch glossy-green domes, the light coming from them accentuated as, again, mostly straight rays, like the ones presented in imagines of sun oh so often seen in kids’ drawings. And then, enter them. Sat on the windowsill, books in their hands, ancient scripts threatening to fall apart and turn into dust at any given moment. Henry sat with his back against the wall of the niche, one leg outstretched on the windowsill, the other hanging freely from it, slightly bent at the knee. His pant leg hitched a bit and I could see the impeccably white sock peaking slightly above his Oxfords. His chin resting idly on her head as he gazed to the side, where he held his book with one hand. Dark ring shimmered on his middle finger. His face, sharp, and stern as always lost its marble hardness, when her silky hair framed it in a gilded halo. Lost in thought, then, even more than in any other situation, he looked strangely alive. That was easy to draw. One straight line here, the other there. The perspective might’ve been a little bit off, but it didn’t bother me much, as I knew I was no skilled artesian. Problems came about when I moved on to her. Lodged between his legs, I could not tell where she began, and he ended. Her dress bunched somewhere around her raised knees and fell over his thighs. His hand resting on her stomach brought to my mind a faint memory of a smell – a delicate, sweet fragrance that spun around my skull, something like home, or even more domestic. And yet there was something so inherently lewd, so breathtaking in her pose that I found my breath coming short and all the blood in my body flowing to my head with a constant, roaring contentment.

Lightheaded I studied the curve of her nose, the dome of her forehead and the attentive glare she tasked the book resting on her knees. She held the pages with her thumbs, while the rest of her palms supported the cover from the back and her head angled slightly downwards to gaze into the contents of the book. Her slender hands so white against the crimson cover. Every fold of her dress was like discovering a new world to me. Subtle greys and blues, the tones hidden in its delicate white seemed like folds, pocket dimensions to the blurry outline of her legs when the sun shined through them. In my picture it appeared much cruder. While drafting those long, doe legs I pressed my pen a bit lighter to the paper, keen on giving them that ghostly pseudo-presence. But nothing could compare to the original. It was then, when my gaze fell onto her face, soft, thoughtful, and cloudy between her pulled brows, that I realised I could never be an artist. Breath escaped me as I tasked the slight curve of her nose, the round edge of her rose cheek, and even though she was not looking my way, even though I was the one who first had cast my gaze, I was struck dumb, like deer in headlights I fell victim of those swirling irises. Like the first time she looked my way, I found myself unable to tear myself from them, skimming quickly from left to right along the text. Seeping, indirect light hypnotised me and I fell deaf to my surroundings. Next few seconds, or minutes, or even a century passed me unnoticed, because what little sunlight peaked into the niche seemed to cross her eye directly, encasing it in pure, liquid silver.

I was so completely immersed into her, that I did not even hear the swooping, murmurous steps progressing behind me. A new, sharp, manly smell replaced that sweet fragrance I had been smelling, and I haven’t noticed that either. She turned to henry, intentionally tracing her nose against his neck. A pale smile graced his lips when she whispered something into his ear. He shook his head, as if disappointed, but reluctantly pushed off the precipice of the windowsill and jumped to the floor with her still in his arms. Red with withheld laughter they stumbled forward and then broke apart. She reached into one of his pockets, Henry did not protest, despite his slightly gloomy expression. There must’ve been something saddening in the way she dug up some tabaco from a white-green bag with her nimble fingers and sprinkled it onto a rectangular piece of paper. Or in how quickly had she rolled it – three steps and the ciggy was rolled and done. What saddened me most, was the loose of my subjects, for my drawing had not yet come into completion. I intended on following them outside, and maybe finishing my sketch based on what I saw there, or starting a new one, but then, a slim hand surrounded with that masculine, strong smell caught my shoulder and held me in place with an unexpected force. That newfound, seemingly immovable force made me quiver in my steps, filled my throat with a blood-chilling scream, that died out once the copper main swung over my field of vision. Soft lips pressed onto mine swallowing what was left of my panic. Stunned I froze. That was a kiss. Filled with a smell of a man, grace with soft frills of white cuffs on my cheeks. ‘Francis,’ I mustered. The redhead laughed with his whole chest, unconcerned with the general rules of the library. I cringed towards the bookcase, to check if that fit of laughter attracted the attention of my subjects, but to my relief, the were already gone. The only evidence of their presence – the abandoned bags and books abandoned on the windowsill. relief washed over me, immediately chased with venomous irritation. ‘Francis! What are you… You can’t just go around kissing people!’ Francis, still holding onto me with a desperate grip, lunged into another fit. Through his giggles he managed to cough up a simple ‘You’re not supposed to go around stalking people…’ another giggle and then a final stab ‘And yet you do.’ I shrugged his hand off, infuriated with that accurate observation, as I had nothing to say in my defence. I just stared at him, offensively happy in his fits, with my hand pressed protectively to my lips, as if scared that he might try and kiss me again. And he did, that crazy ginger bastard leaned in again, clutching onto my shoulders and pulled me closer, terrible grin still gracing his pales lips. I wretched myself out of his confines and jumped away as quickly and as far as possible, which gained me another salve of laughter from him.

‘Oh, come one Richard,’ he’d said once he managed to push through the unimaginable barrier of amusement. ‘Richard, darling, come on, don’t walk away! You’re packing already? I thought you had a sketch to finish! They’re going to be back any minute, you don’t want to pass that opportunity!’

I pushed my notebook close to my chest, suddenly very anxious and protective of its contents. I did not bother to wonder how did he know what I was doing, just scared he might pull it out of my grasp and start going through each and every pathetic excuse for a drawing, studying them and finally, arriving at the terrifying conclusion of the scope of my mania. Red-faced, with my gaze pinned onto the creaking floor I pushed right through him, bumping my shoulder into his. Francis, however, did not seem to be bothered by my ostentatious show of disrespect in the least bit. Eagerly he followed my footsteps, meandering through an endless labyrinth of bookshelves and racks. Never had I imagined the library to be so endless and hard to get out of.

‘Why are you following me, Francis?’

Finally, I had reached the point of irritation that was too much to bear for my jittering body. A crease of annoyance scared my forehead as I spat at him over my shoulder.

‘I’m not following you at all, Richard Papen, dearest.’

That made me stop right in my tracks. Francis, as agile and graceful as ever, didn’t even stutter in his steps, lightly passing me by and spinning around so that he could face me, a foxy grin plastered onto his pinkish lips. His arms swayed around his waist as if weightless and completely independent from the rest of his body when he spun.

The sight of my raised brown, as high up as possible, mixed with the grimace of discomfort must’ve amused him to no end, because he gave up the rest of the information without his usual mockings and jests.

‘I was actually looking for them, you know. Henry and that devil-woman. But then I saw you, creeping around the corner, and I could not help myself! You know? Had to scare you a little!’

I scoffed, irritated more than ever.

‘And? You had already found them. Go, get them. And leave me alone.’

‘So you could creep some more one innocent bystanders?’

‘Exactly. Go, now.’

There was something so utterly amused in his foxy face, that even in my state of highest vexation, I could not help but crack a little smile. My voice came out squished and bubbly, not sharp and authoritative, as I meant it.

‘Don’t you at least want to know, why I was looking for them?’

I rolled my eyes at his relaxed stance, the easy flex of is arms, when he bound them behind his back, surely bending his palm backwards in the other hand.

‘Come on. Shoot,’ I mused.

‘I was to ask them for an outing. A small gathering of all of us, you know. In that bar, what’s it called, Cherry, or something like that. The winter break is coming in and I thought it would be fun to just let loose for a bit. You should come as well. Actually, you should definitely come. Be there at nine. Sharp.’

And then, with another swirl and a short giggle, he was off, running, skipping, along the bookcases, his pale, long fingers skimming along those backs of the books. I was once again left alone, just as I wished, and suddenly, the grave trench opened in me at the sight of the Nighthawks so many years ago felt so, so much deeper than ever before.

I went to that bar. Cherry flavour was the name, but I found it, no problem. It was not the murky directions that Francis had given me a few hours before that had led me to be there half an hour late, but my desperate need not to seem… well, desperate. In all truth, I shouldn’t have even bothered, because as is crossed the threshold, the sorry imagine of only Francis and Bunny staring silently at their pints greeted me in full swing of sadness. I walked towards their table, every step ringing in my head loud and clear like a church bell. The air there was muffled, silvery with smoke, just like in her apartment, although the space felt solemnly impassive, even with the music booming from the jukebox, and the chatter of the many patrons. Without her, there was no point in squinting my eyes and flaring my nostrils at the unpleasant smell, fore there was no one in my surrounding who would even notice my ministrations. No one to point them out and poke fun at me for them.

Through the thick veil of it I could see how Bunny nursed, with utmost carefulness and greed, the piss-coloured pint, and the orange-red curve of Francis’ cigarette, as he explained something to the other boy, swinging his arms around with a gusto. They did not notice me however in all that awful racket, and I was lucky enough to her a snippet from their conversation, or rather, Francis’ monologue. His voice soared over the idle chatter of crowd mixed with music and the clang of glass hitting glass, somewhere in the background, as a group of rather young fellows raised a toast to something one of their friends just did.

‘You see, it is not the matter of whether you’re prepared for it, or not my friend, it’s just that the things of this kind of nature always come biting you in the arse. It’s just the way it is. You bet on a wrong horse, now it’s time to choose another. Like that Shelly girl from my French poetry class, you know the one…’

His cigarette soared up to his temple, very carelessly, and some of his short coppery hair sizzled away from the butt.

The floor boards squeaked beneath my feet, and I bit my lip, anxious not to make too much noise. My ears twitched eagerly, to hear the rest of the conversation uninterrupted. While strutting through the bar I tasked it with a more detailed glance now that I was closer to it’s centre than in the first minutes of my entry. My eyes slid over the faces of the patrons, some of which I knew from Hampden, some completely new. There were old and young people alike, all of them swarming around the bar squeezed into the back of the locum, old and kind of dirty looking with a single bar tender flexing and running behind the counter, swaying back and forth, confused as to what he was supposed to put his hands into first. Copper handles and crystal glasses shimmered in the dim light of the bar. The many bottles filled my vision with an array of colours and blur before my eyes into a kaleidoscopic mirage. They turned and swirled in the unsteady grip of the bartender, sweating profusely when the hot air breathed from the many a gorge of the patrons settled on their cool surface. Carlsberg, Heineken, Budweiser, and a few other, oval icons sat perched on the edge of the counter beaconing me to them with their moist and cool glint. I sensed that my mouth was going dry but the sight of the swirling perpetually forming and curving queue successfully deterred me from the bar.

‘I’ve already introduced the two of you, I’m sure of that. She’s the sappy one, she likes Sapho.’ Francis laughed at his own words, gaining no response from his partner.

Bunny stared at him blankly, no thought behind his glossy eyes. His hands wandered up and down the glass filled with, what I could only assume, was beer, his mouth agape, mind clearly someplace else, as if it was not a glass, his hands had been exploring, but completely something else. It was clear, that nothing more was going to come out of that one-sided exchange, as Francis dipped his head down, into his glass and rested his cheeks on the rim, exhaling a pathetic sigh, as if it was not the first time he has been ignored by Bunny like that. I cleared my throat, just to be polite and warn them of my presence and put on a slight smile.

‘I see how it is gentlemen. But correct me of I’m wrong, Bunny already has his dark horse, doesn’t he? Marion is the name?’

The boys jumped as if poked with white-hot rake.

‘Jesus Christ, you scared the crap outta me!’ Were the first words that Bunny has spoken to me, and judging by the offended look Francis threw him, first words of the evening. His voice was raspy, slurred with the kind of drunken tune you hear at dodgy gas stations in the middle of the night, when you should be safe and sound asleep in your bead, but instead you’re desperately trying to convince the acne-riddled clerk that yes, you are indeed twenty-one, and yes, those two six packs of beer are indeed, just for you and no one else.

‘Not Jesus, just Richard,’ I pulled my lips into a thin, awkward line, as Francis’ laugh roared over the vocals of some sorry fellow whining from the jukebox. A few patrons of the bar turned to us, that’s how loud he laughed, but quickly they averted their gaze, maybe because of Bunny, who stared daggers back at them. That night, he seemed more in a mood for brawl than any other, his usual sunny disposition gone completely and replaced with something more spiky, unpleasant. Strangely gloomy and dark, with his back hunched and a grimace plastered on his face he looked almost serious, almost adult, and almost dangerous. Almost. And I recognized that frown on his face. Deformed, softer and lacking, but if expressed by someone else, let’s say a bit taller, more stoic and with a frame of hair and eyes a few tones darker than his, the look would be deadly. And then a realisation came through my mind, the scope of which made my hair stand on end and blood to run cold. Bunny was mimicking Henry.

‘Oh, you see Richard Papen, the thing with our dear Edmund is that he always seems to want whatever he cannot have.’

The blonde’s head snapped back to him, face twisted in a parody of what Henry sometimes threw his way, when he thought that Bunny deserved a reprimand.

‘Will you ever shut up; you ginger cu- ‘

But before he could finish, Francis interrupted his in a very timely fashion. With a holler he jumped out of the booth the boys had been sitting in and waved his arms like a madman. I could hear a sharp exhale coming from my right, where the frustrated blonde sat. I could not be bothered to check, what kind of expression did he make this time, because, as I heard a small, honeydew voice resounding right behind my back, I was completely torn from reality. It was the voice of Charles that came to me first, but something in the back of my mind, something very slimy and cunning told me that right where that melodic, soft voice appeared, another, a bit more nasal and deeper, but still a twin to it would follow. I spined around just to see Charles draft a deep bow.

‘The scum of the earth, I believe?’

And Francis responded with the same curtsy, his fox-like face widened and elongated by a sly smirk.

‘The bloody assassin of the workers, I presume?’

Somewhere behind Charles a melodic snort announced the arrival of my soft-lipped goddess. Her hair was like always combed thoroughly and kept from her high, white forehead with a black bow. Her eyes squinted most magnificently in the dim light of the bar, and I could see something like crow’s feet forming right at the line of her cheekbones, something like the thin veins running on the surface of otherwise impeccably milky marble. Her clothes were neat, although a bit too big for her, the shirt she was wearing clearly had seen better days and I thought that it was an item she either snugged from her brother or was gifted it by him. But no matter what she was wearing, she looked heavenly to me. Her cheeks bore a slight tint of pink, as if she was walking for a while in the snow, and automatically, like a chameleon, my own cheeks tried replicating that shade on my skin, only slightly more furious, and burning.

‘You two are so unserious…’ she said it like it was a reprimand, but the crack of her lips betrayed her amusement. Her lashes fluttered gracefully, like the wings of a butterfly, when she rolled her eyes deep into her skull.

‘I’m here to serve, my queen.’

Francis huffed a laugh at her and leaned in to give her a quick peck on the lips.

‘Hi Richard,’ she greeted me, although with slightly less enthusiasm she had with the redhead. Her brother just nodded my way and then squeezed right past me to sit down in the booth with the boys. I followed him and Camilla, too embarrassed to excuse myself, and to enticed by the small lady’s beauty to even speak.

‘By the way…’ Francis lit another cigarette, I didn’t even see when he rolled it, I guess on that, that is chain smoking, he agreed with my Diogenes wholeheartedly. ‘Have you seen the two hell spawns on your way here?’

Charles snorted, clearly entertained by that nickname, Camilla just scrunched her nose and let her head fall a bit forward. Her smile was now strained, as if she was trying to swallow something, a bone stuck in her throat, as she was speaking.

‘Yeah, we saw them. Right outside the bar. They run into a bit of a scuffle, but they should be here any second.’

It was as if with those words Bunny suddenly came back to life.

‘Scuffle? What scuffle?’ Charles waved his hand dismissively.

‘Nothing really, just a bit of a shoe problem.’

The white, almost translucent brows soared high on Bunny’s forehead. The ex-jock opened his mouth, likely to question the poor twins further on the matter that interested him the most, but right then, as if on que, the door opened, and Henry stepped through. His dark hair flopped around his face, partially covering his wet, fogged-up spectacles. Snow fell from it, as well as his shoulders with every crooked, wobbly step he took. His cheeks were red with effort, and his pale slender hands kept and unnatural shade of almost cold mauve. But there would not be anything different or weird in that dishevelled look. In all honesty, sometimes I would encounter him in the campus library, hunched over some old book looking a thousand times worse than that. What made his entry stand out was the girl he was carrying in his arms. Small, in comparison to him, red-faced as well, with her feet, clad only in white socks, dangling right from the crook of his arm – her. She was grinning wildly, sparks coming from her eyes like little flexes of stars, and a pair of dark leathery boots had been dangling from her stretched out hand leaking onto the floor before them generously with residues of snow, marking, where Henry’s next step was going to fall. It seemed as if he was whispering something to her, something soothing, or humorous judging, by the slow movement of his index hinger on her arm. Like he was calming her down or indulging her slightly. I had never though Henry to be a person with an exceptional sense of humour, but in her case, it seemed to be working. Her eyes, big like saucers kept digging into his jaw, the only thig in her field of vision, as he squeezed her hard into his chest, sparkled and glimmered with a feeling I could not read properly. All I knew is that the way she looked at him, in that moment, when he crossed the squeaky floor in his swooping steps, clogged my airways and crushed my chest with a force of thousand suns.

‘What are they doing, what’s happened?’ Bunny’s face turned equally red at the sight of the two of them, locked in an embrace. For the first time this evening he had risen his head fully, right to the point of strain in his neck, and suddenly I saw that his eyes were sunken, circled with dark shadows and rimmed with a wet, red frame. He must’ve fought with Maron over some stupid little thing again, so no wonder that the sight of Henry and her, snarking amiably at each other, aggravated him to no end.

‘Beats me.’ Camilla scoffed, rather impassive that impressive entry. It seemed to me, like the temperature in the bar had dropped drastically, while the two of them exchanged those little remarks. Goosebumps climbed up my spine and my stomach swirled in an uneasy feeling, that forebode that nothing positive could come out of that evening.

But they came up to the table unbothered and giddy, as if there was nothing strange or enigmatic in their arrival, and the knot that has tied itself in the pit of my stomach suddenly loosened by the magic glint of her sharp teeth. Their presence, their proximity hit me like the fanfares in the 94. Symphonia G-dur. Soft steps crept up on me like the slight tugs of strings at the beginning of the piece. Isolated and slow, deep with their lightness, beautiful on their own, even if those were just steps, just the rhythm, just the beginning of a symphony. But then the clarinettist came, high-pitched, joyous in how she dangled her feet in the air, how she tilted her head up to gaze into his eyes. Him – steady and slow, careful with the type of tune he carried, and her – rather sprinkled across his melodic line, but oh so needed to bring the stave out of a standstill. My whole body buzzed in anticipation, not yet sure for what and why but my feet, hidden under the table, tapped unconsciously to the melody of pure steps and the hum of clothing. The composition overtook me. I didn’t even notice the key changing and getting slightly louder. Only when they came closer, when I could smell the warm, domestic scent that filled my heart with longing and pain, when I felt the tail of a dark coat brushing against my knee, I felt the music explode in me, slash me across the face with an abrupt bang! of every instrument suddenly coming into a synchronized crescendo.

‘What on the sweet feet of baby Jesus happened to you? Have you lost the feeling in your legs?’

As soon as they reached the table, the shoes she was holding dropped to the floor with a miserable smack, and, as if to complete their misery, got kicked away, under the table, by the exceptionally vigorous feet clad in black Oxfords. The air absolutely knocked out of my lungs, I stared at them in what I could only assume, was the most wide-eyed, incredulous expression of awe.

She poked her tongue at Francis, as Henry carefully set her on the edge of the couch. His pulled brows, the true, unfabricated grimace, so, so different from which Bunny tried to pull, bared an alarming dose of worry, despite the slight curve of his lips, as if he was trying to mask a heavy, foggy block of anxiousness resting on his shoulders with a bit of humour. He kneeled, not without a struggle to inspect the, what I now could see clearly were, blood spots on her socks. They climbed up her heals and came blossoming down on the side of her feet where the big toe started, giving the socks an artistic, flattering look of a freshly sprouted carnation. While he was hunched over, ducking under the table she tried to lighten the atmosphere with a lough and a cheeky response to Francis.

‘You wish, red. Nothing of the sort, it’s just those damn shoes! I can’t seem to break them in, and now they had chaffed me to the bone it seems.’

Charles ducked under the table with an interested whine but could see nothing beyond Henry’s hands. He covered the object of Charles’ interest as soon as the twin announced his fascination to us with a delighted squeal. The blonde boy hissed in disappointment, but Henry ignored him, his eyes steady on her legs, studying the red rim of blood. His slim fingers run carefully over the fabric, pealed it off, just to throw a glance, at the skin beneath it, and then exhaled a breath through his teeth. What he saw must not have been as bad as he let on in the first place, because his only response was a grim huff of laugh.

‘Don’t be so dramatic. It’s just a minor graze nothing more. If you had listened to me and bought a bigger size, nothing like that would have happened.’

Her eyes skipped around landing on each and every of our faces, seeking refuge in any of us from the stern, disappointed tone of Henry, but no one was brave enough to stand up to the stormy cloud of a human that he had turned into. Finally, after some strained small talk, Henry emerged from beneath the table, his face slightly looser.

Somehow I felt the pair of pale blue eyes staring at me, no at them, from across the table. I looked around to seek the source of the discomfort poking at my neck. I did not have to deal long, for it was obvious, who the proprietary of the biting stare was. Bunny wasn’t discreet, I don’t think he minded if anyone saw how he clean he’d his teeth so hard that a small vein popped out on the side of his jaw, or how he could not tear his eyes, his hateful, red rimmed eyes, from the ethereal mirage that was the two people hanging on the edge of couch right beside me.

‘It should be fine, the blood stopped running. It should be fine now, okay?’ He smoothed her hair with a quick swipe of his hand and then scooted over on the edge of couch. Everyone moved to the side in a synchronised clockwise move, not even thinking about mentioning all the space that had been left vacant on the opposite side of the table. Francis chose to ignore all the swooning over her that henry seemed to be revelling in and came smoothly to recommending what types of beer we should pick for the night.

‘I think that we should start with beer. Me and Bunny are already ahead of you, so, we’re going to skip the first round. But after that I think we should go more into tonics. Oh, and don’t order any sorts of fancy cocktails here!’ He threw accusatory look towards Camilla. ‘They’re awfully pricy and don’t taste half as good as you’d expect them to.’

What seemed like useful information to me, was obviously something redundant and boring to Henry. We all knew, what he was going to order, whiskey, most certainly not whisky, on the rocks, and there was no coaxing him out of that decision, so it hasn’t surprised me much to see him lean over to her and start whispering in her ear. I was the closest one to them, her sitting on my right, and him squeezed into her, the length of her body being our only border, so I did not have to struggle much to hear what he was mumbling into her ear. I focused my eyes on whatever seemed most natural and listened in, thirsty for information like never before. I watched Bunny’s fingers running up and down his pint, smearing the swat of the glass all over his palms. His fingers run taunt, almost mechanic, as if pulled by great pain or fury. In the corner of my eye swayed the real object of my interest.

‘Are you cold? Are your feet cold?’ His voice returned to the stoic preoccupation I had heard some time ago, when they were leaving the lecture hall. He swayed forward, as if to embrace her, or better yet, scoop her into his arms and run out of the bar as soon, as he manages to hoist her up, but he stopped himself midway and just stared at her with deep thoughtfulness.

‘No, Henry it’s really all right. Thank you though.’

Henry, despite her clearly cutting the subject short, simply shook his head and continued with his hushed monologue.

‘Your feet are cold. We sit here long enough, and you’re going to catch something.’ And then, before she could react in any sort of way, he kicked his boots off.

‘Henry what are you doing?’

My eyes jumped, just for a second, beneath the table, to be greeted with the sight of his slightly less deft fingers, now rose with the heat of the bar, tying neat little bows with the shoelaces of his own shoes, now on her feet. The dark leathery Oxfords were fat too big for her, and so he had to tie them really hard, so they would not fall onto the floor the second he pulled out his knee from beneath her heal, that now served her as some kind of purchase.

‘They might be too big for you, but at least, your feet won’t freeze off. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Now, straighten that face.’

‘What is it with you and frostbites?’

She scoffed and folded her arms on her chest, but did not oppose further, when He once again ducked beneath the table and slipped his shoes onto her feet. His voice came from down below, a splash of humour resounding in it, filling her cheeks with the brightest shade of pink.

‘It’s not just frostbites. I’m simply worried about you, in general. I should not have let you walk around in those ill-fitting shoes in the first place, I feel responsible.’

I could swear, that at the sound of those words, she melted into the back of the cough and kicked her feet, making the all-too-big shoes flap around her ankles. And in turn, I can swear I saw him cracking a smile at that, when he took back his seat right next to her.

Personally, squished between Camilla and her I felt like I was going to suffocate. Disoriented and scared to the bone I stared into my palms placed neatly on my thighs, not knowing whose warmth to absorb, who’s smell to inhale and who’s heartbeat to sync to. I was dazed, speechless, overstimulated.

‘And how is your leg, Henry? Does it hurt?’ I think he shrugged, but I couldn’t tell, because at that point I tore my eyes from the wet drops sliding down Bunny’s glass and onto Camilla’s side profile. She was chatting with Charles, I could see her mouth move, but all I could think of were those few strands of hair that slipped from beneath her ribbon and curled neatly on her forehead. All I wanted to do was to push them back, tuck them behind her ear.

‘Nothing that I can’t handle, so don’t preoccupy yourself with that, little dove.’

Every move they made, every little shrug, or laugh they huffed soared through me with the untamed power of lightning. I jumped every time one of them breathed. And I must’ve been so consumed by that dual anguish of my position, that I had tuned out the conversation that had barely started, even the little, intimate conversation playing on my right. A nudge of an elbow to my ribs woke me up from my stupor.

‘Richard Papen! Hello! Earth to Richard!’

‘Wha- I… what?’

‘What will you be drinking?’ Her bright eyes stared at me, so, so close, that I could feel her breath fanning my cheeks. With that proximity, an image flashed before my eyes, a sketch that I drew a few days before, the only one in which I did not use her as a live model, rather drafted her from my memory. A quick sketch of her bent over backwards over the table, eyes shut, mouth agape with a silent scream of pleasure frozen on her mouth. Blood rushed to my head with a steady but abrupt pump. Acutely aware of the still purple with cold hand resting on her shoulder I did not find the words right away, so they came out in a disarranged stutter. I blabbered some incoherent phrases, before finding my voice.

‘I’m not drinking tonight… I don’t have any money.’ She let out a pearly laugh.

‘Don’t be ridiculous Richard. It’s on Francis! He dragged us all out here, so he’s buying!’

‘That’s the first time I hear about it.’

She threw him one of her deadliest looks, as if saying – come one, don’t be a twat – and I heard no further protests from him. Encouraged and coaxed by all the people around the table, I finally decided on Guinness, the same as her. Francis got up with a resigned sigh, repeated everyone’s orders and then he disappeared for almost forty minutes. And when he came back, carrying two trays stocked with pints and meandering amongst the drunken crown with no problem, he was greeted with round of applause and whistles of approval. He distributed the beers equally and then sat with the look of absolute agony on his face.

‘Oh, I’m never going back out there, sorry but there is no way I can stand in that queue alone and pushed around by those twats for one more second.’

She giggled when he passed her the designated Guinness.

‘How much was it? I’m not planning on paying you back, just curious.’

Francis shrugged, rather not bothered by her blatant declaration.

‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not really good with money, so long I have it.’ He took a long pause to gulp down some of his old beer, truthful to his previous words, he had not bought himself a new one. ‘Matter of fact, I don’t get money at all.’

Charles cleared his throat, uneasy, as if that topic was one of a constant concern in their circle, Francis continued, nonetheless.

‘I simply cannot understand, what is so special about it. It’s just paper! It’s imaginary! If I wanted to, or if I needed, I could just get myself a machine and print out some more! Better yet, we all could. I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal.’

My eyes darted to the side to meet the same perplexed look in her eyes. Her jaw tilted to the side, but she kept silent, and so did I, taking it for a sign, that if we let Francis talk, soon he’d be out of his brilliant ideas, and we would be free from that topic. Well, Bunny clearly didn’t get the memo.

‘We can’t print more money, idiot, how many times do I have to tell you?’

Francis threw him a wounded look and pressed a fisted palm to his chest. But the sly smile on his lips betrayed that in all truth, he enjoyed that someone, especially Bunny, had indulged him.

‘Why not?’

Bunny’s so far hooded and glossy eyes, now popped out dangerously, coming to resemble in their shape and size a pair of saucers. His lips pulled downwards in an ugly, angry grimace.

‘That would cause and inflation, a hyperinflation, if you’d be really lucky, and soon you, mister Bretton Woods, would be able to buy matches, for the same price you would buy a home a few days earlier.’

‘Yeah, sure, inflation but why though?’

The twins did not bother to pay attention to that ridiculous exchange of words, surely because they had heard it already, in a myriad of variations, many a times before, nor did Henry, but she was surprisingly enticed by how exasperated Bunny got. She stared at him with utmost fascination, a thing, that did not escape him, and in turn seemed to spur him on further.

‘There is a certain amount of gold- ‘

‘Gold? Where from? What?’

‘It is stored in the treasury of every country… Don’t change the subject you ginger minx! We have the gold which value must cover the amount of money we distribute. If we don’t have the gold, and we start printing more money the total value of the gold would have to be divided amongst the amount of the money distributed equally, hence devaluating it.’

‘Okayy…’ Francis’ hand soared up to his lips pushing another roll-up into it, as he stared into the ceiling, as if he was processing Bunny’s words. Mindlessly, he passed another one to her, and she nodded her head in a quiet show of thanks. ‘Why gold?’

Bunny growled, a real-life growl, and smoothed his hand over his face. I noticed, that on my right, she had pushed her hand against her lips and now she was shaking uncontrollably at the performance taking place right before her. I cracked a smile as well.

‘Because it is a r a r e material.’

He’d said, the drunken, slurry undertone more prominent in his voice, now more than ever.

‘Uranium’s r a r e r.’

How beautiful did Francis pronounce that ‘rarer’. Every ‘r’ resounded sharply and rattly over his tongue. But his interlocutor did not seem to be impressed by his logopedic skills.

Bunny jumped suddenly onto his feet, slamming his palm into the table with a deafening bang, that made Camilla squeak in her seat. Bunny, making nothing of it pointed and accusatory finger at Francis.

‘I’ve got half a mind to beat you into a pulp right now.’

Bunny’s face turned bright red, and for the first time ever I could see his brows clearly drafted, like two clear, solid white arches, on his forehead. And for the first time, his fury bore water. I had never seen him so aggravated, so serious and straightforward with his announcements. Sure, he tackled me once or twice to the ground, and his threats were nothing new to us, especially after he had something to drink, but those were just harmless jests, stupid jokes we tied to weight to. However, in that bar, a new sheet of peril mixed with anger had wrapped himself around him, giving him, and his irrational outburst depth and dimension. His feverishly jumpy eyes added to the whole picture a deranged readiness to harm, and that scared me to no end. I looked to my right, past her and at Henry, the only person, concluding from the stories I heard about him, capable of restraining the ex-jock if the push came to shove. I expected Henry to come out as a hero, as always. Instead, I was greeted with the sharp glint of her malicious smile and his indifferent, passive frown.

‘Well, you’ve got half a mind, that would be about right.’

She snarled at him, empty glass tipping dangerously in her hand, ready for any sort of action. A deep chill run up my spine at the sight of the strained muscles of her neck, of the pulsing vein running in parallel to her larynx. What scared me more, was the calmly placed hand of Henry, her supposed protector, hanging on the backrest of the couch, not even bothered to assume a defensive stance. Maybe he knew that Bunny wasn’t half the man he portrayed himself to be. Or in that moment, he already knew that he would never harm her. In the conventional way, at least, Henry seemed so sure that no harm would be done to her, either by her own resourcefulness and skill, or Bunny’s incapability and unwillingness to damage her in any sort of way. Why he had believed that I couldn’t tell. In retrospect, that was the moment we all should have banded together against Bunny. Berate his pathetic attitude, his utterly senseless reasoning, rage against him, his nature, fall into a trans and reap him to shreds, limb by limb, no mercy, and when all would settle down, bash his head in, so it could not mutter another word. Maybe that would stop him from drafting the line that would soon cross out the 94. Symphony out of existence.

My eyes soared back to the emotional bundle of fury and helplessness that was Bunny in that moment. His eyes squinted in an expression of utter betrayal at her words. That was the look that should have uncovered it all to me, help me connect the dots scattered amongst the quiet conversations I listened in on, and finally see the bigger picture. But at that point, I was halfway down my pint, and my brain had already lost most of it’s sharpness.

‘Et tu Brute? You are defending… You are defending that deft son of a bitch? How can you? Does it not bother you how oblivious to the world he is? You out of all people should understand my frustration with him! He wouldn’t know the rational state of current things even if they hit him in the face!’

She shrugged, not seeming to be bothered at all, although she had not let go of the glass yet. The white ash at the end of her ciggy became longer than the factual cigarette.

‘So what? He doesn’t understand money. Big deal.’ Her hand drafted a neat circle in the air with the glass. ‘It’s not like you know everything Bunny. Bah, I don’t think I know everything. Nor does Henry. For gods’ sake, you heard him the other day, interrogating Richard about the moon landing and whatnot.’ Charles giggled at the reminder of our first dinner together, but quickly slotted his hand over his mouth, chastised by the scorning glare of his sister. ‘Matter of fact, you could not conjugate a simple verb two classes ago. Please, don’t frown like that. Audiverim instead of audivissem? I beg you pardon?’

The tips of Bunny’s ears turned a few shades darker, but he no longer looked furious. Under her never-missing, dry delivery of criticism, he shrunk slightly, hung his head down and tucked his chin, as if trying to hide his head between his shoulders.

‘Frankly, it wasn’t your best performance and yet I did not beat you into a pulp. What’s more, I’ve never threatened you, never, especially over something so small and insignificant.’

No one dared to interrupt the steady flow of her words. Not even Camilla had attempted to roll her eyes, simply mesmerised, just like the rest of us, with how unbothered, almost lazy and unwilling she seemed while delivering her soul-crushing, humbling truths to Bunny.

‘It is beneath us, to treat and speak to another person, a friend, like you just did. Now stop frowning and marding, just sit, have a drink, cool down.’

‘Yes, Bun, sit down. We’re not without a flaw, after all. It’s not a big deal.’

Camilla sent a warm smile across the table, not towards Bunny but his assailant. She responded with the same kind of grin, a warm, sunny stretch of mouth that would melt the strongest and coldest man.

‘Remember when Charles said that the French Revolution wasn’t that big a deal and she nearly lost her mind?’

Then she snorted, and my accomplice gasped in exasperated shock. A quick, playful smack on the hand of the blonde, little lady was dealt as she exclaimed ‘Cami! Now’s not the time to bring up past mistakes!’ The girl giggled, although her pearly laugh was overwhelmed by Francis’ snort.

‘Oh god! I remember that! I really though she was going to kill him! Jesus, I really believed that on that day we were going to say grace over the cold corpse of Charles Macnally.’ As the ginger boy wrapped his arms around his midriff, to somehow ease the sudden throws of unadulterated joy that shook his body, Bunny slid quietly into his previous seat, relief, that he was no longer the subject of the discussion painted on his face.

‘Come on guys! It was so long ago! I would never do anything like that now…’

She stirred in her place beside me, pouting like a displease child, which roused Francis even more. Camilla too, wasn’t immune to the giddy atmosphere.

‘Oh honey, I know you never wished any real harm onto Charlie. It’s just so funny to recall you screaming bloody murder at him…’ Camilla did not finish her thought, instead, overtaken by laughter, splayed herself across the table trying to catch the quickly regressing fingers of the other girl. Her arm brushed right past mine, but she didn’t notice that, totally absorbed with the vigorous battle at grabbing and tugging away of hands, she was conducting, and clearly loosing, due to the constant spasm of laughter that shook her body, tossing her unregularly across the wooden surface. Her opponent wasn’t much better, trying to disguise her laugh as furious puffs of hot air and scrunching her whole face up, not to let a single pressing smile pass. That frown she made, with much effort and a raised chin that help her in keeping the giggles deep in her stomach, gave her an uncanny likeness to non-other that Mussolini.

‘I don’t know… it felt real to me, when you chased me around the kitchen, swinging a knife around and screaming’ Charles began his sentence and paused dramatically, tilting his head up and spreading his arms over his head like a preacher in a cathedral, only to be joined by everyone at the table, spare for me and Bunny, in an unison, theatrical chant ‘How about I take away you privileges and basic human rights, let’s see, how unimportant the French Revolution was then!’

The whole table fell into laughter, a shimmering cascade of giggles and snorts, surprisingly, dominated by the baritone hum of Henry. My friend turned beetroot-red and, just like Bunny before her, strained her shoulders up to hopefully hide herself between them. First to break off was the violine-led light motif in the person of Henry.

‘Cut her some slack! It’s not like she almost killed a professor, whose name I shall not evoke, with her car and then proceeded to try and charm him out of suspending her with the, what was it, ah, yes! The hypnotic sway of her luscious hips.’

A unison protest of Charles and Camilla overtook whatever Henry intended on saying next, as they recoiled in mock horror. Camilla shielded herself with the coat of her brother as he latched onto her head, trying to close her ears to that slander.

‘Why must you all recall all of my most painful memories.’ Charles screamed over the roaring crowd of the bar. ‘It’s not like I did anything to you! You’re all monsters, monsters, I say, not people!’

Then Francis, dangerously maroon on his face chimed in, bringing forth another story, one of botched boeuf de Bourgogne and Julian, politely munching on it’s charred remains. Since that moment, it came down like and avalanche. Stories, insults, and ashamed protests along with some foreign profanities thrown in together begun swishing over our heads like heavy ammunition, all in a delightful halo of barked laughter and whistles. In the meanwhile, the poor bartender must’ve called in for help, because the crowd of patrons started to loosen around the bar area, and a new, visibly taunt and tired looking waiter became roaming the floor and picking up the orders from table to table. Strangely enough, he came around our space more than the others and soon enough pints and glasses, the martini, vine, red and white, gin and whiskey even the dreaded cocktail glasses piled over our table. Slowly but steady, once again the floor swooped from beneath my feet and my head turned heavy, sprouting with a thick sheet of wool. I did not realize I had been dangerously tilting to the right, arching my whole body to bend it into an almost horseshoe shape until I felt her arm slipping from underneath mine, and slowly smoothing over the wrinkles of my shirt. My world tilted alongside me and then straightened right after when hot breath fanned my ear, a tint of sun and hop carried with it.

‘You made my hand fall asleep.’

I jumped, because the voice tore through the featherbed of alcohol induced confusion, like hot knife cuts through butter.

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, making a bubbly laughter erupt from her lips.

‘It’s no problem at all dummy, none at all. But you need to let go off my wrist right now.’ I followed her gaze down to our laps, where I saw my hand wrapped just around her pulse, my fingers so, so unremarkable against her silky-smooth skin. Jumping once again I let go, a huge block of ice mixed with something utterly pathetic dropped into my stomach. A terrible stutter befell me and I struggled through a handful of rushed apologies, but she only swatted her asleep hand at me. ‘Told you already, it’s no problem! I just need to go.’ And then she leaned in and added, in a hushed conspiratorial tone, ‘To the ladies room.’

A dumb smile sprouted on my face as I watched her drunkenly unwrap herself from Henrys half-limp embrace and then clumsily step off the booth couch and onto the packed middle ground of the bar. Stunning, it was, to watch her manoeuvre between a bunch of people so much drunker and less coordinated than her. Her steps, although wobbly and off her usual light rhythm, coveted a lightness of a ballerina, as she ducked and avoided all the swishing hands and swirling bodies.

Henry watched her go as well, his eyes deep and dark like two black holes, hungrily swallowing the small sway of her steps. They slid down, right to the base of the column of her spine, her thighs, calves, and then a tiny, almost satisfied smile cracked his rigid lips, the eyes, mine and his, took in the stupidly cute way she raised her feet a little too high, placed them on the ground a bit too far apart, like a little duck to accommodate the comically big Oxfords. And Henry seemed almost proud of that. I wanted to open my mouth, speak to him, comment somehow on the sparks circling his irises, but my train of thought was interrupted by Bunny’s ostentatious grunt.

The blonde boy looked absolutely horrible, with red spots and blemishes blooming on his cheeks from the excess of alcohol and his eyes, puffy, even more swollen than when we started drinking. He still bore that ridiculous frown, which by that point gave into more damage, got watered down with every gulp of beer he had forced into himself, only to become a reduced cadaver of gloom floating in his murky, blue eyes.

‘Excuse me ladies, imma get me some beer,’ He slurred.

Camilla pouted, extending her arms towards him simultaneously closing and opening her palms, as if to rope him into hugging her and then anchoring him to stay at the table. Something in the way he stood up, I don’t know, maybe a stray button of his shirt that reflected the light in the wrong way, or the horizontal blue-and-white straps on his blazer, now waving hypnotically around his bulky form, made my gut churn and all that I drank and ate during the day came up my throat in waves of nausea. I closed my eyes, tilted my head back and inhaled deeply. Once, twice, three times.

‘Come on Bun, the waiter is going to be here any minute, why go to the bar, all the way there. Sit, come, just sit.’

Another grunt and then a series of clumsily misguided moves echoed my brain. On the camera obscura of my eyelids my imagination showed a pretty hilarious picture of Bunny struggling to get out of the booth over the wasted, folded body of Francis.

‘No can do. I feel like I have the Sahara Desert in my mouth. I ain’t waiting for no waiter.’

However humorous the remark, his voice resounded strangely gloomy and hollow, but I could not care for that much at that point. Too busy counting from hundred to zero, I used all the mindpower I had left not to bend over and puke right onto the table. On my right Henry swayed softly and hummed alongside the tune somehow still getting through him all the way from de jukebox.

I must’ve gotten around to negative seven hundred fifty, when it finally dawned on me that something was wrong. Our area of the table suddenly got quiet, too quiet and I couldn’t shake the unpleasant, fuzzy feeling creeping up my spine. With no small fit of effort, I managed to glue open one of my eyes, then the other.

Hellish landscape of decadence greeted me with a sharp toothy smile. Francis laid passed out face first on the table, Camilla leaned over him with the full weight of her body, swishing a glass of gin in her hand, the liquid swirling in it like a miniature whirlwind, and Charles, always the one to get utterly pissed, perched himself on the couch, and with an absent stare, followed the infinity signs drafted in the air by his sister’s glass. Every now and the he’d add a small ‘swoooosh’, when she took a particularly sharp turn in the trajectory of the drink. I tore myself from that image, my head rolled over to the right, guided by the wooden, polished headrest. Henry was there. Slightly decomposed, but holding up better than the rest of us, nursing a small, steaming cup – tea? No, coffee. Black and sugarless.

‘Hey, Henry?’ My mouth burned as I opened it, chapped, dried up skin tore at that unusual activity and if I were any bit more sober, I would wince at the pain it had brought me to speak. He turned halfway towards me and raised one brow in a silent question. I stayed silent for a second, trying to accumulate all the ideas swirling around my disoriented head, arrange and put them into words, to somehow explain my sudden uneasiness to him. ‘Where do you think they went? They’d been gone for quite a while, don’t you think?’ A slight frown, then a look across the table, and finally a bright spark of understanding sparked across his face. ‘Bunny and…’ However anxious I felt, I think it was nothing, compared to the chill expression of pure horror that slid over his taunt features. Henry lunged himself up before I could even finish my slowly processed concern, and sprung forth, towards the bar, towards the toilets cramped right next to it, as he was, barefoot, limping and thoroughly terrified. I raced right after him, all of a sudden, sober as if not a drop of alcohol had entered my blood stream during that night. His fright climbing and latching onto me like a parasite, sucking all the air from my lungs, urging my blood to flow faster, stronger in order to keep my brain alive. I did not know, I could not comprehend what made him so… stressed, so pressed, but the look on his face, the half of it I saw while struggling to equal oust pastes, forebode nothing pleasant. And that image, of Henry totally panicked, mixed with my previous remark on her…

Getting through the crowd of the drunken, screaming people was no easy fit and I wonder how she had made it look so effortless. And Henry, he as well got through the thicket with no problem, although not thanks for his natural grace, but rather the utter disrespect and disregard of anyone that stepped in his way. He pushed through people, stepped on their feet, swatted away their arms, not even looking back when they screamed after him, and I followed his trail to that warzone, squeezing through the narrow he had cut up for himself. Henry kept himself composed through all of that, not a single scream, not even a word or a twitch. He was cold, a stalker, a wolf bound on the hunt for his prey. The scared frown on his face reforged into something more sharp and determined. And I was hot, fuming, the heatwave of alcohol mixed with anxiety rushed to my head heating me up like a furnace. I felt my pulse quickening, heart straining in a hopeless effort to keep me up. Yet, I put all of my effort into keeping up with him, as he seemed to have had connected the dots I did not have the skill, or correct disposition to connect, and he did not seem to notice me. Not even at all. It looked like, in that moment there was only one thought going through his mind, preoccupying him, mandating him his actions and goals. Only one thought that willed his heart into a steady beat – finding her. Finally, we got out of the worst cluster of now whining and crying out in pain students, when the door to the woman’s bathroom burst open and Bunny emerged from the forbidden depths. He was slightly crouching, as he paced with small, careful, but overall, quite rushed steps onward, pressing a hand to his face. But nothing, not even his big hand of a seasoned quarterback, could cover the red imprint cutting across his face, likely a result of something, or someone, hitting him in the face with full force. His eyes darted across the room, scattered and skittish. When they came to task us with their gaze, Bunny squealed and rushed right past us, drafting a big, round arch, only to push against the exit with the full force of his body and run into the cold night outside. He did not even take his coat with him. He just run away.

I stopped, partially to the shock I just had experienced due to that bizarre occurrence, but mostly because of Henry’s sudden indecision. If it were up to me, I would carry on straight forward, where my legs desired to bring me, until I’d have had reached the unpassable barrier of the door dividing the room and the women’s restroom. But he was not as drunk, or as disoriented as I was, because for a second, he halted, leaned to the direction of the exit, as if eager to chase down the runaway bunny, then swayed back, as if torn apart by some inner dilemma I was not privy to. Thankfully, he had not have to choose, for from the bathroom emerged another person. She was similarly to Bunny red on her face, although when his red seemed to root itself in a valiant assault, hers was a deep shade of effort and distress. Now, the direction was clear to Henry, he rushed towards her, opening his arms as if to gather her into them, but no, to my biggest surprised she jumped to the side and slid right past him, only to mix into the crowd. She threw him a rather strained ‘I’m leaving.’ And then dove into the swarm of bodies. Henry wasted no time and lunged back into the already irritated with him people. Only this time, he seemed to care about them even less, and seeing that they stopped screaming at him, and just opened themselves before him, like the red sea. But he was screaming, beaconing, calling her name, only for it to hit and bounce off her turned back. She was fast, even in those too-big shoes, Henry had trouble keeping up with her, least to say I, who out of us three, was probably the drunkest and the least athletic. After that quick cavalcade through the terrified flock, we arrived at our starting point, the table. In the far looser space, Henry caught up to her and yanked her small body towards him. She was feisty and full of fire, but in an open struggle, not in a play-pretend, she had no chance against him. The sheer force of his arms pulled her forward, as if she was but a rag doll. Her whole body shook, but not with the impact of his body engulfing hers, or shock that came with the sudden contact, but something far more pressing, something she tried to, with all her might, to push down and keep inside of herself. But her lower lip wobbled. A sorrowful display of utter helplessness, that little wobble, paired with the tears evoked the memory of the ‘Nighthawks’ in me. I balled my fists by my sides, now not only overtaken by sadness and the feel of disunity, but also fear. Gut-wrenching, blood-chilling, hair-standing fear. Because, when Henry pulled her in and caged her between his arm, when he brought her to him despite the slight resistance of her trembling arms against his chest, I saw her neck, craning upwards. And the four furious smudges running horizontally on her throat, pinkish imprint of fingers coming together into a palm just about where here larynx should start. That’s going to become a bruise, give it a few hours, I thought. Her jaw unclenched and, as Henry submerged her into himself, I saw her stutter something out. Her voice too small for me to hear over the booming of the bar, but I did not have to, least to say, the murderous tilt of Henry’s head confirmed to me what I already had suspected. He did not move, but I saw his reflection in the window placed right above out booth. The lines around his mouth deep like scars, appeared to deform his face, elongate like sabre teeth when he spoke to me, commanded.

‘Richard, go outside, find Edmund.’

Without thinking or sparing a single more glance I rushed to the exit, spurred on by the sharpness of his tone. All of my, my being, my soul, by body, they screamed in furious agony, in rage and in guilt. I let him go, I heard, I felt that something was off when Bunny stepped away from the booth and yet I let him go, too intoxicated to do anything. But what tore at me the worst was the fact, that when I run out, the last image that flashed before me were her eyes, those usually bright, intelligent orbs, now dusted with silver moist, dimmed, and lifeless.

The night air hit me in the face the second I stepped out of the bar, sudden realisation of how stuffy and hot the interior was coming onto me in a sobering wave. Everything before me, the neon signboards of other dodgy bars, the lanterns, the cars parked in the driveway, blurred before me and I had to cross my eyes to focus. My feet stumbled across the uneven pavement as I searched the perimeter like a starved coyote, teeth bared looking for the slightest hint of blonde hair swishing in the dark. But I saw nothing, no one. The street was quiet and desolate, blinking at me in utter bewilderment with her yellow lanterns. The spins came back to me with a doubled force, I had to support myself against one of the cars. The air was filled with a strange kind of glow, a tension that I could not explain, and when I looked up, I saw a full moon, hanging directly above the curve of the street.

Behind me, the door to the bar opened, swung, and then opened again, only to shut behind the exiting people with a thundering smack. Two pairs of feet crunched on the virgin snow, one pasted light and quick, like the crescendo of flutes, the other, long and deep, similar to the drag of a bow against the string of a violin.

‘Come on, baby, come back inside, I’ll take care of this, please, it’s so cold out, you’ll catch a cold.’

Henry begged as he desperately tried to hold onto her hand. Once again I observed how they mixed together, two dark spots against the backdrop of the luminescent snow, from the side-lines. But she broke off, shook her head, as if unable to muster any words. Her face shined in the natural light of the night, but not as I was used to, not with the internal, sweet, warm, internal glow, but the reflected light of the surroundings. Her face was wet, pulled and cold.

‘Don’t. Just don’t. Stop it Henry, I need to go. I need to go alone.’ Her voice was shaky, packed with emotions I could not untangle and determine. ‘Stop it, don’t touch me right now.’

She pulled her arm from his embrace, pushed at him to stay in place and strode off. His fingers floated in the space she had occupied just seconds before, mindlessly grabbing at the phantom threads of material. The coat she had on, flapped as she strode away, quicker, and quicker, swooshing in the cold air with no particular rhythm like the broken wings of a bird, so desperate to take into the skies. He stopped, obedient to her wishes, but I could see the worry painted in his face.

‘At least change back into my shoes, those will hurt you!’

She waved at him, her back steadily turned towards him, head hung low, but she gave no response.

As she walked away, up the street, her silhouette came against the gargantuan moon and suddenly I had this feeling of solemn loneliness gripping at my heart, convincing me that she was not walking, but floating up, alone far away and straight up the silver strands of moonlight into the unknown Space. Henry stood there, leaning forward as if fighting with his thoughts, his urges, until she was too small and too far away for him to see.

We styed there for a second longer, in silence, until he pulled out a red pack of cigarettes out of his coat and lit one. His eyes bore mindlessly into the ground and the lighter he held illuminated his ghostly, foreign face with an orange glow.

‘Don’t worry Richard. He’s going to show up sooner or later.’ Hoarse screech was all that came out of his mouth, vicious, venomous, sure. ‘And then, we’re going to deal with that swine accordingly.’

His eyes darted to me, and a shiver run down my spine, for I hand never seen such cold and biting rage frozen into a steady, calm face like that. Fear crossed me, when he inhaled the smoke from his cigarette and not a single muscle on his face moved.

‘Oculum pro oculo.’

[angeart]

Y'know I had just added the 🎀 because I was asking about the ribbon and I wanted you to know it was the same person on the follow up ask xD but I also went :o irl at being called ribbon anon!

I saw you had tagged the bonus rambles about the mimic's name! I have been dying to ask that too! but you also mentioned follow up rambles so I figured we'd learn it then?

Noooo what happened to Scar's vex wings?? D: Also how do Scar's vex wings work in general? are they out all the time like Grian's or can he magic them away??

-🎀

naah, you have to keep it now! you’re officially the ribbon anon! it’s yours! :3c accept your fate <3

as for the bit about the mimic’s name… i think i’ll make a separate post about that a little bit later (either later today or tomorrow). it’s not going to be a part of the Main Big Mimic Arc Rambles, because it’s something me and link figured out sort of on the side, later. but i’m happy to tell you about it, so keep an eye out for that one!

scar’s vex wings are magic, and he mostly has them hidden away. i asked link to tell us all more about how that works, so if you’re interested, go check it out on their blog! >> link to the post here << 

but yes yess let me tell you about what happened to scar's wings! and what better way to tell you than through an unnecessarily long storytime. tucking it under the cut <3

so. you know how i mentioned that they meet by hunters pouncing on grian, and grian getting hurt? mmh. we start with grian in pain, hungry and dehydrated to the point of lightheadedness, and exhausted from lack of sleep as well as a pretty significant bloodloss. basically, he��s out of commission, and it’s up to scar to take care of him and desperately try to keep him alive on zero supplies.

they make their way to a crevice in a ravine that leads into a cave. (in between this and that, there were tears and panic and desperation. and kisses. shh.)(and of course, the ribbon.) 

i think this cave is very fun, so i’ll yoink two snippets from the rp, one from scar’s pov (link) and one from grian’s (me), so you can get into this pretty atmosphere too <3 

-- SCAR POV snippet:

His best way of describing the place would be this nightmare server’s best attempt at a lush cave, Scar thinks somewhat bitterly.

And a rather sad attempt at that.

There’s greenery, which is shocking enough given how almost everything they’ve seen has been dead or dying. It’s mostly moss, a few sparse patches of grass, and a leafy substance that sticks to the walls, littered with thorns. 

Vines stretch down from the ceiling, but they’re not bright and colorful like glow berry vines back home. They do glow, but it’s only a faint illumination, somehow still managing to be grey and drab. And it’s not the fruit that glows either, but rather the vine itself, almost pulsating. Almost breathing. 

It makes Scar uneasy, but not immediately threatened. And unfortunately that’ll have to do.

There is fruit on the vines, for what it’s worth, but they’re bruised and darkened. Questionable at best. Scar doesn’t like their chances.

What matters, however, is the water. 

There’s a small pond in the center of the cave with water pooling into it slowly from one of the walls. 

It’s not the cleanest source of water given the dirty moss and dying roots that crawl along the shore, spreading their way underwater in various places and tinting the surface green, but they’re hardly in a position to be picky. 

(It’s likely better than the river from before, surrounded in mud and grime and later death.)

Right now a place like this may as well be paradise.

“Home sweet home?” Scar offers jokingly, though timidness seeps into his tone. He really hopes it can be, at least long enough for them to get back on their feet.

-- GRIAN POV snippet:

It’s the rhythm trailing off and stopping, that finally forces Grian to crack his eyes open. He blinks, chasing the blur away, trying to take in their new surroundings: the moss coats walls and ground in stray patches, lending them some colour in a place that’s otherwise drab and grim; the pond in the center glitters faintly, murky water reflecting murky light; the growth clinging to the stone walls and hanging from the ceiling looks wholly unhealthy, slick and sick, mushy, rotting, held together only in places. The vines seem to be breathing, swaying the gentlest bit even though Grian can’t feel a breeze; a calm but wholly unsettling pulse of light fades and brightens in time with their miniscule motion, always veering on not-enough, casting them in various shades of dimness. 

Just like anything else here, this cave looks wretched and like nothing he is familiar with. 

And yet Scat tacks a joking phrase on it, like plonking down a cheesy mat that says Welcome in cursive, deliberately and triumphantly placed in front of a building that’s entirely falling apart. There’s no salvaging this, but Grian chuckles quietly anyway, and with a wry curl of his lips, he echoes back, words hollow and barely touched by misplaced amusement: “Home sweet home.”

And it just might be—or the closest thing they can achieve to it right now. It’s dark and damp and unpleasant, the air a bit stale and the walls oozing icy chill, but it’s shielded and hidden, quiet, sheltered from the wind and the rain, with a pooled source of water perfectly within reach. It’s more than they expected. More than they could’ve hoped for.

----

now that you can imagine the absolute beauty of this place, for no reason at all but to indulge me, we can continue!

scar carefully sets grian down by the wall to rest. grian lies down in the only way he knows to be safe: with his dishevelled wings tucked tightly against a wall, feathers as much out of sight as he can manage, despite the horrible discomfort of it. and scar leaves to try and gather some supplies, leaving behind a promise that he won’t stray too far, won’t get out of sight.

he manages to put together enough things to light a fire, while grian dozes off into an exhausted, shivery sleep. with the fire lit next to the avian, scar moves away again, even as fatigue drags at him and begs him to stay, to rest. because this is all on him now: he needs to provide, he needs to protect, he needs to make sure they stay alive. (and it terrifies him, because he doesn’t have the best track record of staying alive, back on hermitcraft—) and for that, they need more supplies.

so he ventures back into the cave, searching. pawing at the stone. digging. trying so, so very hard to get something out of it all. using his wings to aid his aching legs. they provide dim, pale blue  light, which also helps as he moves further and further away from the fire. 

he makes sure to constantly look back, anxiously checking the area surrounding the fire, making sure nothing’s approaching grian, who’s wounded and asleep and completely defenceless.

scar does not pay nearly as much attention to his own surroundings.

that’s when it happens.

the crackling of the fire almost completely swallows up the familiar warning hiss of a creeper.

scar whirls around, eyes wide, catching a sight of a creeper that’s all wrong—distorted and decaying, overgrown with vines and fungus, with haunting empty voids for eyes—before it sets off and explodes.

all scar can do is fling his wings forwards in a desperate attempt to shield himself with them.

this is what tears his wings to tatters. (you can see their state on some of link’s art - like the hhau scar design/reference sheet)

scar skids on the hard ground, thrown by the force of the explosion, wings wrapped around him protectively. immediately after the cave falls quiet and dark again, his wings fade, too, and— he’s disoriented and breathless and in pain, and the explosion woke grian up—an awakening pitch straight into confused, searing panic—and scar doesn’t really get much of a chance to process what’s happened and how much damage there is. in fact, he doesn’t check his wings for a very long time. (he knows they’re damaged.) (he doesn’t want to see—doesn’t want to feel it.)

so it’s a while before scar gets to understand just how damaged his wings are.

and it’s even longer before grian sees.

<3

[junkbbykow]

💎🎠🎀 𝒫𝒜𝒞 - 𝒞𝒶𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓇 𝒜𝒹𝓋𝒾𝒸𝑒 & 𝐹𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓃𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓁 𝒰𝓅𝒹𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓈 🎀 🎠💎

Collab with @daarlingdatura! This PAC is all about the current state of your finances and what is coming just around the corner for you love bugs 💐

Visit my newest reading ‘Ur That B*txh’

Please like, reblog, follow me and @daarlingdatura for more 🤑

PILE 1 - Knight of Wands | Queen of Pentacles

Pile by @junkbbykow

There’s obviously something you want. Bad and you are move towards it with speed. Don’t forget your manifestations are already yours and it is okay to rest, have fun, and so on.

Doors are opening and it’s up to you to walk through them! I made a post about this that I think y’all should check out here!

This project ignites passion, spontaneity, and creativity in you that people can only dream of. Like I said before REST and also evaluate the opportunities with the rose tinted glasses off. Rushing into things can have consequences down the line.

With the queen following this energy, this venture is your BABY. Put your love, energy, and time into this, but I don’t need to tell you this. This opportunity is bringing in stability and security which is probably why you’re going so hard for it. Send gratitude out into the universe and share this stability in the present. Being kind and loving always comes back ten fold. But before you nurture others, nurture yourself!

I see this project leading to A LOT of abundance and coming into your power. Y’all are entrepreneurs, artists, or something. You have an incredibly forceful energy and you are busting down doors and making this world (or industry) yours for the taking. Trust yourself. Believe in who you are and what you have to offer.

I pulled a song for you and all I have to say is don’t let people leech off of you or your success. Sometimes people have to do work for themselves in order to reap the benefits. You probably love these individuals but me mindful of needing to create your own abundance and manage it for longevity. ALSO, please reevaluate some of these relationships. They may not be as loving as you think, but that’s for you to decide. Nobody has the power to stop your success you can only give them the power to. (I an OF COURSE not meaning in a systematic oppression way more on a 1:1 basis) Have a mind of matter perspective 🐬

Visit my masterlist for exchange and paid readings 🪩

PILE 2

Pile by @daarlingdatura

There's a lot of information here. It seems like a lot of you have felt overwhelmed and bogged down by your current job or financial situation. Hold on tight though, it's time to start preparing for transition. I see here that although your current situation may feel drab or unlucky there is some kind of abundance hidden amongst it all. It's clear to me some of you can be rather ungrateful for the stability you've developed for yourself, you may forget to appreciate everything you've cultivated. Constantly living from a mindset of lack and disadvantage. When in reality your situation is just going through a change rn. I know the stagnance has been intense, and I feel like some of you could get a job offer from a parent? I'm gonna say really rationally think through if that's healthy for you. Some of you should take the offer and other's shouldn't. Don't put yourself or your livelihood at risk any further. A lot of you may not realize but if you just hold on a little tighter and keep pushing some form of recognition is coming for you. I really do feel like someone could've done work on some of y'alls money and livelihood? If you seem to have horrible luck with money and always be in a situation then it might be time to do an uncrossing and reflect on your relationship with money. Anyways, a lot of you have been feeling a need for public recognition and I do feel it's coming. Whether it be praise for your change in work ethic and taking things more seriously. Or on a more personal level with art and creativity. If you're in hot water at work you may be able to appease to a grandmotherly type figure by taking things on very seriously and just being sure to upkeep a calm home environment. Many of this pile is in big need of personal responsibility and accountability. There's a tendency to blame others or not want to be real with oneself. all in all, know that everything happening right now can and will get better. If you have been the main breadwinner a bit of stress may be relieved off of you. You need to put more energy into recognizing and releasing your flaws so that you can become a better version of yourself. The star popped up in this reading, but it seems like you are lazy and don't really recognize or put energy into this star power. What you may not see for those of you in a relationship is that a continued better attitude towards your connection on both ends will bring in more money, success, comfort, and even artistic recognition. Collaboration may be a key here, someone could end up making a mixtape or album that goes viral or gets very popular under some kind of moniker with their partner.

Okay so the Financial advice part I am going to channel. Please do an uncrossing, because someone is really betting on your financial downfall right now. For some of you it could be the aforementioned parent who wants to give a job offer. If you do this money uncrossing, you may find there is a great amount of hidden abundance and even some lenience popping up for you guys. Many of you may run across an even better job offer or opportunity that pays you properly and is significantly less stressful. It's just really important here for you to put protections around your money, finances, home stability, and relationship.

If you'd like a more personalized look at this situation hit me up for a 15$ branch off reading.

PILE 3 - Chariot | Ten of Cups

Pile by @junkbbykow

Your career or the next level of it is on its way to you! I feel like maybe you feel as if there was a certain inheritance or something you worked extremely hard for that you never received the fruit of your labor for. It was either delayed or something much more abundant than the typical inheritance is going to come to fruition.

You are special and that comes with hardships but also great abundance. I know your tired. Rest, conserve energy so that when the moment strikes and that opportunity knocks on your door, you’ll be ready.

Lmao I just heard a gunshot and it seemed kind of like an off to the race’s energy. You’re in the energy of carboloading, stretching, and mentally preparing yourself for this next race. Be prepared for obstacles but nothing obscene or out of your capabilities 🐅

Remember this is a race, not a chase. What you are manifesting is already yours. You’re waiting on your moment to act on it.

The race leads to HEAVY abundance. You’ll be able to rest and enjoy the the beauty of the universe. Connect with this energy by meditating in nature or reflecting daily on the aspects of your day that brought you joy in peace.

You’re tired I get that but don’t quit when you’re so close spirit is right there with you to make SURE you pass the ‘finish line’ 🍁

You’re going to recognize you have power for a different reason ‘See I’m fiercer now. I got a job. I got an education, and I got someone waiting at home for me gahd damit.’ You hold your power nobody or anything else use it as you see fit babes 🥮

Visit my masterlist for exchange and paid readings 🪩

PILE 4

pile by @daarlingdatura

Hello Pile 4, I'm seeing these are my people who may own their own business or be spiritualists/readers. You're on fire right now, and I see that you've been making a lot of moves and advancements towards a better future. An offer is still coming, many of you may have gotten downloads about this offer or opportunity. It's just on hold for a bit, there are circumstances around you that are kind of creating a situation in which you need to go into hermit mode right now. There could be someone actively trying to meddle with you Pile 4. Many of you could also be drawn to pile 2 or have a partner experiencing what is happening for pile 2. You're being asked to shed what keeps you from bringing n the abundance you're really seeking. The water is hot right now, but by making sure not to share your plans, ideas, motivations, or energy with anyone outside of yourself, your relationship, and your obligations you should be okay. It's important to keep fighting, just have faith in your future and know that you will be okay no matter what. You don't need to do an uncrossing like pile 2. As much as you need to posting nothing personal on socials, up your protection, and if you also relate to pile 2 or your partner gets pile 2 they need to do an uncrossing like seriously badly. Balance is coming, the fruits of your labor are paying off. Don't worry, just keep fighting and pushing.

Try not to give money to other people right now or share money. It's important you hold onto everything you've got. Don't share your finances or your situation with anyone, keep it all extremely private. Consider not even telling anyone in your direct vicinity including partners. You are trying to make something blossom, transmute the shit other people send your way. It's really important that everything is kept private and well put together. You may need to bite off more than you can chew rn to make ends meet. So if that means temporarily lowering prices or coming up with new and improved methods of making money then do that. There is abundance on the other side, I realize you've been hearing this for so long. You just have a few more things to be put in order. I'm sorry it keeps getting delayed pile 4. Best of luck, please keep faith and know that in the end you will be happy and blessed.

Thank you for reading! Please follow @junkbbykow and @daarlingdatura for more :)

[delinquunt]

For my House

You are the beloved Lich Empress Eternal, head of the venerated court of the Khlonni Empire.

You have served your people dutifully for some time in the range of one thousand years. In your rule, you have spearheaded unprecedented advancement and faced the challenges of the millennium confidently and found compromise in each. You have rightfully earned your endless term.

Owing to your predecessors, the utmost ruling body of the empire is a position held two-fold, and your counterpart and consort has lived for as long as you have, kept soft and lively as you have ever known them by the same magicks that stay the deterioration of your mind and soul.

Unfortunately, you were already aged and frail by the time the process was perfected enough to be trusted to work upon you. As they ever have, your azure bones slump unmoving against the arm rest of your throne, just as you bid them to move some centuries ago before moving out of them. They were mostly a figurehead, now. Something to remind you that you had lived, once, as a human on poor old Earth. Something for your advisors and head researchers and archmages to speak to when they had news.

Now, you simply watched from above. The camera lenses set into the ceilings and walls and the attendants dragging their feet through your capillaries were your eyes, your ears, your every perception. Sensors built to last gave your mind what your body had retired from lifetimes ago.

In every wall there was touch, fields netting membranes and stoic fibers to tell you your love was running their hand along you, feeling the bump of the wainscoting on their slender, carapaced fingertips. You opened your eyes and saw them, looking up into the alcove holding the camera you watched through, smiling softly as they stepped light on four gentle feet. The hall was spanned by windows on your left and by a painting-dense wall opposite. Light streamed in from behind the glass, cast by lamps and magiclights outside the Gilded Palace, illuminating the faces of warriors of eld rendered in oils and carved stone busts. Thin ebon curtains cast wispy shadows over the light, and starry banners rippled gently at the disturbance of the hall's air.

Distantly, you felt an itch, and opened a hangar door for an airship. You felt booted and carapaced feet tap-tap-tapping on your skin and gracefully shut the door.

More immediately, you admired the sapphire tint of your beloved's innards and the yellow glow of their eyes, which made a fine accent for the black of their silken robes, adding a disarming degree of color to the drab uniform of the office of Emperor. Your love, your betrothed, your bond eternal gave a sigh and ground their heel into the carpet a little.

It felt nice, like a squeeze around the hand, and for a moment you were not a thousand-year-old skeleton keeping an enormous palace as a body but a young woman at the peak of health again, giddy just to touch this bug and over the moon at the fact that they were touching you back. You gave a great sigh, too, and watched as the ethereal breeze kicked up the bottoms of their robes.

They came to a stop at the bust of a paladin with long, straight hair and a gentle, generous smile, and touched the placard.

GALLANTUNWAVERING WYNONA

it read in clear and blocky Khlonni script, putting a name to a stark and clean human face in the middle of a line of stalwart, dust-caked insectoid visages. You felt a finger along your collarbone, and focused on the sight of your lover's hands groping at the bust before them. You felt a hand on your cheek and fingers in your hair as they smiled wistfully at the face you once wore, and leaned in to touch their mandible to your forehead adoringly.

You wished you could kiss them back with those lips, again.

They touched a fingertip to your forehead and dragged it down the bridge of your stone-wrought nose, then softly held your marble chin and brushed their thumb over your carved lips. You rejoiced, internally - it felt something like kissing the back of their hand, again.

You wanted more, though. You conjured visions in your mind's eye of them holding your tongue, touching you where nobody else would, feeling your arousal. Of times where you felt so free and determined that you needed them to hogtie you so that you wouldn't fly away before they had the chance to touch you. You groaned internally at the cruelty of having only a few decades to feel the pleasures of the flesh with your love undying before an inevitable eternity of life watching them love your ambulatory memory.

A door at the end of the hall opened, and in strode another four-legged mantis with nothing but milky blue where its innards should be, its exoskeleton intact save for an eye replaced with an old world prosthetic. All metal, no magic. An antique from a time of strife, just like the man.

"Bezgul," he said, and your spouse turned to face him. "Brother," they replied, and gave a soft nod. The two of them were always like this - despite the curt exchange an aura of ease hung in the hall. Bezgul brushed a thumb over your cheek, and their Brother huffed.

"Can you... not do that in front of me? I am your sworn brother, and beside that, I knew her when she was small." Your beloved considered this for a long moment, then gave another soft kiss to the top of your head and a pat to your cheek before pulling their hand away. You dreamt awake that you leaned on their shoulder. "Apologies, Brother. How is your husband?"

He looked relieved. "Apology accepted. I simply don't want a repeat of that time in the Great Hall when--" but he was cut off by an insistent repeat of "How is your husband?!" and he was, miraculously, dissuaded.

"He's no replacement, but his love for the Saint rivals mine, and the Heir Resurrected has so far been a good friend. You know, you're getting to be just like him...," he said, as if Bezgul was still a maturing wiggler and not one of the most elderly of their people. He paused and patted his pockets with all four hands. "Well, I'm not here to talk about Arstus and our mutual love. I have business in the depths. Be well my sworn Sibling, honorable heir to the seat of myself, my love, and my mother, and her father before her, and our ancestors memorial in myriad beyond him." With this, he bowed and started off down the hall, and Bezgul was content with that. They paused, a hand splayed over the top of your polished head, and waited for him to round the corner.

A finger and thumb slid down the side of this coveted facsimile of what you once were and pinched your earthen ear, then separated entirely from you as their owner started down the hall, toward the door their Brother had entered through.

On the other side, your eyes opened again, and they met your watchful gaze with a breathtaking and needful look. Onward they continued, taking careful steps on your dusty, faded green rug and running their hand along the curvature of a cushioned seat by the window as they passed.

You felt every touch, every step, every brush, as if your lover's hand was upon your arm or feeling up your hip. You felt their grasp at your bared thigh as their hand graced a painting of one of the palace's stewards in the court of your predecessors, and you enjoyed their perfect touch at the ridges formed by the oil laying thick on the canvas. That would have given you goosebumps, if you had them.

"O, mine living god, my watchful eye, ghost of my love undying and ego of my dearest unflinching: I ask thee, is there any way I might but pay tribute before your altar?" You would have smiled. You knew it immediately for what it was: A playful way of asking if they could relieve the tensions of your immortal soul. With no verbal means to respond, you opted for a sign: a caress from the wind in Bezgul's robes. They released a shaky sigh, and wasted no time scurrying down the hall.

Corner after corner, hall to hall, past every nook and lounge and reading room and library in the palace, you watched your sweetest love scurry. Even with two more legs, they ran the same as they always had when they were excited, until their excitement brought them to the vaunted Great Hall.

It was a beautiful antechamber. The green rug of the hallway widened and sprouted little golden stars upon the floor of the room, and the tapestries hung beside concave stained glass windows. Together, they depicted two legends: the Swallowing of the first saints, and the ascension of the Lich Emperors. Your twin and fellow emperor strode down the green carpet with purpose, and circled around a large round table in the middle surrounded by cobweb-netted chairs. In the table's center was a sheath for a sword that stood across the room, held forever tip-down by your skeletal hand clutched around its softly glowing hilt.

Your betrothed grasped the sword just above its guard and ran their fingertip down its glowing vorpal edge, tracing the curvature of the regal blue-metal broadsword before you. The touch sent a shiver down your spine. It felt the same-- no, better than their touch used to feel on your cock, when you had one. You didn't particularly care to think about it most of the time, but Bezgul remembered so well how to make it feel good. Their mandible came in for a kiss to the engraved flat of the blade, and you would have moaned if you had the throat for it. The sensation was electric, multiplied tenfold by the separation of soul and body. For reasons you never understood, the distance made it all-encompassing, like a blanket of pleasure.

You were always amazed that Bezgul used the sword like this. It was one thing to do what they were about to do, but it was so much more to perform this ritual with this sword. Reverently, they drew their palm down the edge and sliced it open with a guttural cry of delight. The sapphire light of their essence bled from the wound in their carapace, and you watched with bated breath as it formed a tendril of drippy blue goo.

You felt it too, and the corona put off by your skeleton flared for a long moment and held a gently flickering glow in the dim multicolor light of the hall. Crackling arcs of energy danced on your bones and skipped around in the surrounding air, even reaching out to kiss Bezgul upon their cheek, leaving a smarting blue streak. You would have apologized, but... well, actually, you wouldn't. It felt too good for it to touch them, and they mewled about it besides. A mouth would have given the apology no chance.

Bezgul rose to their feet and approached your azure bones, and the snaking tendril of ooze lapped hungrily at their hand, dancing into the gaps between their fingers. They took some time and careful maneuvering to put their front legs up onto the armrests of your throne and bring their upper half to sit upon your skeletal lap.

From the perspective of your eye sockets then, you watched as Bezgul took your emerald-crusted crown and placed it upon their head in a show of domination. They said, "You, milady, hath verily been conquered. The House of Sky lays claim to the holy throne of Ni-patha. And as my first decree as rightful Empress, I say that thou shall serve me eternally as my toything." They then brought their hand up to the cave of your upper jaw, grasping as if to remake your fallen mandible, and the long blue tongue opened at the sides in wavy fans of sapphire. It extended slowly and coiled around the glowing vertebrae of your neck.

At the slightest touch, you were euphoric. Just feeling their hands upon your bones made you want to squeal, and you were infinitely glad that you were mute. But then their eldritch sex probed up into your cranium to touch your wiggling little brain stem, and the wave of a mind-scattering orgasm crashed against you.

Somewhere past the white haze, you were aware that Bezgul could hear you, and you felt the elation in their connected brain when you mentally squirmed. There would be no coming down from that first orgasm anytime soon, you realized, as the feverish pleasure of another started to rise in the back of your mind. Bezgul's extension coiled around and around your wriggling brain stem, and you moaned the oldest verbal incantation you knew (Fuck!).

The impact of another body-shaking orgasm hit you, and Bezgul felt it too. You watched - insofar as you could focus at all - as they shivered and quaked, clutching one hand to their temple and another two to your skeletal shoulders.

Khlonni did not regularly cum like this, you remembered. Mating is generally a political affair, and often the pleasures of the flesh were referred to by Khlonni as a sort of necessary sin. Bezgul, however, as the leader of their people and a lover of humans, did not give a shit and thought that was honestly stupid as hell. Orgasms rule, actually, and humans are radical and you should Join with them and feel their orgasms too.

This thought was the first sign that the ritual was going well, as it got past your initial internal filter before you realized it wasn't yours and was instead intruding from Bezgul's psyche.

You let it happen, then, as it has happened a thousand thousand times before. Sinking is easier when you share a brain with your dom, temporarily, and as the current of bliss washing over you grew into a constant barrage of twitch-inducing orgasmic pleasure, you embraced them, and Bezgul embraced you, and you both shook within their body as their ego overtook yours and you danced and danced and danced inside until you weren't sure what belonged to who, and resigned together to just figure it out later, and you slumped in a big pile over your own bones and squirmed delightedly.

The lights in the city of Ni-Patha and the bones of the palace beneath the sprawl flare, shining brightly. The entire empire rejoices in the love of the Emperors, blissfully ignorant of the cause of its swell.

You are Bezona, the One True Lich Archemperor, the Lovers Joined, the Living God, the Ruler Eternal, the Hallowed Saint of Saints.

And you cannot stop kissing your own skull.

[somedaythesun]

3t2 Business Windows & Walls

It's business time!

Today I bring you a set of windows & walls from the Doo Peas Corporate Tower TS3 rabbithole. I decided against converting the doors for this building since the mesh is pretty uninteresting and the textures are crunchy.

Here's what you're getting:

3-tile metal window taken from the first floor. I kept the blinds pattern on the glass mesh since I thought they looked too wonderfully drab to remove. I also tinted the glass so you have a nice hazy effect when looking in from the street.

3-tile blue window (this one with multiple vertical bars is the PARENT). The glass is also deliberately tinted to replicate the look of the original rabbithole.

The diagonal version has a stretched mesh so you can get that nice seamless effect when tiling it across the face of a building.

3-tile blue window variant (fewer vertical window bars) - child of the above

The diagonal of this one isn't stretched (which is how it appears on the rabbithole).

1-tile blue window - also a child mesh

Diagonal of this one is also stretched for a seamless look

Four walls that include the first floor brown marble, the upper story bricks, and some of the brick variants that look nice when put on multiple stories.

Now go forth and build your very own soulless corporate tower!

Enjoy, and let me know if you spot any mistakes.

Download (Mediafire)

[queenlucythevaliant]

When Lucy returned to school for the spring term, Peter sent a war poem. It dropped from the crease of his letter into her lap, as unexpected as a firebomb.

“On Receiving News of War,” the title read, and Lucy’s heart lurched. She was sixteen and Peter was twenty-one. The war had ended three years ago and he had only been a British soldier for a matter of months before he was discharged. Now, this poem came: words from the Last Lot, the 1914 war. Lucy picked up the loose page and read.

ON RECEIVING NEWS OF THE WAR

Snow is a strange white word;

No ice or frost

Have asked of bud or bird

For Winter's cost.

Yet ice and frost and snow

From earth to sky

This Summer land doth know,

No man knows why.

She looked up in shock. What did Peter mean in sending this? Was it only that it made him think of their first days in Narnia, white and frozen under the White Witch’s curse? He could not have missed the title. Lucy worried her lip between her teeth, considering. Her brother did not often use words idly.

Red fangs have torn His face.

God's blood is shed.

He mourns from His lone place

His children dead.

O! ancient crimson curse!

Corrode, consume.

Give back this universe

Its pristine bloom.

Oh. Yes, alright. That made a certain kind of sense. And there, at the bottom of the page, was a single line writ in Peter’s hand. “Variations on a theme,” he had written, “only I’m not yet certain what theme it is. Do you have an idea?”

Several, in fact. Lucy’s mind lit up in an instant, all a-whirl with memory and typology. She wasn’t a child any longer, and in small bits her many battles came back to her. Peter, she was sure, remembered even more of Narnia’s wars.

Yet Lucy remembered the ice of Lantern Waste on the first day as though no time had passed at all. She remembered the crimson of Aslan’s blood. She remembered the thaw. In her mind, those things had nothing and everything to do with Britain’s last war. Nothing: the two worlds were as different as King Arthur and Winston Churchill. Everything: because maybe Arthur and Churchill were not so different after all.

That night, after a trip to the library and with a book of poetry on her desk, Lucy composed her reply. “Another variation,” she wrote, and carefully copied out the lines.  

All the dead kings came to me

At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming,

A few stars glimmered through the morn,

And down the thorn the dews were streaming.

And every dead king had a story

Of ancient glory, sweetly told.

It was too early for the lark,

But the starry dark had tints of gold.

The poem was called “The Dead Kings.” Peter was not dead, but Lune was and Cor was. Caspian was. It was easy to imagine them appearing in the trenches and whispering their stories into the ears of British soldiers.

“Caspian would have liked the notion, I think,” Lucy said thoughtfully.

Peter leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Yes. Come to think of it, I rather like it myself. If I were the dead king, I mean.”

“It’s strange—I think these were meant to be sad poems, the way they were written. The world unwillingly cursed and the ancient kings dead. Yet when you apply it to Narnia, I don’t think it’s terribly sad at all. Maybe a little melancholy, but hopeful too. Like I know something that the poet doesn’t.”

“You do know something that the poet doesn’t,” answered Peter.

“I mean about war and dying and all. It’s all so distant for me, you know? And yet I often suspect that I know secrets that some men who actually fought couldn’t guess at. The hopeless men, maybe. In Narnia it was all more beautiful. Having lived there elevates even war and death, in this world.”

“We were, both of us, soldiers once.”

Lucy nodded.

“How about this one, then?” Peter shoved his book across the table, nearly upending the cream along the way.

The drab street stares to see them row on row

On the high tram-tops, singing like the lark.

Too careless-gay for courage, singing they go

Into the dark.

“Simple,” said Lucy. “Singing on the way to war is courage. Singing in the dark is just about the bravest thing a person can do. Just because these boys go into the battle without knowing what it’s really like doesn’t make them any less brave for going, or for singing.”

“You would know,” her brother smiled fondly.

With tin whistles, mouth-organs, any noise,

They pipe the way to glory and the grave;

Foolish and young, the gay and golden boys

Love cannot save...

“It makes me think of Susan,” Peter murmured.

“I can see that. Our love cannot save her, only Aslan’s.” Lucy frowned thoughtfully.

“No, no—I mean I wonder if that’s how Susan thinks of us: foolish children still playing games where singing in the dark means anything at all. Gay and golden, but naïve and careless by the same token. Too caught up in notions of courage and glory to realize that we live in a world where good people die.”

“Oh Peter, you don’t really think?”

“She told me once she’s afraid that we’ll never grow up, did you know? I wondered if she meant that we would always be like children, or if she worried we might die young. Sometimes I still wonder.”

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” said Lucy. “To always be child-like, or even to die young. Not by half.”

Peter snorted. “You might not mind dying young, but I’d certainly mind it. You’re my little sister, Lu. If you die young, it means I’ve done something wrong.”

“Well of course I’d mind! There are so many things I mean to do once I’m grown up. But I’ve always thought—ever since Father Christmas handed me that dagger—that I might. As long as I died for something, it wouldn’t bother me. I think I could be a rather good martyr.” She winked across the table.

“Don’t you dare. If Aslan has short lives in mind for either of us, we’ll drink what we’re given. In the meantime, let’s both of us focus on growing up well.”

The next week, Lucy went with Marjorie Preston to the mail room. It was Marjorie’s birthday and she was expecting a parcel from home, but Lucy was also privately hoping for another letter from Peter.

An abundance of riches awaited Marjorie: an enormous box that the two of them had to lift together. Thus, Lucy tucked Peter’s letter under one of the box’s flaps as they carried it, and it was Marjorie who tore open the envelope when they reached the dormitories.

“What in the world is this?” Marjorie exclaimed, waving a poem under Lucy’s nose. Lucy snatched it away and hungrily read the words, considering how this variation fit Peter’s theme. Then, she noticed that Marjorie was still beside her, tapping her foot impatiently.

“My brother sends me war poems,” Lucy explained hurriedly.

“That’s strange.”

“Do you think so?” Lucy considered. “Well, no matter.”

WAR GIRLS (here Peter had added “& VALIANT QUEENS”)

Strong, sensible, and fit,

     They're out to show their grit,

   And tackle jobs with energy and knack.

     No longer caged and penned up,

     They're going to keep their end up

   Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back.

"Does he mean you?" asked Marjorie, wrinkling her nose.

Lucy laughed, but didn't dispute it. She went to fetch some paper and a pen.

On they went for the next several months, passing poems back and forth in their letters. Some of them were hopeful and some despairing, some sad, some darkly funny. It was a dialogue in a war that Peter scarcely remembered, and Lucy even less. In time, Tennyson and others from before the Last Lot worked their way in. Even Shakespeare made an appearance with several selections from the Henriad. Spring lurched into summer which tumbled into fall. Peter turned twenty-two in August and Lucy was seventeen in November.

Then, at dinner at Professor Digory’s house one night, the specter of a Narnian king appeared before them. Before they left, Peter found the poem he was thinking of in the Professor’s study and gave it to Lucy.

Horror of wounds and anger at the foe,

And loss of things desired; all these must pass.

We are the happy legion, for we know

Time's but a golden wind that shakes the grass.

“Does it feel different this time?” he asked once she had read it.

“Yes,” replied his sister, “and no. It feels obscurely like it did the night Aslan died. Like something is hanging over us.”

“I think this is the end,” Peter said bluntly. “He said we wouldn’t ever go back to Narnia, yet here we are. It feels like the end. Do you remember what it was like the night before a battle?”

“Yes. I didn’t before, but I do now. Like we had to gather up everything inside ourselves and name it. Fear and courage, love and memory.”

Peter sighed. “We ought to get going. There might be ice on the roads tonight.”

Lucy went into the closet and fetched her coat. Peter followed, moving a fraction slower than usual.

“Peter?” Peter turned and looked at Lucy, who was standing in the doorway with her fur-trimmed collar turned up around her throat. “It was a good poem, Peter. The right poem. Time’s but a golden wind that shakes the grass…”

Golden. Golden like Aslan’s mane, which they both so dearly longed to touch once more. Lucy tossed the poem round and round in her mind all that evening.

Before he and Edmund left for London, Lucy slipped an envelope into Peter’s pocket. “Read it on the train,” she told him.

Peter nodded. “I have one for you too.”

It was the last conversation they shared in the Shadowlands, though neither knew it at the time.

When Lucy unfolded her poem, she recognized the words. It was her favorite war-poem, which she’d first sent to Peter months ago when their correspondence had begun.

Sombre the night is:

And, though we have our lives, we know

What sinister threat lurks there.

But hark! Joy—joy—strange joy.

Lo! Heights of night ringing with unseen larks:

Music showering on our upturned listening faces.

It almost made her want to giggle, how well Peter knew her. Lucy thought of him and Edmund together in London; she ached for Susan, who had chosen not to join her siblings in their last battle for Narnia. She breathed in deep and thought of music on the way to war.

Death could drop from the dark

As easily as song—

But song only dropped,

Like a blind man's dreams on the sand

By dangerous tides;

Like a girl's gold hair, for she dreams no ruin lies there,

Or her songs where a lion hides.

That last couplet was wrong. Peter had changed it. The poem ended with, A girl’s dark hair and kisses where a serpent hides, but Peter had written gold and lion instead.

When Peter unfolded his own poem on the train, he found only a single stanza, annotated on nearly every line.

It didn’t pass— (His will be done) it didn’t pass-  (His will be done)

It didn’t pass from me.

I drank it when we met the gas  (His will be done)

Beyond Gethsemane! (His will be done)

The train halted and the whistle blew. Peter shook Edmund awake beside him, and together they went to unbury the rings.

 .

 Poems referenced: “On Receiving News of the War,” Isaac Rosenberg; “The Dead Kings,” Francis Ledwidge; “Joining the Colours,” Katharine Tynan; “War Girls,” Jessie Pope; “Absolution,” Siegfried Sassoon; “Returning, We Hear Larks,” Isaac Rosenberg; “Gethsemane,” Rudyard Kipling

[gerardspuppy]

Thoughts on the Valar and Maiar and their styles from someone who knows nothing about fashion beyond "diy everything".

Manwe and Varda - All white, very swoopy very fine fabrics, sometimes translucent, often skin tight with flowy skirts or sleeves. Not the most practical or comfortable looking but beautiful, white corsets and tiaras, lots of white glitter absolutely everywhere, on clothes, makeup, skin, hair, etc. Mostly minimalistic silver jewelry. White feathers appear a lot. (Wearing all white also helps to cover up the presence of bird shit on your clothes but they would never say this out loud).

Aule and Yavanna - Full on hippie look, bright colors and messy patterns, chunky jewelry with various wooden beads or gemstones, patterned headbands, large loose pants and shirts, lots of organic looking designs, goggles with tinted lenses, messy hair, usually done up in Maiar of Aule and loose in Maiar of Yavanna. Maiar of Aule also switch to leather work clothes and metal welding masks in the forges when required.

Orome and Vana - Who needs clothes anyway?? Lots of animal pelts flung hastily on, various pigments (blood) used as war paint like makeup, but otherwise not much in the way of style. Very practical clothing is favored, stuff which is loose, blends in with the forest, and is easy to move around in. They often wear animal masks carved out of wood with designs painted on.

Irmo and Este - Pastel colors, poppies are very popular both as crowns or as designs, dreamy, hazy patterns often depicting moths or owls, thick veils and shawls, long night gown like robes, bare feet or comfortable slippers, iridescent colors, pale pinks and oranges like sunsets, hazy greys, blanket like capes with moths wings on them.

Namo and Vaire - Black so dark you can't make out form, long veils that you can see nothing through, low hoods, no jewellery, no visible faces or hair or skin, dark silk gloves that are incredibly soft and make you want to take their hand, dark slippers that make no sound, the occasional glimpse of smokey breaths from behind the veil, no patterns, utter emptiness. Vaire weaves their clothes out of darkness and death itself.

Nienna - Extremely simple, drab clothing and colors, lots of greys and browns and dark greens, translucent veils which are often the only decorated part of the outfit and have patterns of weeping eyes or bones on them, thick comforting fabrics, often with hoods, the Maiar are always ready to shrug off a layer of their clothes to give to any who need it more.

Tulkas and Nessa - Clothes that lend themselves well to movement, whether that be dancing or fighting. Lots of bright reds and warm colors, often no shirts with loose pants, or close fitted sleeveless shirts. Many belts and loops to hang ribbons or weapons or maybe both from. Armored masks are often seen, in the shape of a deer to honor Nessa. Colorful ribbons and small metal charms for luck are braided into the hair.

Ulmo - Very few clothes but most are made out of dead sea animals. Skin tight suits of seal skin, shiny objects and seabird feathers as jewellery to attract fish, glittery body paint swirled around to mimic the shapes in seashells. Fish scales are sometimes stuck to the body or to clothing. Any fabrics used are rough and stiff to survive prolonged salt and sun exposure, and are thick enough to withstand stings from any sea animals. Sea urchin spines are stuck onto clothes as defense, and the most fierce Maiar have the fins and spines of dead lionfish stuck to their clothes, kept alive and potent through magic (mishaps and accidents happen much more frequently than anyone wants to admit). Extremely bright colors in everything that they wear, often for non everyday wear clothes many colorful frills and tendrils are attached to mimic the looks of certain fish and sea slugs.

Melkor - The original punk rocker of Arda. All black clothes, often form fitting, leather gloves and straps, silver or black jewellery everywhere, especially rings and piercings, teased gothic hair, masks with horrifying blank expressions and horns protruding out of them, heavy gothic or death metal makeup, metal spikes absolutely everywhere, thick heavy duty boots. Very gruesome designs often depicting severed bodyparts, bodies deformed through torture, and rotting bones. Parts of bodies are often mummified and used as accessories, especially hands, eyes, or entire heads.

Bonus third age Sauron because he was practically a Vala in his own right by then and Mordor followed his look - Steampunk, grotesque rotting bodies held together by beautifully polished metal parts, metal armor hammered into the very flesh of soldiers, lots of golds and reds, gold piercings and rings (hah), bodies half split open and their whirring mechanical insides visible through the flesh, steam rising from every surface, elegant, tight fitting black fabrics with red and gold accents.