#silver plated ornaments

[yourcoffeeguru]

Vintage Money Box CAROUSEL by Jamine made Hong Kong Fine Quality Silverplate || SWtradepost - ebay

[clcollectables]

Silver plated secret garden locket with 18” chain Free Shipping On Order Of $34.99 Or More On Gifts You’ll Love

Silver plated secret garden locket with 18” chain Free Shipping On Order Of $34.99 Or More On Gifts You’ll Love

JEWELRY Silver Plated Locket Chain Set $8.99

[heaveninawildflower]

'The Paradise Garden' (circa 1625-circa 1675) by Johann Arndts.

Book binding- gold-plated silver, on wood, decorated with a double eagle, enamel ornaments with turquoise and amethyst stones.

Rijksmuseum.

Wikimedia.

[wixxid]

IVORY  · PART ll

Fandom: Dune

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Female OC

Words: 1,658

Warnings: dark themes, abuse, and arranged marriage

Summary: Deceit leaves you waiting in doubt, while also allowing you a glimpse into the violence that is house Harkonnen.

"It's been days."

Sitting at the metal dining table, you stare down at the meal sitting on your plate; a platter of strange meat and fruit. It's late evening and yet you've still to see the sky. The duke sits the table opposite of you, troubled with a face equally as displeased as you sound.

Three day's have passed since your arrival to Giedi Prime.

That's how long you've been waiting to hear from the Barron. That's how long he's been making the envoy wait, with little to no news other than the fact his nephew is nearing to the planets orbit.

Feyd-Rautha was never here.

We've travelled time and space only to be left in disillusion. Stranded and seething in what is only another insult. The Barron had denied all your fathers requests to speak. We're to simply wait the coming time for the ceremony to take place.

"Is he dead?"

The question slips from between your lips, more as a suggestion than a question. In these last few days you've been contemplating the delay in your marriage to the Harkonnen. Your mind couldn't help but wander to the faint possibility.

You're father glanced you and then to the female servants. He utters, "Don't say that?"

Turning your eyes to the women, you observe how still the three of them stand. Their bald heads are bowed lowly, their eyes everted as if it were forbidden to look upon us. Neither of them spoke, a noticeable trait amongst these walls. It's terribly quiet.

"Do you think they listen?"

The duke sighed with a gesture, "All of you, leave us."

Immediately, the three women scurried from your site and out of the dining room. It leaves only the two of you now. Taking your glass of drink, filled with a substance you could only describe as strong - alcoholic - you take a sip.

"Don't get comfortable," he counselled. "They all listen. The servants. The guards. The walls. There's nowhere here you can ever believe is secure."

"Then why do we stay?"

He paused, "You know why."

Getting up from your seat, you headed towards a decorative wall ornament. A silver plate, rippled and bent into an unusual disk. The shiny chrome reflects the jarred image of your pale face.

"I'd accepted my fate from the beginning," you started whilst refusing to look at him. You can feel the emotions bubbling within your chest. "I'd made peace and readied myself for our arrival - and for nothing - to be made a fool."

"If he didn't need our alliance, then we wouldn't be here."

"You think he'd kill us?"

"Yes, and yet we still breathe," replied your father. "Whatever it is that's happening, it's not without reason. I don't believe this is the Barron's doing."

"Then it's true."

"What is?"

Your turned around, "Feyd-Rautha."

The duke tensed at the mention, before looking away with a sigh of defeat. It haunts him. Your father never wanted to speak of the marriage. It was your mother who came to you after the fact, confessing the identity of your match.

Your father is too shamed. Surrendering to the enemy and going so far as to parlay with his only daughter. It had hurt the mans pride, not only as a duke but as a father. He wanted better for you, better than a monster.

"He can't hurt -."

"Don't lie to me," you interjected. "As soon as it's done and I'm alone, there's nothing he can't do to hurt me."

"He won’t kill you."

"No," you mutter bitterly. Pausing, you emptied your cup with a last mouthful. "That would mean mercy."

Pursing your lips, you flare at his poor attempt to reassure your welfare. There's paths worse than death, and murder is too clean. Striding across the dining hall, you exited hastily without properly bidding him goodnight.

It angers you.

This waiting game has brought you to the edge of sanity. As you said before, you'd made peace with the situation, but now you're unsure. You're stuck in a twisted purgatory; neither free from this place nor bound to it.

Navigating the abandoned hallways, the click of your heels echoes amongst the wide tunnel like space. The palace is endless and vast, and sometimes you wonder what you might discover if you were to steer from the trail.

There's much the other houses don't know about the Harkonnen's. They're a secretive and sly race, who don't take kindly to sharing their technology and resources; other than the exorbitant production of Spice.

"Why are you following me?"

Pausing in the middle of the hall, you waited for the hidden figure to emerge from the shadows. You had herd them trailing you from the moment you left the dining room. Their mind is far too active for you to ignore amidst the emptiness.

"It's only polite to mind one's guests. The palace walls can easily deceive the unfamiliar."

Piter appears the dank recesses of the hallway, still clothed in traditional black. The two of you have barely associated after your initial contact upon arrival, but you aren't at all surprised to find him lurking.

"And what might I find, if I were to stray?" you asked daringly. "Perhaps the truth?"

"The truth isn't always worth it's labour."

You're gaze narrows, "Tell me what you want."

"Answers," he simply responded. "It's my function to seek answers - even to questions still yet to come."

"Isn't it only inevitable."

"In a manner, but why not reach for the power of foresight?"

Stepping towards him, you inch closer to the mentat; until you're merely inches from one another. Although he doesn’t move, you can see the uncertainty in his face. He expects you be otherwise, but you react differently; a miscalculation.

“Tell me my future.”

He looks at you with hesitation, before answering. “Your future is your own creation. But,” he adds whilst looking you up and down. “I do expect it be bleak.”

You scoff beneath your breath. He’s blunt, but at the very least he shows honesty. It may not be on the most respectful of terms, but it's better than you expect. Eyeing him once more, you leave Piter alone in the darkened hallway.

Walking back to your room, you're quick to take notice of the servant standing idly outside of your doorway. This one’s different. You’ve not see her face before. There seems to be quite a few, following you like shadows.

“A bath,” you instruct, to which she obeys.

Opening the door to your room, you enter first while she trails afterwards. Swiftly she maneuvers herself to prepare the bath in the adjoining room. It’s gives you time to breath, and you do so deeply.

The weight on your shoulders is overbearing. A force to be reckoned. You’ve been on constant guard the moment you step foot on this rock, and although you know you shouldn’t allow yourself to slip, you bring yourself at ease.

If only for a moment.

The servant returns, helping you undress from the layers of clothing that've been shielding you from the many faces. They’re not to see you before the ceremony, but you’d rather they don’t see you at all.

It’s easier to hide.

Slipping into the hot bath, you submerge down into the milky white water. It smells subtle but flowery, not a smell you first expected to breath in a place like this. You'd expected something unpleasant and sterile.

They say the Barron himself bathes in vats of black oil. They dredge it from this very terrain. It's supposedly a mineral enriched concoction. A way to heal the mans fowl wounds and morbidly ill health.

Improbable.

Rotating your neck, you ease the taut ache within your muscles. The ceremony will be soon, if not tomorrow then surely the next. You’ve not seen their ways of marriage, but you imagine it to be cold and emotionless; savage.

It’ll more akin to a fete, than a true celebration.

Sponging along the length of your arms and shoulders, the servant carefully washes you as if you're made of precious material. Leaning over, you cant help but catch site of the bruised flesh at her collar.

“Stop.”

Immediately, the woman stills like a statue. Your damp fingertips running across her soft but marred skin; the color of deep purple. She flinches when you press the tender wound. It's recent enough.

“Who did this to you?”

Remaining quiet, her unmoving eyes stare into the distance. Fear or loyalty. Either way she refuses to reveal the abuser. The artery at her neck throbs with the increase of her heartrate.

“Speak.”

She stumbles at the sound of The Voice. It brings her to her knees, hand splashing against the waters surface as she tries to steady herself. The answer you compel comes unwillingly and to a surprise.

“Ne-Barron."

Frightful eyes gape up at you, body shaking as she tries to come to terms with the power that'd overcome her freewill. Disorientation. As much as her instincts beg for her to flee, she makes no move to runaway; to scream in horror and obscenity.

Instead, she collects herself as much as she can, before retrieving the sponge to continue bathing your flesh. There's no need to force for further elaboration. Her words came accompanied with a testament of emotions.

Torture.

Torment.

A common endurance on this planet. Resting in the bath, you only need to imagine as to why the brute would decide to leave the servant so obviously bruised and battered; only the reason hardly matters. Logic is for the sane.

Feyd-Rautha is psychotic.

Your only real concern is, if he's so willing to inflict pain and suffering to that of his own people, then what might he do to you; an outsider. An Atreides. Those bruises hold no shame or remorse. They stand as his representation.

Would he make you walk among them as another?

A symbol of his dominion.

[munsonify]

christmas decorations

pairing. eddie munson x gn!reader

summary. you insist on helping eddie decorate his trailer for christmas!

content warnings. pet names (sweetheart, baby), slight swearing, cookies, established relationships.

a/n. the end feels supppper rushed so sorry lol

word count. 913

12 days of christmas - day 1/12

Wayne and Eddie were never ones to decorate for the holidays. They could barely find the time to see each other properly with Wayne working nights, let alone decorate their trailer for each holiday. Besides, they deemed it wasn’t too important to them. They two much preferred the trailer as it was.

You, however, were not having that.

Yes, the trailer was fine just how it was. It was small, but homely. Nevertheless, you decided some holiday cheer was needed inside. At first, Eddie pretended he hated the idea. He grunted and groaned over the thought of moving the already perfectly placed decor for more. You still weren’t having it. With as much insistence as you could give, you finally convinced Eddie that just a little decorations wouldn’t hurt.

So, with the help of Joyce, who had a ton of leftover lights, and the clearance Christmas sections in several stores, you were able to scrounge up enough decorations to put around the trailer. You found a small artificial tree that would fit perfectly in the trailer. Wayne made you promise it wouldn’t shed like a real pine tree. You also found a few small, ceramic reindeer to place neatly on surfaces. You even bought a bag of tinsel you knew would end up braided into Eddie’s hair rather than on the tree.

You proudly lugged everything over to Eddie and Wayne’s trailer once everything was gathered. Your boyfriend could tell you were stumbling with everything in your arms, and made sure he helped bring everything in. His eyes, however, wandered to the plate full of chocolate chip cookies you managed to bring with you too.

“Eyes off the cookies, Munson,” you warned teasingly. “You can have as many as you want after we decorate.”

“You’re so cute when you’re demanding,” is all Eddie said after that, a cheeky grin playing on his face. He helped sit everything down, taking the plate of cookies to the kitchen. As if thinking he was sneaky, his hand reached to grab one right off the top, earning a glare from you.

“Okay, fine,” Eddie grumbled. “No cookies until we decorate! Bossy ass.”

You started with the tree, setting it up neatly in the corner. It was around shoulder length with Eddie’s body, more thin than it was tall. He insisted on letting him hang the ornaments, though you swatted him away when he only put the silver and gold ornaments in clumps.

“I thought you wanted me to help!” Eddie exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air as you took over.

“Yeah, before you decided to be shit at tree decorating,” you fired back, fixing his clumps and spreading them out properly. After you fixed it, you stood back, and showed him. “Now doesn’t that look better?”

Eddie only rolled his eyes. He began unraveling all of the lights while you were finishing the tree, which he found to be more irritating than fun. He did it anyways, his mind set on those cookies in the kitchen. Noticing his irritation, you kissed his forehead gently, smoothing back his hair in the process.

You noticed how quickly Eddie relaxed. Despite still slightly irritated with the knotted lights, he always relaxed around you. Especially when you show him affection. You caved when you saw his brown doe eyes looking up at you from the lights.

“Okay baby, you can have a cookie,” you giggled, watching him jump up eagerly from his spot. He ran straight to the cookies like a child, grabbing the very top one again like before. And, as if starved, Eddie shoved half of it in his mouth. He knew immediately that they were your homemade ones that you make him all the time.

“God, you’re the best, sweetheart,” Eddie mumbled through a mouthful of cookies. “I promise I’ll help when I’m done.”

That, he did. Cheerfully, too! He grabbed you a chair to stand on as you strung lights up along the walls, holding the wad of extra lights in his hands so they didn’t get tangled with anything else.

You were nearly done with the lights when Wayne woke up for his nap. He usually slept a lot of the day in attempts to catch up from the sleep he loses during the night. With a soft smile at you and his nephew, he decided he’d help, also. He set the ceramic decorations around the house. Some were reindeer, others were nutcrackers. There was even an elf that resembled Dustin just a little too much for Eddie’s liking.

As if the finishing touch, you hung up the wreath on their front door. The red ribbon on the wreath was bigger than the actual wreath itself.

You looked around the trailer after you were done to take in the finished product. There was a pit on your stomach that you couldn’t quite shake. You were forgetting something, you were sure of it. You just weren’t sure what it was! With one glance at the tree, you knew you’d forgotten the star.

“C’mon sweetheart, a frown?” Eddie asked, eyes immediately catching on to your sunken expression. He brought a gentle hand up to your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot the star,” you whispered, a pout on your lips. Eddie couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You’re worried about forgetting a star? Baby, you brought more than you had to! It’s okay that you forgot a star!” His reassurance eased you quickly, just as your touch eased him. You gave him a nod and a smile, which in turn made him smile. You could tell he was happy with what you’d gotten him.

As long as he was happy, you were happy.

[sweetbbyshion]

Cream Pie

-> Kento Nanami x Fem!Reader

characters: Kento Nanami

genre: smut

summary: You give Nanami his gift

warnings: SMUT, established relationship, unprotected sex, gift giving, a bit of oral (m->f and f->m) creampie

collab: this is my secret santa fic for @littleoanh !!!! i hope you like this my love. the secret santa collab was hosted by @mekiza

You let out an exaggerated sigh as you look at the clock in your living room. Nanami promised to be home for Christmas but it's getting closer and closer to dinner and you're losing hope. The whole day was filled with you preparing dinner and ornaments shaped cookies. You don't blame Nanami, you never would get mad at him for this. However, you blame curses for not taking a break on Christmas and you blame Gojo for not taking care of it alone and having to drag your fiancé with him. You stretch your back, eyes paying attention to The Grinch playing on the big TV in front of you. You sigh again as you drop back on the couch thinking about how much you miss Nanami and you wish you could be doing all of the Christmas activities with him.

You were about to check your phone for any notification when the sound of the door opening caught your attention. You quickly get up to welcome Nanami. He’s done taking off his shoes when you jump on him, hugging him tightly. Nanami tiredly hugs your waist, hiding his face on your hair as he sighs quietly.

“Sorry I’m late.” he murmurs.

You shush him, holding his hand to pull him to the kitchen. “I made dinner.” you say. “Let's eat so I can give you my presents.”

Nanami tries to argue but you simply push him to sit down, placing the food on the table before you sit down next to him. Nanami makes the effort to serve the both of you. He hums in appreciation when he first tries the food. The room is silent apart from the chopsticks clicking on the plates and bowls. You're both quiet for a while, just enjoying each other's presence.

“How was your day?” you say quietly, not to disturb the peace too much.

“Tiring. I missed you and I couldn't wait to be home.” Nanami confesses. “I hate Gojo.”

You laugh. “No, you don't. At least you're home now.” he sighs. The eyebags are clear under his eyes and he can't wait to go to bed and cuddle you for the rest of the night. You get up and offer your hand to him. “Come with me, it's time for your present.”

Nanami doesn't protest as you guide him to your shared bedroom. You get a box and give it to him as he sits at the foot of the bed. He opens it carefully and observes the silver watch inside it. He smiles softly at it, noticing your initials engraved on the back. He pulls you to his lap, placing a kiss on your lips as he murmurs a thank you.

Nanami is about to get up to get your present when you stop him, letting him know it's not over yet. You get up from his lap, taking off the shirt covering your upper body. Nanami watches intensely as you undress. You stand in front of him, between his legs. His hands hold your waist, dragging themselves down to touch your thighs. “What's my present?” he murmurs, caressing your thighs. The devilish smile you give him should have been a giveaway.

“I’ll let you fuck me raw.”

You see, Nanami was always very responsible. He always made sure to use condoms, no matter how much he wanted to cum inside you just to watch you gush out his cum when he was done with you. However, he was a mature adult that knew how irresponsible it was to have unprotected sex. Still, it doesn't stop Nanami from wanting to feel you without the condom separating you both. He felt conflicted. He really, really, wanted to fuck you raw but he wasn't sure it was a good idea. He could pull out but he's certain that he wouldn't be able to stop once he started.

Your hands touch his shoulders, “You're thinking too much.”, you whisper, “Please Kento.”. Nanami simply nods and lets you unbutton his pants. He watched in awe as you got down on your knees between his legs, signaling him to lift his hips to help you remove them. His mouth salivates as you lick his dick print, eyes never leaving his. He urges you to take off his underwear, feeling too horny for teasing. Nanami thinks you look pretty all the time but he can't deny you have a different kind of beauty when you have his dick in your mouth. The way your glossy eyes keep eye contact with Nanami drives him crazy and he wants to grab your hair and force you down. He stops himself from doing that, however. If he is going to cum today, he will make sure it won't be down your throat. You both get up and he signals for you to lay on the bed while he unbuttons the blue shirt he has on.

You look ready to jump on him, so hungry for the man that is taking his sweet time undressing. He crawls on the bed, settling himself between your legs. You should have known that your boyfriend would never forget about pleasuring you before even thinking about himself.

Nanami starts by kissing your thighs, soft lips leaving small, loving kisses along your inner thigh, switching between left and right. His hands settle themselves on your hip, forcing your lower body to stay pressed against the bed. You whine when he goes higher, but not higher enough to satisfy you. You can feel his breath hitting your wet pussy yet it's not enough. You need his lips, his tongue, his fingers, his dick. He kisses your clit, almost lovingly, and you let out a cry of his name. He hums, nose deep in your pussy, letting all of his senses be filled with you. Your fiancé’s hands still press your hips down, licking agonizingly slow.

“Kento… just come here and fuck me.”

“What’s the hurry?” Nanami rests his cheek on your thigh, looking up at you.

“Been waiting too long for this.” you whine. Nanami just chuckles before saying: “But you taste so good. I’ve missed your pussy.”

When you first met Nanami, you never thought he would be so pussy drunk. But looking at him now, cheeks flushed red, messy hair, glossing lips and shining eyes, Nanami looks pretty. He leaves his spot between your legs, even though he wanted to spend more time there, and towers over you. Your arms circle his neck and pull him down for a messy kiss. “Fuck me now.” you demand, whispering against his lips. Nanami chuckles again, grabbing the base of his dick to rub it against your hole. “Are you sure? We can still get a condom.” he assures. “I’m sure.” you tell him, eager to feel him.

Nanami pushes inside you and he almost feels like a teenager when he has to stop himself from coming as soon as he feels your insides without the condom separating you. Your moans aren't helping and Nanami closes his eyes to not come with the image in front of him. He now understands why Gojo kept saying it was better without a condom. Your fiancé doesn't think he will be anle to fuck you with a condom ever again.

“Kento…” you moan. “Move please. I need you to move.”

Nanami takes a deep breath and slowly pulls out before slamming into you again. He feels even more how you squeeze around him, sucking him in every time he pulls out. Nanami doesn't think he will last long, even though he wishes he could stay inside you like this forever. But he fucks you hard, in a way he doesn't think he ever did before. He watches your boobs move with each thrust, your moans getting loud as your eyes roll to the back of your head. You look so beautiful that Nanami wants to take a picture but he stops himself from reaching for his phone. You start screaming about being so close but your sentence gets cut out by a scream when Nanami touches your clit, making you cream around him. You squeeze him so hard that Nanami cums inside you as deep as he can, breathing loudly. He pulls out and his eyes widen as he watches his cum spilling out of your hole, mixed with some of yours.

With this, Nanami is 100% sure that he will never use a condom ever again.

[desolatus]

Casket with Warriors and Mythological Figures made with bone plaques and ornamental strips over wood; silver lock plate

C. 10th-11th century, Byzantine

Gift of J. Pierpont Morgan, 1917

[slasher-male-wife]

Holiday headcanons with slashers

Do I have requests I should be doing? Yes I do. Am I writing this instead? Yes I am. Anyway I need to pump out as much holiday stuff as I can before it's too late. I made it kinda general for all winter holidays but I did include some specific head cannons for Hanukkah and a religious Christmas. I hope y'all enjoy.

Includes: Rz Michael Myers, Norman Bates, Carrie White, Hannibal Lecter and Will Grahm

Warnings: Mention of Michael having eaten a dog

RZ Michael

Now Michael never grew up in a religious house and he never was religious in the first place. Christmas was never a fun time for him as a kid because he never got anything and his family (outside of his mother) were horrible people.

He won't understand why you want to put up lights and a tree but he's not objecting to it. He likes looking at the lights and holding ornaments that look pretty to him.

He won't expect you to actually get him anything but he's going to be a bit surprised when he sees a gift under the tree for him. He totally won't feel guilty and go steal something for you. He only did that because he found that thing and he thought you would like it. Don't press this issue Y/n or he's leaving the house until January.

If you like to bake things Michael won't help but he will eat. It doesn't even have to be cooked and he'll eat the batter or the dough. This man probably has literally eaten a dog, he won't care if your cookies are burnt to high hell he''s eating them.

The same goes for any Jewish dishes you make for Hanukkah. Oh your Latkes are turned into charcoal? Michael will eat an entire plate and ask for another. This man can probably eat literal bricks.

If you're a Christian and you go to Church to worship on Christmas Michael won't be going or praying with you, but he will be outside watching you.

Same goes if you go to Temple for Hanukkah. He'll watch from outside and just look at you. As for lighting the Menorah he'll watch you do that too. He's not judging you doing this Michael just likes to watch.

Norman Bates

Norman is probably a Christian but if you're not he's not judging. If you just want to decorate and enjoy the more commerical Christmas he doesn't care as long as he can still have a little natvity scene and can go to Church, but you're always welcome to join him.

He adores putting up ornaments together. Or just doing any kind of holiday activity together. Putting up lights, baking, cooking, playing in the snow, etc. He just loves spending time with you.

He'll also get lonely around this time without his mother so he's going to want some comfort for that. But he'll talk about how his mother would have loved you and how he would have convinced her that you're a great person who's perfect for him.

Norman will make you write a list of things you want and he will buy mostly all of them. He wants to make you feel loved and he thinks that giving thoughtful gifts this time of year is something important.

He's going to be a bit more busy with the motel around the Holidays but he's going to still make time for you.

Now if you're Jewish and celebrate Hanukkah Norman won't know anything about it but he'll still be supportive. He'll learn some songs and try the food you make.

He'll also still get you gifts for Hanukkah. But I feel like he might buy you both silver or gold necklaces, one with a star of David for you and one with a cross for him.

Carrie White

Carrie's Christmas's have been just hours of worship and praying for forgiveness with her mother. She's never had a tree, never put up lights and has never gotten a gift outside of a bible and a cross necklace one year.

She's going to be so foreign to all of the commerical Christmas things. So she'll want to be included in everything. She'll love to go pick a tree with you and decorate it together. She'll help put up lights and hand wreaths on the front door.

She'll be baking all the damn time. Like your kitchen will permanently smell like cinnamon, vanilla, mint and cloves. And she'll insist you try everything she makes. If you're Jewish and follow Kosher laws Carrie might not understand it but she'll respect it. She'll keep the kitchen Kosher and will even try to make Jewish foods for Hanukkah.

If you're Jewish Carrie is going to have a little bit of prejudice against you but quickly unlearn it because her mother was wrong about so many things. She'll welcome how you celebrate Hanukkah and while she's a Christian, she'll never make you feel uncomfortable with celebrating Jewish holidays around her.

But if you're a Christian she'll join you in going to Church on Christmas and praising the lord. Going back home and opening gifts afterwards.

Speaking of gifts Carrie is going to make you clothes for Christmas. That or go out and buy you something thoughtful. She's not going to expect you to get her anything but when you do she's so surprised and happy that you did.

Hannibal Lecter and Will Grahm

Will is very festive and Hannibal is just kinda normal about it. The three of you will go tree shopping because Will insists on having a live tree and Hannibal can't say no.

Hannibal cooks and bakes so many things for the holidays. And if you're Jewish, he has so many kosher recipes to use and will honestly just start making kosher food most of the time, but if he makes something that isn't kosher for him and Will he's going to make something kosher for you.

Will and you will do most of the decorating around the house because Hannibal "has better things to do" but Hannibal will always come over and insist that he helps "make it better'. Cue argument over Will putting a fishing themed ornament on the tree.

Now I've mentioned this before but Hannibal wraps his gifts with black wrapping paper and he does it so perfectly that you almost don't want to ruin it by opening it. And Will tries his best but it always ends up looking so bad. Will also might wrap your gift as something completely different. Like he'll wrap a watch as a mug.

Will and Hannibal aren't religious I think that's kinda obvious but if you go to Church or Temple for the holidays then they're coming with you as guests. Hannibal knows more about Judaism than Will does but that doesn't stop Will from learning about the religion. I feel like Hannibal might even know a little Hebrew.

As for gifts Hannibal will buy you something expensive, but also something thoughtful. Like you pointed out this beautiful necklace that this woman was wearing? Hannibal bought it for you. Oh remember those shoes you tried on in March that you feel in love with but couldn't afford? Hannibal bought those for you. He also might just buy you and Will a vacation to Europe.

Will's gift giving is also thoughtful but not as expensive. Oh remember that really cool but expensive ring you found? Will made one that looks just like it for you. You remember telling Will about how you lost a childhood toy a few years ago that you loved so much? He bought another one just for you.

[kydrogendragon]

Dec 5 - Traditions

(Ao3 Link)

There were many traditions around the holidays: decorating the Christmas Tree, baking cookies, and watching Rudolph. But there was one tradition that Hob always looked forward to each year. No matter where he worked in this new century, there was always an ugly Christmas sweater contest. Hob looked in the mirror at this year’s latest creation. He had taken a truly atrocious yellow sweater from the thrift store and ironed on a giant reindeer patch on the top. Actually working colored lights were hot glued around the front, wrapping around the area of the reindeer’s horns. A bell was attached by the reindeer’s neck like a collar and a truly criminal amount of pompoms were glued all across the collar and back of the sweater and strands of tinsel were wrapped around the sleeves.

It was truly hideous.

It was perfect.

Stepping into the hallway, he spread his arms out wide. “Well? What do you think?”

Morpheus scowled at him from the kitchen island. “I think my lover has been consumed by a demon of Christmas. I would rather like him back.”

“Aw, come on now, it’s so ugly, it’s kinda charming!”

Morpheus rolls his eyes and looks down at the plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on the counter top. He picks one up and holds it to his mouth as he speaks. “I am beginning to believe that after six hundred years of life, humans are destined to go mad.”

Hob laughs. He makes his way near Morpheus wraps a tinsel wrapped arm around his waist. Morpheus glares at him from the corner of his eye.

“I will not wear your monstrosities.” Morpheus states with the finality of a king.

“But then how can we win the couple’s contest?”

“This is a competition I do not wish to win.”

Hob pulls Morpheus closer, turning him to face him. He pouts, pulling forth his extremely well practiced puppy dog face.

“Not even for me?” he asks, looking up into Morpheus’s eyes. Uninspired icy eyes gaze back at him.

“Begging is unflattering, Hob.”

Hob smirked. “Not what you thought last night.” That earns him a sharp smack on the side of his head. “Yeah, alright, I deserved that one.” Moving to hold Morpheus’s hands in his own, he looks back up with a more serious expression on his face. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, you know that. So if you don’t want to wear that ugly sweater from last year, you don’t have to. You know that, right?”

Morpheus purses his lips. “I do.”

“Good. Then you know me pestering you like this is just because I love you and it’s fun when you get all petulant sometimes.” Morpheus narrows his eyes.

“Petulant.”

“Stubborn? Unamused?” Morpheus hums in response. “Well, either way, we should probably head out soon, ugly sweatered up or not. Carol always brings the best little desserts and they get snatched up almost immediately if you don’t get there soon. And I know for a fact you’ll enjoy them.”

Hob lets Morpheus go to wrap up the plate of cookies with saran wrap when Morpheus turns to him.

“Would me wearing this sweater truly make you happy?” Hob looks up from his wrap job.

“I mean. Yeah? But like I said, if you don’t want to, I don’t want to force you to.”

Morpheus stares at him for a moment before walking down the hall. Hob debates whether or not he should follow after. He decides against it and is rewarded moments later by the sight of Morpheus wearing Hob’s ugly sweater from last year. It’s a bold color mismatch of five different sweaters. A bright red one composes the sleeves, a blue one makes up the bottom half, a yellow one makes up the front right and a green one makes up the front left. The upper back panel is a black sweater with silver glitter woven into the thread. A sewn on three dimensional Santa face is plastered on the front with bright rosy cheeks. There are small ornaments hanging off of the sleeves and tinsel wrapping around the body of the sweater where the Santa face isn’t.

And somehow, against all odds, Morpheus manages to make it look almost charming.

Morpheus stares at him, brow arched. Hob has to close his mouth from where it had dropped. “I-you…”

“It is still hideous, but.” Morpheus walks up to Hob and caresses the side of Hob’s face. “You crafted it with your own hands. From the lives and stories of other clothes. You have breathed new life into it. And though it is monstrous in appearance, even nightmares have their purposes. As must this sweater, even if I do not see it. You do. And that is what matters.”

Hob could feel the wet heat of tears in the corners of his eyes. He looks up, batting away the wetness and laughs.

“Christ, Morpheus. Are you really making me cry over an ugly sweater?”

“Well, it is tear-worthy. I am sure it would haunt the minds of every fashion forward person on this planet and next.” Morpheus says with a smirk.

Hob holds Morpheus’s face in his hands and presses a kiss to the tip of his nose then to his lips. “God, I love you.”

“And I love you.” Morpheus nuzzles into the palm of Hob’s hand before sighing. “We should depart now. The less time spent on this, the better.”

“Aww, it’s not growing on you after that heartfelt speech?”

“No.”

Hob laughs. “Worth a shot. Maybe you’ll enjoy it more when we win that contest, ey?”

Morpheus hums. “Unlikely.” Grabbing the plate of cookies, Morpheus holds them in one hand and grabs Hob’s hand in the other. The two, paired in equally hideous sweaters, make their way out of the flat and towards the university where the faculty Christmas party was taking place.

To no one’s surprise, they won, both the individual as well as the couple’s Ugly Sweater Contest. Much to Morpheus’s chagrin, there had only been two others in the entire faculty who had participated. A picture of them still lives on the faculty photo board in the break room, Hob’s arm slung over Morpheus’s shoulders, beaming at the camera with Morpheus looking at Hob like he’s ready to commit murder. Hob might never be able to get Morpheus to put anything like it on again, but he’ll always cherish the memory of his old stranger, his friend, his lover, dressed in the epitome of a “no shits given” sweater and still managing a smile.

And when the next year came around and Hob created a new, truly awful sweater, the pair made their way to the party, Hob in his new sweater, and Morpheus in the tinsel and pom pom reindeer monstrosity of the year before.

[khutao]

. tears .

. furina x neuvillette . 1.4k words . hurt/comfort .

Furina came back to her little cottage, a bunch of bags in her arms. She’d picked up a bunch of groceries, and a few other things from the store. Namely, tinsel and ornaments and cookie dough and little string lights that could change colors. It was her first time celebrating Christmas on her own. Every year she would give a huge speech and a tree would be lit, and it would be bright and glorious. The whole of Fontaine looked forward to what Furina de Fontaine had to say that would bring them good cheer. But this year was different. There was no huge speech. There was no giant spectacle. There was no Furina at the forefront. She was by herself in her house, no one to join her except some stray cats that popped by every now and then.

She started hanging the decorations, standing on a little stool to reach the places that were too high for her. Humming a little tune, she couldn’t stop the memories of the person she’d missed more than anyone else. Neuvillette, the hydro dragon, had been the object of her affections for centuries. Every Christmas he’d stand next to her as she gave her speech. He applauded her with everyone else, with that inscrutable look on his face he always had. He walked back with her to the opera house and watched a Christmas ballet with her during the season. Things were amazing with him around, and she hadn’t even realized it until it was gone.“Hydro dragon, hydro dragon… don’t cry,” Furina sang to herself, staring up at the ceiling. Hot tears spilled from her eyes and down her face. She sniffled, getting down off the stool and sitting on her couch. “I miss you. I really miss you…”

The human experience she was created to have included love. And with love came heartbreak. No normal human was free of these perils, so why should she be?

After throwing a little pity party for herself, Furina forced herself to finish decorating and took a deep breath. She took a step back and took in the silver and gold wonderland she’d created for herself. Things actually looked pretty great! Sparkling ornaments hanging from a mini fir tree, mini snowmen and reindeer scattered around on tables, quilts and blankets sprinkled with candy cane pictures. She had an eye for these things, of course! No wonder her house looked amazing!

After decorating, of course, was baking! With the excitement of a small child, she unpacked her supplies, including premade cookie dough (it was a lot easier that way, and came with cookie dough to eat!). She hummed traditional Christmas songs as she worked, but her mind quickly drifted again.

How was she going to eat these all by herself?

No one loved sweets more than her, but even still… She knew better than anyone they tasted better with someone to share them with. “Not again,” she whispered, trying not to cry again. She could see it in her head: Offering her plate of cookies to Neuvillette, to which he would smile and kiss the top of her head and hug her, and say ‘These cookies are simply divine.’” Oh, the fantasies Furina would dream up when it was just her. She crafted wonderful, comforting fantasies of herself and the one she loved, and it made life just so much better. Her fantasies carried her through the day. If she didn’t have her fantasies, she had nothing.

Furina pulled her desserts out of the oven and put them on the windowsill to cool. Then she’d put them in a little jar and eat them throughout the week, she’d decided.

Next was to wrap presents. Little trinkets she’d picked up for the people of Fontaine, as well as something extra special she so truly wanted to give to her dragon. So she didn’t have to think about it, she wrapped it first. That way she didn’t have to remind herself of anything.

Knock knock.

“Eh?” She looked up at the door. “Who could that be? It’s so late.” Furina stood up and smoothed her shorts, prepping herself to open it. But nothing could have prepared her for who was on the other side. Standing before her, tall and proud, was none other than Neuvillette, with a small wrapped gift in his hand.

They stared in silence for a moment, neither daring to pull their gaze away from the other. Furina felt her heart swelling, and the tears pricked her eyes yet again.

“I can go,” Neuvillette offered, sensing the water threatening to spill from Furina’s face. “I am sorry for showing up unannounced. I just wanted-”

“No! No, don’t go! C-come in, it’s cold outside.” Furina ushered him in, attempting to control her trembling hands. “Can I get you something to drink? I have coffee and hot chocolate and tea and water and- Anything you want!”

“You know what I like.”

“Right.” Furina laughed in spite of herself and went to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water. “Is… Is everything okay? Why did you come here? I mean…”

Neuvillette looked up. “Do I need a reason to come here? Well… I suppose I do have one,” he mumbled, putting the little gift on the table. “To give you this. I’m sorry I don’t come around more often.”

Furina’s breath hitched in her chest. She looked at the gift, finely wrapped in dark blue paper and adorned with a silver bow. It was small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, and even more so in Neuvillette’s hand. “It’s for me…?”

“Of course it’s for you. Christmas just isn’t the same in the opera house without you.” Neuvillette swallowed and looked around Furina’s house. “These are beautiful.”

“You think so?”

“They’re very you. You… have an eye for these things.”

They stood in silence again, a light pink dusting each of their faces. The silence hung in the air and seemed to amplify the sounds of their beating hearts.

“I-I actually have something for you too! If you’ll believe that,” Furina eventually offered. She scurried over to the pile of gifts and picked out the one wrapped item. “I picked it out a few weeks ago! It… Reminded me of you.” She handed it over to him, not meeting his eyes.

“Oh. Thank you.” Neuvillette broke into the smallest grin and handed Furina her gift. “Why don’t we open them at the same time?”

“Good idea! Okay, on the count of three. One, two, three!”

The Iudex and former archon removed the paper from each of their items. Furina opened the box hers was in and gasped, nearly dropping the whole thing. She picked it up and inspected it - A blue diamond in the shape of a water droplet on a silver chain. The diamond had a lining of white - presumably more silver. She trembled and felt her heart pound out of her chest. “Neuvi…” she started, unable to stop herself this time. She lunged forward and hugged him, burying her face in his chest. “It’s beautiful! It’s so beautiful! It- it looks like you! It’s so nice! Thank you so much, Neuvi! Thank you, thank you! I’m sorry my gift isn’t nearly as good!!”

“What are you talking about? I love mine. What could be more indicative of what I love than this?” Neuvillette hugged Furina tightly and rested his chin on her head. In his hand was a snowglobe, depicting the opera house surrounded by little Melusines. They were playing in the snow and wore little snow coats. A yuletide wonderland, in the palm of Neuvillete’s hand.

“Although, perhaps there is something more indicative of what I love.” Neuvillette gently rubbed Furina’s back and planted a kiss on her head. “Forgive me, mademoiselle, but… I missed you dearly. I hope we can spend a little Christmas together…”

Furina looked up, completely flushed but grinning. Her tear-stained cheeks and her puffy eyes stronger than ever before. But there was something just different about tears born out of joy. She sniffled. “I was just thinking the same thing.” She got on her toes and kissed Neuvillette’s cheek. “Say, Neuvi?”

“Mmn?”

“Do you want any cookies?”

[mimiminimal]

Breast jewellery / Trapelakucha. Mapuche; Araucanía (Chile), 1897.  Silver. 

Breast ornament for women with six plates. Very simply worked, without engravings or other decoration. The Mapuche distinguish ornaments according to their use. There are pieces of jewellery that are worn for political events such as meetings of the communities of different territories. The village chiefs (lonkos), the spokesmen (werkén) or their wives, for example, wear this jewellery. Even their horses are adorned with it. Philosophical ornaments, on the other hand, are worn by shamans or shamanesses or by participants who accompany the shamans and shamanesses during rituals. The lowest plate, represents the meli witran mapu (the four forces of the earth).

Linden Museum Stuttgart

[yourcoffeeguru]

Holy Sacred Family Silver Plated on Wood Plaque w Stand Piex Made ITALY // swtradepost - shop

[a-song-of-art-and-fire]

Ser Loras Tyrell, Lord Commander of the Rainbow Guard

"I was one of King Renly's chosen seven. With his own hands, he cloaked me with the striped silk of the Rainbow Guard."

The last of our rainbow squad, and the most rainbow of all! The rainbow patterned armour was something I went back and forth on, almost didn't do... and I'm so glad I did, I love how it looks. It's a bit gaudy and gauche, but the nobility of ASOIAF aren't known for doing things by halves. I suppose technically Loras should be the Indigo knight, but it feels like the LC would have an extra special role, and neatly sidesteps the "indigo and blue look very similar" issue. I also like to think each of the Seven is associated with a colour and Indigo might be the Stranger, and we know there's a habit of leaving the Stranger out.

All the issues I've mentioned of getting coloured inks to apply to metallics went a thousand-fold here as all the ornamentation is raised, presumably to make it easy to pick out with detailing or highlight with shadows... which makes it almost impossible to get ink to apply without running off onto the silver plate. I have only myself to blame. With a lot lot LOT of care and touch-ups, I love how it turned out.

I also especially love the sword with the Tyrell rose - I love to think of Mace being the long-suffering indulgent father going "oh you want ANOTHER ultra bling suit of armour? You couldn't use the one with the jousting scene engraved on the chest we just bought... oh right, that's only for jousting... it has to be rainbow?" and deciding a green and yellow rose sword is technically in the rainbow theme but can also be re-used more than once.

[arthistoryanimalia]

#FishFriday:

Plate with Emblematic Pairs of Fish (mahi-ye maratib)

India, Uttar Pradesh, Awadh, Lucknow, c. 1880

Bidri-ware (zarbuland technique)

D: 6 3/4 in. (17.15 cm); H: 1/2 in. (1.27 cm)

LACMA M.2001.100

“The primary decoration on this bidri ware plate is a pair of fish arranged head-to-head with their curved bodies forming a circle. Known as the mahi-ye maratib (Fish of Dignity), it was an insignia of exalted rank that the Mughal emperors and earlier Middle Eastern rulers bestowed upon their subordinate chieftains in recognition of valorous military service. In 1720 it was awarded by the Mughal Emperor Muhammad Shah (r. 1719–48) to Saadat Khan, the Governor of Akbarabad (Agra), who soon became the Governor of Lucknow from 1722 to 1739. The fish emblem subsequently served as the dynastic leitmotif of the Lucknow court and was frequently displayed on its decorative arts and palatial architecture. It was represented in state processions as a fish and two gilt globes carried on a standard. A heraldic form consisting of a pair of honorific mermaids bearing a crown and flanking a shield was used as the personal coat of arms of King Wajid Ali Shah (r. 1847–56). Bidri ware is made from a predominately zinc-based alloy, along with smaller amounts of lead, copper, and/or tin. The ornamentation of bidri ware from the Deccan and eastern India typically features inlaid silver sheet or wire designs, which are rendered flush and burnished. Lucknow bidri ware is distinctive in that it is often executed in bold relief (zarbuland technique), in which the inlaid metals are allowed to remain protruding slightly above the surface and are then adorned with sheet overlay and incised motifs.”

[axieta]

Hungry eyes

Henry Winter x reader

Chapter 5

| What had passed in a blink of an eye |

That week I had spent at her place.

‘You’re quick’

She had said as soon as I knocked on the door of her apartment on that first day, a cloudy Tuesday.

‘I’m sick.’

I joked terribly mimicking a clogged nose, and she snorted.

Her flat wasn’t very lofty, cramped rather, but it wasn’t a quality with which it was built. Rather, the lack of space came from all the trinkets, books, cups and mugs, clothes, makeshift cigarette trays (I tell you, all those mugs, plates, cake stands and fruit bowls, were covered in cigarette ash and millions of tiny, orange butts) and many a plants scattered all over it. There was a convergence of all the kinds of alcohol bottles intermingling with piles of books and papers sticking out their flimsy, disheveled carcasses in each and every corner. Some of the bottles empty, some of them full, waiting for an opportunity to be opened. The moment I entered the crowded space I knew that I was walking into a smoker’s home, not only for the ash and the butts but also the sheer vail of silvery cigarette smoke blurring the contours of the space before me. In the morning light its tendrils curled up and untangled, white-rimmed swirls created fantastical shapes in the air, as if it was a living, breathing creature with a strange, artistic mind of its own. Ever present, the smoke followed her and her slowly burning cigarette like an importunate roommate. Everywhere she went, it appeared instantaneously, as she seemed to be smoking even more now, that she was confined to her flat. To be fair, I had not seen her light a single cigarette during that week and I wondered wether or not she had a special, everlasting ciggy on her hands. Truly what a mystical and magical trinket would that be. Once my eyes adjusted enough to those foggy conditions, I could see the flat in its full glory. And it was a really nice flat. Right opposite the entry, a huge floor-length window gaped at me from a frame of golden setting of ornaments. Like the mouth of Leviathan, sharp with sculpted leaves and vines it opened the flat to the grey world outside, sill damp with the morning mist. Before it sat a black, leather armchair with its feet resting put up and a small table on one leg, obviously holding a dangerously heavy looking stack of books and an ashtray. This time a full-fledged crystal cigarette holder and not any cheap substitute. In the middle of the room stood a hefty one-piece table, dividing the space. To its left opened the kitchen annex, strangely populated with plants, and without any kitchenware in sight. Everywhere where I looked, and so on the shelves, the counter, floor and even the sink, plants unraveled their green leaves, bowed their heads and climbed upwards, towards the ceiling, to hug the small iron chandelier with their veiny arms. I wondered how did she even managed to meander amongst this miniature jungle, but I figured that if anyone could do it, it would be her. And to the right, a big fireplace took the better part of the space left, disproportionally big to the size of the flat. Over it, supported on a stone shelf a giant reproduction of Philoxenus’ mosaic stood, framed in much tamer, silver mount. From it, the fierce Alexander on Bucephalus chased after Darius and his chariot. That classical accent felt somehow out of place, even more so when my gaze fell down onto the art deco set consisting of two slick, leather chairs, a couch and a glass coffee table, per usual littered with papers and other trinkets. Next to the fireplace loomed a dark, oak door, shut closed, concealing what I could only assume was a bedroom. I had never seen the door open, nor did I catch a glimpse of what hid behind it. Never had the chance to get close enough to her. For a second, months after that week I thought she might open herself to me completely, seal the deal of our forged friendship. And maybe she too was considering it, but then the whole Bunny affair took place and any trace of connection any of us might’ve had with her dissolved to a minimum. After that she became a whole different person, terribly distant from the girl I got to know in that smoked-up room. Overall, however disorderly, the flat felt somehow cozy. Homely, very her.

As I went in, I didn’t really know what to do with myself. I had no present for her ( I heard that it is only polite to bring a present when you pay someone a call for the first time, but I was so stressed with the visit it had completely evaporated from my mind) and so I just swirled my empty hands around, looking for something to say. Because what was there to say? I went there to maybe gain some insight on the tragic drama that was apparently at play between her and Henry, but it felt rather tone death to jump into that right off the bat. So I stayed, as I was in her hallway, a bit dismayed and disoriented. She, always the empath, must’ve felt my discomfort or maybe she just read the clear apprehension from my daft body language and so, to lift my spirits a little, she sent me a warm, reassuring smile.

‘Why don’t you sit down, huh Richard my dear? Have you eaten yet?’

‘No, no I haven’t I’m afraid.’

I said, truthfully. As I had already mentioned, the visit cost me so much stress that I couldn’t think of anything of substance, least to say breakfast.

‘Then would you like me to cook you up something? Scrambled eggs? Please don’t say no, I already promised I would whip up something for you.’

I nodded, thankful for her light tone and the slight, crooked smile that she kept on her lips. Weirdly, in that apartment she seemed drastically different from the ‘her’ from the outside. Somehow more delicate, less wild and more… well warm. The spark in her eye had not diminished, but rather turned into something more inviting, cosy. Maybe it was the effect her letter had on me, even so, it seemed as if she had shed the tough exterior she wore while in Hampden and revealed her soft belly to me. Truly surreal to think that, I know, but what else could I think while faced with a completely new version of her?

Her aura, usually a raging fire, sparkling with terrifying orange, screaming with fearsome yellow had simmered down to idle warm tones of embers gleaming with shy and affectionate red.

Sitting at the cluttered table I swiped some of the crumbs off of it and watched as she put on an apron and swiftly zigzagged around the kitchen. A pan here, a cutlery set there. She opened and closed cupboards faster then the speed of light. I could not keep up with her, even though I was simply spying her with my eyes and she was doing all the work. She moved with an effortless grace, because of course she did, and hummed softly, the same melody she did that night at Francis’s summer house. There was something familiar and light in the way she roamed about the kitchen. Not in that tacky, trite way some of the people try to show off their skills in kitchen, flaunting around what they had learned in curses and what-not’s, but in true, pure, kind manner. Everything she did seemed not like a performance but rather like a favor to a friend or an unexpected gift. It was a pleasant experience, seeing her in such a motherly light. Because that was her aura at that moment. Bright, soft and motherly. All that laid encapsules in those precise, rapid movements, from the way she lit the gas stove, to the way she twirled her hair around her finger as she tossed around the egg yolks on the frying pan reminded me of Vesta, goddess of domestic and civic hearth. With her own, gas-lit fire serving as her sacred attribute.

‘So what do you do for fun around here? Expect for reading and not cleaning your flat of course?’

She giggled, breaking another egg on the edge of a pan.

‘Not much I’m afraid. How hard do you want them fried?’

‘Not at all. And egg soup is what I fancy the most.’

Another laugh.

‘Coffee?’

‘Hmmm.’

Not so long after that quick exchange, she set a plate with the eggs, tomatoes and a slice of bread as well as a glass coffee pot and a mug before me.

‘My god, you really made a soup out of it, didn’t you!’

‘You want a soup, you get a soup.’

I huffed a laugh and she puffed at her cigarette. For a second it was quiet, the silence only disrupted by my fork scraping the ceramic plate.

My eyes wandered onto her hand squeezing her own cup with the dark beverage in it and I wondered if she was not going to eat herself.

‘Cigarettes and coffee, remember?’ God damn it, she must’ve been an oracle of some sort, seeing as easily she guessed what was going through my mind all the time. She shook her hand as if to illustrate her point. ‘I don’t need nothing else.’

‘Then what about that one? Are you going to drink it?’

I pointed at a mug that had my attention since I crossed the threshold as, and I already knew that from the letter, it bore a particular connection to a special someone I simply itched to know about some more.

‘Oh that ol’ thing? Well it’s waiting for its proprietary.’

Suddenly the wild grin was back on her lips and the mischievous spark shined in her eye. Her face elongated with poisonous fiendish intention. A true vixen if I’ve ever seen one.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. I’m going to throw it right in his face, next time he comes around.’

‘No you won’t.’

She slammed her hand on the table and the towers of books around us shook in their foundations as she let out a nasal laugh. It was pure and loud and contagious.

‘No I won’t!’

And we both spiraled into a fit of laughter. There was something nice, fulfilling about a slight mockery like that. I don’t know at whom we were laughing at so hard, at her, or at Henry, but either way it felt good to let loose a little. Usually, when I was with them, the whole pack of the classical course, I felt terribly on edge. As if I as much as sneezed in their presence, it would be seen as a horrible faux pas, a terrible transgression. But with her? With that newfound aura of delightful familiarity she brought in with her brilliant smile and those bright eyes, for the first time in months I felt like bird in flight. Like I would soar high into the skies on the winds of her pearly laughter.

‘Oh you’re in so deep, my Diogenes!’

She threw head back, snorting once more and I could feel the air coming into my lungs.

‘Eat up Richard, quick, quick! I have something to show you!’

When I finished I wanted to put the plate in the sink, clean it a little, but she just waved me off and tugged at my sleeve to follow her. She took me to one of the stacks of books and crouching beside it, she forced me to as well. Her sharp, neat fingernail slid across the many torn backs of the books, leaving a quiet tr-tr-tr sound behind, like a chirping of a beaver gnawing on a piece of wood, until she stopped at an uncharacteristically tidy, blue and silver, hard cover.

‘Do you know what that might be, my Crates?’

I shook my head, no, wide smirk spreading across my face at the new nickname. Now I was her apprentice.

‘Erotic poems, Rhetorical pleasure.’

Oh! What a devil woman! The smirk she gave me- the toothy, sunny smile full of that wonderful deviltry. How pleased with herself did she look! How beautiful did she seem in that prurient happiness of hers!

We were crouching so close to each other that our arms brushed and breaths mixed. I could smell that dreamy scent of hers and feel the unruly strands off hair she had now in a tight curl washing over my shoulder. She had a very disobedient type of hair, a few strands fell over her forehead giving her a disheveled look of a romantic poet, think Byron or Shelly. I wanted to push those strands from her face, behind her ear, but I didn’t find the courage in myself to do so.

‘Well, come on, don’t just flaunt that before my face, recite something for goodness sake!’

With a swift tug, she pulled the book from beneath all the others, sending the magnificent tower to the ground. A terrible, deafening rumble resounded in the quiet space, akin to a dragon’s roar and I jumped surprised, falling onto my arse. It hurt like hell, I must’ve hit my backbone, but my hurt did not last long, as she jumped over me with a fiendish yelp and onto the armchair. With one leg tossed over the headrest, and the other supporting her stance on the wobbly piece of furniture she smacked the book open on a random page.

‘Cana Fides et Vesta, Remo cum fratre Quirinus jura dabunt; dire ferro et compagibus artis claudentur Belli portae; Furor impius intus saeva sedens super arma et centum vinctus anis post tergum nodis fremet horridus ore cruento.’

Her voice was strong, deep and loud, perfect for recitation. Fire filled it with each and every word as she screamed the chant of foretold justice into the air above me. And as I watched her squinted eyes and pursed lips I thought the cigarette fumes started to get to me, because in my head she was glowing. Shining with unalloyed, heavenly smoulder that beamed from her eyes and came off her skin in waves. Sweet with the melody of her chant, illuminated with the grey light beaming from the window behind her she presented herself as a frightfully enchanting creature of light and mist. With her head tossed back, hair swaying softly as she nodded to the rhythm, teeth bare and r’s prominent on her tongue, a true Roman goddess emerged from deep within her, manifesting in that blinding, fascinating glow.

She was heaving, her chest coming up and down in utter and total perdition, her gaze directed upwards as if sending the residuals of her voice up, into heavens. A priestess of Forum Romanum.

I clapped, as she finished her verse and in turn got rewarded with yet another toothy grin.

‘One more?’

‘Yes please!’

One more turned into two, then three, four and five and before I realised it I was pulling out a cork out of the third vine bottle of the evening, swaying off the headrest of the art deco coach, screaming on top of my lungs, trying to shout over her.

‘No! It’s not salutam but salutem! Have you learned nothing in those classes you take?’

‘Oh I much prefer to recite in my mother language than in those dead tongues, you can cut me some slack!’

She slurred now, having far more to drink than I did, and I myself wasn’t feeling so sure about my clear mind.

‘Then say something in English.’

She frowned, suddenly offended.

‘Why would you, in all that is holly, assume that English is my native language?’

She pulled off the couch and stood before me in all her disheveled, alcoholic glory. Mars gracing her reddened face.

‘Is it not?’ I asked fearfully, my own voice trembling slightly.

Suddenly a bright smile appeared on her lips lighting up that cloudy expression she bore just seconds before and she snorted. Once again I have fallen victim to yet another of her silly pranks.

‘Now, get ready for I shan’t repeat myself.’

Her tone turned strict and demanding all of a sudden, still I could see a glimpse of humor in her eyes. God, how expressive and lively those eye were. I could bet my own left arm, that even after her death they would gleam at anyone brave enough to look into them, living a life of their own.

‘I’m all ears.’

She cleared her throat, straightened her back and lifted her head up, clearly preparing herself for a great epic. The air stilled around her, silence broken only by the crashing of the logs happily burning in the fire place. Even the silver cigarette smoke around us halted in its fantastical swirls as if to stop and listen to whatever great verse she had prepared.

And in that sublime atmosphere, those words fell onto my ears:

‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad.’

And then my roar followed. I could not help myself, by all that is holy, I couldn’t! The air came out straight out of my lungs, pushed out by an invisible weight and stroke my vocal cords in my throat. A strained wheeze of my laugh scratched my very being.

‘Is this funny to you, Richard Papen?!’

If it was anyone else screaming at me like that I would scram in fright, but it was her. Screaming with a slight note of amusement quaking in the back of her throat, she did not sound threatening at all, so I just snorted away.

‘No, no how could it? By all means continue!’

‘Fine. Fine!- but now listen! This is my favorite lyric of all time.’

‘Go on. The floor is yours.’

Once again, she positioned herself properly, seeing as that particular pose- stiff and serious was the only one in which she could recite Larkin.

‘From the top! They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had and add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn by fools in old-style hats and coats, who half the time were soppy-stern and half at one another’s throats.’

Suddenly all the color drained from her face and her eyes turned cold, motionless, unseeing. Ghostly shadow covered her whole form and as the words left her mouth she pulled further and further away. Her voice turned scary, gravel and not so motherly.

‘Man hands on misery to man.’ Her teeth shined between her reddened lips, the only splash of color in her otherwise insipid face. ‘It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, and don’t have any kids yourself.’

This time I did not clap. Nor did I laugh. Looking at her I felt an unpleasant dryness overtaking my throat.

‘Do you… do you believe that?’

Her sharp gaze took my whole frame in. Suddenly I felt awfully small.

‘Do I? I suppose yes.’

I swallowed, hard.

‘And did your parents…?’

‘Immensely.’

The temperature dropped drastically in the room. I could feel the cold needles of hoarfrost freezing inside my lungs despite the fire raging in the hearth mere inches from me.

‘And you never wish to have kids?’

She must’ve felt the cold as well, she had to, because as soon as that sentence had left my mouth she tossed her head back and rushed to the raging heath, placing her hands on the shelf above, her back turned to me, put up and rigid.

‘Never ever.’

‘Even with Henry.’

Dry snort resonated off the dark stone of the fireplace, so different from her delightful giggle I got so accustomed in span of a few hours.

‘Sooner the sky will meet the earth and the sun will set in the west than I will ever have the gruesome though of bearing his kids grace my mind.’

‘Are you so sure about that?’

‘Positively. You cannot turn vinegar into jam. And you most certainly cannot consume it on its own.’

And before I could react, she looked at me over her shoulder, the orange beaming from the fireplace framing her face with gold, trembling light. And I think if I had not set eyes on her before she eyed me, I should have been struck dumb.

‘That’s a great analogy. He’s sour like vinegar, don’t you think?’

I shook my head yes, mute, speechless, despite winning the wolf eye agility contest as her sharp teeth glistened in yet another bone-chilling smile.

And that was our first day.

On the second day, I must admit I felt a little bit guilty about not presenting her with anything the previous day, so I troubled myself with dragging my portable record player as well as a few of my favorite records along with me, to make her up for that. I kind of feared her reaction, after all the record player was one of the, as she called them, devilish modernities of a man. But, no! She surprised me once again. I watched her watch the machine witch child-like glee and big eyes, following intently the rapid spin of the record and gazing incredulously at the knob with which I regulated the volume.

‘It is a positively wonderful thing, this record player of yours.’

She liked all the records, but most of all the Speak and Spell recording. What a strange thing it was to see a creature of light such as herself crouching over that crappy record player, nodding and bouncing on the balls of her feet, squealing with delight at every electronic note coming off the machine. She must’ve rewinded that particular record at least a dozen times, and at the end of that psychedelic session I was sure that every lyrics from every song written on it was engraved into my mind. So much so, that I felt positive that if someone came to me in the middle of the night and put a gun to my head demanding me to sing, let’s say New life, I would be, by god, I would be able to do it.

In the span of that night her lips curved up many times more than I had ever seen them. And they shined like freshly picked July cherries. We had not spoken about Henry at all that night and I suppose that was why she seemed so carefree and cheerful. It has come to my attention then that the slighted mention of his person could sour her mood like no other thing, in no time.

At the very end, when the sky behind the window started to turn from black to indigo and then to light grey, and I felt I had to go home, to at least wash myself off and sober up a little bit (she was handing me generous, copious amounts of vodka on that eve, clearly extremely pleased with the novelty I presented her with) she asked me to leave the record player behind, along with the Depeche Mode record. One look into those big eyes of hers and I knew I could not refuse. However, as I was leaving, I decided to not give up so easily.

‘I shall leave the record along with the player in your capable hands my Diogenes. On one condition.’

‘And what that might be, my Crates?’

‘We will clean tomorrow, first thing in the morning. I cannot stand seeing you vegetating in all that filth.’

She only snorted and waved me off.

‘Whatever you say.’

I had gone to my room in Hampden, washed off and laid down. But I could not stay put for long as my mind was being plagued by the images of her, deeply burned inside of my mind. When I closed my eyes, there she was, shining on the inner surface of my eyelids, and when I opened them, her face loomed over me, as if painted on my ceiling. She awakened something in me during those two mellow eves. Even though we did not do much, only jested and wasted our time on reading and listening to music, I found myself longing for her presence. For the mess that diminished the size of her flat, the dusty books she pulled out from their piles just to read a passage for me and toss them on other pile without much thought, for the reproduction of the mosaic hanging idly above the hearth. I was simply incapable to lead my life as I lead it up to that point, I was not able to sleep or rest properly for she, probably without even the intent to do so, had turned my whole life on its head. It scared me profoundly, because what if I was just like one of her books? Surely, for now entertaining to her, maybe even fascinating to some degree. But what if she got bored with me and tossed me aside just like she did to all the other volumes at her place? I don’t think I could stand that state of suspension. The dust covering my back, emptiness left in my soul by the absence of her laugh and the indentation in the shape of her watchful gaze. I rose from my bed, not getting much sleep, and rushed right to her doorstep. I could not bear the thought of being discarded by her and felt I had to squeeze dry every moment we had to share. This time I had brought paper and a fountain pen with me. I don’t know why.

I had not expected her to open the doors the way she did. Her impecable, slender hands clad in yellow rubber gloves, apron covering her midsection and a bandana securing her hair on her forehead. Domesticity taking root in her as she waved a duster at me, inviting me in, and smiled widely. She was cleaning… I did not expect her to take my throw-away comment from the night before seriously, rather I anticipated to see her that morning sipping on her coffee, with a cigarette in her mouth and a book in hand not bothered by it at all. And yet, there she was. It made my heart swell with pride at that clear indication that my words meant something to her.

‘You’ve got mail.’

‘I know. It’s from Francis. Leave it in the box.’

I stepped into the flat, fully, and noticed, not without a trace of solemn nostalgia, that the Leviathan window was wide-open, and the air around me was clear. No trace of the silvery tendrils of smoke I’ve gotten so used to.

‘Don’t you want to know what he has to say to you?’

The room before me was the same and yet completely different. Now the stacks of books and papers were neatly towering against the wall adjacent to me. No plates or bowls in sight and as far as I could see into the jungle kitchen, all of the dishes rested idly on the dryer, shining with polish. The make-shift ashtrays disappeared as well, and now the only sign that a smoker lived in this space was the crystal one resting in the middle of the one-piece table, right next to a number of bottles, clearly organised by hight, from biggest to smallest. I took the room in like a shock to my system. It was brighter, loftier and somehow colder. To be honest I kind of regretted my decision about suggesting the clean-up to her, as now her flat seemed a little bit expressionless, as if the havoc and disorder that ruled it up to this point contained a piece of her in it. But I concealed my disappointment and set my papers on the table.

‘Oh, I already know. He’s probably asking me if I want company.’

‘And do you not?’

‘Nah, I’ve got plenty.’

She waved her hand, scooping some dust from one of the sink plants and I giggled, warm feeling spreading across my chest.

‘You need help with anything?’

I liked to watch her like that. Unbothered by my presence, content with it even, as she went on about her things, chatting to me above her shoulder, as if my presence was just as normal and natural as the sky was blue.

‘Richard you wouldn’t have a clue where to put all of my dirty stuff even if you wanted to. Let me do my own thing.’

‘Then what should I do? I wouldn’t want to disturb you in any way.’

She laughed as if I just told a joke.

‘Why don’t you entertain me, huh?’

‘How?’

She filled a green watering can and slowly started to tip it over various plants. Some of them got more, some less water and I couldn’t figure out what was the system to her method.

‘Tell me a story.’

‘A story?’

‘Hmmm. Think of something. Fun. Sad. Grotesque. I would like to hear what you can come up with.’

I laughed, nervously. As I said before, she was a great writer, telling and scribing stories came to her naturally, even on spot, in forms of her little white lies. But me? I was sure I couldn’t muster anything up, especially under the pressure of needing to satisfy her.

‘I’m afraid that won’t fly. I’m not a great story teller.’

‘Sure you are. You’re a great observer. I constantly see you lurking around judging people. A watcher that’s what you are. I’m sure you can forge some of your peeping Tom experiences into something entertaining.’

‘I don’t lurk. And I don’t peep.’

‘Oh yes, and a magnificent liar. That too.’

I felt blood rush into my head as she said that. Deafening roar of my pulse in my ears made me sick to my stomach and hot with panic. Her gaze landed on me, sharp, intelligent, all-seeing.

‘Don’t think for a second Richard Papen that I haven’t seen through you.’

Sweat pulled under my collar as she pointed at my with her rubber-clad hand.

‘You’ve worn this shirt three times last week. With this exact sweater. And it’s not very neat. Faded and with a abrasion on you right sleeve. And threads are coming off your coat as we speak.’

I hid my hand under the table, numb with fear of her discovery. Fool. I was a fool for thinking I could carry on with my rich kid charade, especially right under her nose. How could I even think someone as sharp as her could ever let that slide?

‘No rich kid would ever allow themselves to roam about in clothes that are this fatigued. Sorry, but that’s true. Your not stock up enough, too swagger-less to deceive me, mister.’

I felt dizzy with nerves that pooled in the pit of my stomach. And she continued, with her back to me, carefully tending to her plants.

‘Don’t get me wrong, Richard….Why are you so pale? What is… Oh, god! I’m not going to tell anyone if that’s what you fear!’

I almost jumped at her sudden light tone.

‘You’re not?’

‘No! If that’s what you care about then no. You should already know that there is nothing that I admire more than a skilled liar. And there is no doubt to it. Not only are you a skilled liar but also daring. What a combination! Truly what a combination!’

I felt as if a stone was lifted off my chest as she laughed softly and came my way, light on her feet, as always and with a somewhat prideful grin on her face.

‘You posses the qualities of a great liar. And what goes with it- a great story teller. No tale is true back to back. Every writer knows to exaggerate a bit to make their stories more interesting. Lies are the same, except they lighten not your story, but your life.’

She patted my face in a reassuring gesture. I thought my heart had skipped a bit when she nodded with conviction as she stared right into my eyes.

‘I admire you, Richard. Ab imo pectore.’

She reassured me once again.

I could not tear myself away from her image. Intimidating in the situation of my exposure but also enthralling in the light of the praise she showered me with.

‘You’re a great liar.’

She repeated.

‘Takes one to know one.’

She giggled at my shy attempt at compliment and caressed my hair with her hand, like a mother does to her kids after comforting them. Her motherly side came back and suddenly I felt lighter than a feather, as no burden was now weighting me down. I was now bare before her. My soul and my lies, the complicated maze I’ve woven myself into seemed like a straight road, with no forkings or crossroads. And as it all fell from my shoulders and the knowledge that she already knew who I was and accepted it without a question, admired it even, seeped into me I started to feel somehow full and content. I relaxed my shoulders and sat further in my chair.

‘Come on Richard, don’t keep me waiting like that. Stop slumping around and tell me a story!’

Somehow, despite my identity already being out in the open, I wanted her to know more about me. To seize that comfort of being, of truly living as who I was and as I was and tell her all bout the things that rattled about my chest. So as she slowly came back into the kitchen and started putting all the dishes in their destined cupboards I opened my mouth and words fell from them in an unstoppable cascade. I told her about my childhood. About California and my dad’s gas station. About the TV I used to watch in my living room and my high school. I told her all about the med school and my distaste of it and then how I found about Hampden, through a pamphlet. How I was charmed by the photos in it, the atmosphere of mystery enchanted into paper and my longing for beauty. I told her about what I have been writing down in my journals, every fear, every insecurity or a splash of triumph, every dot of color that had fallen in my memory, she heard about. And she silently soaked in my words like a dry sponge thrown into water. She did not comment on any of it, not judged, only listened, commuting to her own rules of confessions she had laid before in her letter to me. Only when I got to telling her all about how I tricked dr. Roland into signing me a check for two hundred bucks, she sat next to me, face serious, lines around her mouth deep and eyes murky.

‘Those are not lies Richard, are they?’

I shook my head, no, suddenly insecure and filled with dread at her reaction. Had I said something inappropriate? Unbefitting? But she did not scorn me, or show any signs of disgust with my tiny, slimy self. She just took my hand in between her own palms, now bare and soft like silk. As she hung her head I saw something profoundly forlorn shining in her eyes, like an abysmal dark swirl of sadness.

‘Even though, it is a beautiful story. Moving.’

Her voice was small, almost too small to hear. But I did, and so I supported my head on hers, and for a second we rested like that, sinking in our silence, freezing off in the golden rays of sun outside.

‘I don’t know why I tell all those lies.’

I finally said. She looked up at me and I found nothing but understanding in her eyes.

‘Neither do I. But I must admit that I find a strange delight in doing so, can’t you say the same?’

‘Positively.’

‘And we are not hurting anyone with those lies, I think, for they only concern our reality, not anyone else’s.’

‘So it would seem.’

‘More than anything, by weaving those lies, we protect ourselves in the most basic way of all.’

My brows furrowed at that statement slightly, not understanding what she had on her mind. And once again that clever Pythia read my mind expertly, answering, before I could even utter ‘how so?’.

‘In words of Plato - A man can guard expertly whatever he can thieve expertly. Hence, if a man is expert in lying, he is also expert in detecting lies. By fabricating our truths we guard ourselves from being deceived by others.’

‘Is that true?’

‘Have you not seen how quickly I saw through you?’

‘Maybe. Maybe you’re right.’

I was struck dumb at her strange way of interpreting Republic, but at the same time I felt somehow reassured in my own ways by what she had said. Her soul, strangely akin to mine, sought any kind of justification for her compulsive behaviour as well. But that was the difference between me and her. While I sweated and trebled at the thought of being discovered, she had found what we both were looking for. And being a liar far more exquisite than myself, she also managed to convince herself of her own righteousness and in addiction, me. I liked her way of thinking. Her way with words. That slithery, cutthroat tongue of hers. And so everything that seeped through her mouth fell onto my very eager ears and I gorged it all up, avid for more.

‘I think I’m done with the cleaning for now. I hope you’re happy, now that you made me strip my flat of any trace of character.’

I laughed at her mocking tone. That as well I valued in her most highly. The ability to switch moods, like mask in ancient theatre.

‘I must say I’m quite content with this vapid state. At least I don’t faint from lack of oxygen the moment I step in here, so I think you did well enough. You may stop in your endeavours.’

She giggled, sending me a toothy smile.

‘How magnanimous of you.’

She looked up into the ceiling as if searching for the god or goddess she was chanting to before, now in clear search for patience and strength.

‘Although I can’t help but wonder… what are you going to with this one?’

Pulling myself from her grasp I pointed at the still untouched, half-empty mug with dark, murky coffee in it. Dark circle had already set above the liquid’s surface on the well, indicating the prolonged stay of the mug on the table.

‘You should clean it as well, or otherwise it’ll turn moldy.’

I reached for it with an intent to get rid of it for her, but her hand shot up, quicker than lightning and caught my wrist half way up to the dish.

‘No.’

Her voice was firm, packed with undeniable tension.

‘The cup stays.’

Unbreakable resolve shined in her eyes, fervent and terrifying. Terrifying not because of its intensity but because of the weight her words carried. Only then have I realised with how high regard did she consider Henry. Angry at him or not, he was her priority. No matter what did she say or thought about him, he should have always stayed in the forefront of her mind. Like the craters on the moon that shed their shadows onto its otherwise unsullied, white surface, he was there to stay, always on the pedestal, unmoved like the cup on the table. I thought that no matter how much value my words carried for her, his person alone, his existence, would outweigh it. And I wondered. Seeing how resisten to her charm did Henry seem, cold and uninterested in what she had been giving him on a silver platter, what I would jump at and gobble up at the first occasion if anyone was willing to offer it to me, was her own heart similar in any way to the moon? Reflective and pure in its silver glow, ready to bounce back any source of light, of warmth to guide throughout the darkest of nights, but at the same time solemn and forlorn. Suspended alone in the cold, dark space, always willing to give and to give back but never to take. Without any protection, silently accepting the damage Henry’s asteroids imprinted on it.

It was a sad, dark thought. One that in no capacity could ever fit her. But I saw it. In the low sway of her head, the furtive glance of hers and the uneasy flutter of her lashes. I saw it to be true. And I wanted it to go away. Most desperately, ardently I wanted the expression gone, exorcised from her catalogue of facial expressions for all the eternity. How could Henry stomach it? How could he be so cruel?

I turned my wrist in her grasp, most delicately and took her hands into mine, slowly and with caution as if I was gathering not flesh but water, careful not to spill them from my hold.

‘Why don’t we do something different then, huh, my Diogenes?’

I was never the one to comfort others. Never the one to be kind and open, to give advice. I preferred to stick to myself, hidden in the shadows, peeping, as she described it. I enjoyed being the watcher. But with her I found that the words and actions of comfort came naturally to me.

‘Brandy?’

‘This is Francis’.’

‘Well nothing tastes better that what’s not yours, don’t you agree? Finders, keepers.’

She puffed a laugh, still too strained for my liking so I continued.

‘Annexation of brandy! What do you say? Coup d’état! Brandy Anschluss!’

And then she laughed at my clownish antics fully, with her whole chest, mouth agape and one hand covering it. A breath of spring amongst all the gloomy talks of Winter.

‘Fine, Richard, fine! You had me at annexation!’

I eagerly pulled at the cork sealing the brandy and chugged directly from the bottle.

‘This is dangerously close to alcoholism, you know.’

Sha said as she tore the bottle from my hands and down a few generous gulps.

‘Not if we arrange to do something alongside the drinking.’

‘And what would you suggest?’

My gaze fell onto the stack of papers I had dragged with me.

‘Writing?’

‘Writing? While drunk?’

‘Write drunk, edit sober.’

‘Hemingway.’

‘Hemingway.’

She looked at the fountain pen, took it into her hands, as if weighting it, as she slowly went through the idea in her mind.

‘Come on. We can lie our wrists away till they won’t be able to move any longer. It’ll be fun.’

‘All right. But only in Latin!’

I sighed deeply, theatrically. I knew that she was going to say that, but what can one do in a situation like this? I nodded my head, yes.

And so we got into it. She scribing hastily, with rushed, generous gestures, me more conservatively, tightly with less expression and verve.

‘Put on the music.’

‘Depeche Mode?’

‘Sure.’

And with that, the sound of electronic music accompanying Dave Gahan’s deep, hypnotic voice and the scraping of pens on paper, hours passed. When the hour got late and the sun set it’s head behind the horizon, we started to time each other, who could write more, or a better limerick. She won of course, but I had no problem with that.

‘Nec meum respectet, ut ante, amorem, qui illius culpa cecidit velut prati ultimi flos, praetereunte postquam tactus aratro est.’

‘Cheat! Cheat! That’s not yours!’

‘Whatever Papen, the only thing that counts is that I could memorise it and you couldn’t!’

‘That’s no fair!’

‘Life’s not fair.’

But other than that one instant of tried treachery, she composed her own poems, beautiful, crescendoed with thunder and rain. I don’t think I had so much fun in many weeks, even if I did not excel at writing my own verses.

We got quite drunk, not only downing the whole bottle of Francis’s brandy, but also a bottle of scotch and three shots of vodka each. I never was a lightweight, but I must admit that when I got up from my chair after we finished with our literary game, my world swirled around me and blurred into a heavy shoal of colourful ink blots. Words jumped up from the many pages resting on the table and down onto the floor before my eyes, woven from green smoke and moonlight. Oh how beautiful the moonlight was that night! Mysterious, soft. The moon was full and when I looked up at it, through the wide-open Leviathan window I saw the craters on its surface. Tears welled up in my eyes as I felt her hands grabbing me by the collar and pulling up from the slithery floor. I did not even notice when I or how I had lost my balance, but I was very grateful for her assistance.

She asked me to stay the night, and I agreed. She gave me a blanket and took some of the pillows off her art deco couch, so I could lay comfortably.

That night I didn’t go back to Hampden, and she didn’t go to her room neither. She stayed with me, humouring my teary testimony about the poor moon. What a poor astral being, I said constantly, shaking my head, sure she understood my analogy without me even having to explain it to her. And she nodded her head, hummed as if she really did understand what I was trying to say. But I don’t think she did. Liars are like that, they see the lies and truths of all the people around them, but those concerning them. But I had no more energy to lay it all down before her, the hurt and sympathy I felt for her. How I saw her in the dark, cold embrace of Henry’s grasp on her and how it made me feel, ache for her. So I just stopped at incoherent sobbing about the satellite.

When I woke up next morning, to the slight chill shaking my back and the smell of pancakes teasing my nose I felt awful and spent.

‘Oh, thank gods, you’re up! I though you were dead!’

‘And you left me either way to rot on the couch?’

‘You know how I detest cleaning.’

I snorted while rubbing eye boggers from my face. Yes she seemed like a person who would let a body rot in her apartment, just so she wouldn’t inconvenience herself with calling an ambulance or cleaning it herself.

‘Want a pancake?’

‘Why do you even ask?’

For the next two days we mostly ate, drank copious amounts of alcohol that with which she was so generous, I started suspecting wasn’t hers (as I later got to know, most of it indeed belonged to Francis) and writing. Writing, writing, writing. Words, words, words. I truly found myself writing more, and more zealously than I ever had before. Maybe because it was light, not binding, not obliging. Just lies on paper. With her it all was like that, even the hangovers. Light, chased away by the mouth-watering smell of her cooking. She truly was a culinary genius and by the time she offered me lunch I stopped wondering why would Henry ever come over to her place. Even a stoic cold man such as himself must’ve enjoyed the atmosphere of idyll that reigned in that flat of hers.

On our last day together, Sunday, right after we finished eating lunch - Greek salad with vine (she couldn’t stop giggling about it! ‘What an absurd name! You really think they ate something like that? What an absurd!’) - somebody knocked on her door. Her eyes shot up to me, incredulous and somewhat weary. My heart pounded in my chest, jumped to my throat suffocating me. Was that the moment? The moment when Henry finally appeared? But as she came to the door and tilted them slightly ajar, a fiery main poked through the crack.

‘Hier kommt die Sonne!’

She must’ve been taken aback as much as I was, because as soon as Francis shouted those words, she jumped up, and then slid back, her whole body recoiling as if reading itself for an attack.

‘What? You’re not going to greet me properly mon bijou? I brought you my notes! Come one, give your darling a kiss.’

‘I’m sick, Francis.’

‘Yeah, sure you are!’

Francis squeezed himself unceremoniously into the flat, shaking himself off the rain water like a dog.

‘Come one, greet me like the good friend you are! I did bring you notes, after all. You know how much I hate making those!’

In one jump he got to her and sliding his arms around her waist, pinning her to his person. Papers he was holding, soaked dry from the rain swished loudly in the air as he did so.

‘Oh, stop it, you brute!’

And she hit him playfully, right in his chest. I shuffled uncomfortably in my chair, as for I did not know what to do with myself. I think that slight, hesitant movement was what got Francis’ attention onto me. His body grew taunt and his arms fell from her waist. His face froze in an expression of incredulous awe and dread mixed into a dismayed grimace.

‘Richard?’

‘Hi…’

A moment of silence.

‘You’re with Richard.’

His voice was flat, void of any emotion as he stared his eyes into my soul. His spectacles shined with a ghostly glow, reflecting the sun from behind my back.

‘Yes. Did I not tell you?’

Her voice, on the other hand was dripping with forced sweetness.

‘No. I didn’t get any response to my letter.’

‘Well, I am, so… notes?’

He handed her the tortured, mangled pieces of paper he was holding, fisting, absentmindedly, never tearing his gaze from me.

‘Drink?’

‘No, thanks I’m..’ He swallowed, hard. ‘I’ve got a date.’

And then he turned on his heel and rushed to the exit. He disappeared as quick as he came. The door shut loudly behind him.

‘Asshole…’

Silence filled the flat.

Despite its newfound tidiness, it once again turned excruciatingly small, almost to the point of suffocation.

‘Maybe I should go as well.’

‘No. Stay.’

‘I have a bad feeling about this.’

‘So do I.’

I watched as she stared blankly at the space Francis had occupied just seconds before and I couldn’t help the hurt feeling clawing at my heart.

‘Sure. We ought to finish the bottle either way.’

But the unnerving feeling of impending doom stayed, setting me with sweat.

Only around midnight, when nothing else really happened I finally stared relaxing. I convinced myself that Francis’ visit was strange, abrupt, but only because he himself was a strange person, and it hadn’t bore any traces of animosity. Vine helped in coming to that conclusion. Once again, when I could no longer sit straight or even talk I let her tuck me in on the couch. I revelled in the quiet cracking of the logs burning on the fireplace, the heath that came off of it. I watched her sit across from me, with a deep frown gracing her face as she read some old book, too heavy and big for her form and so covering it almost entirely from my greedy gaze. My eyelids felt heavy, so I closed them, only leaving a slight clearance, so I could spy the intricate dance of golden light on her skin. A delightful creature, she was. Half of her mingling with shadows that swirled in the flat, the other part of the flames coming off the hearth. She did not seem as careless as me, but I scored it to her focusing on the contents of the book. In all reality however, if I wasn’t as drunk as I was, I think I could see that her eyes were not moving, but staring blankly into one spot on a page that her fingers had not turned for quite some time.

‘Richard?’

I did not respond, my tongue deft, and eyes sore, dry. I felt as if I opened my mouth then, another monologue relative to the moon would slip out of me and in all my empathy I thought that this wasn’t what she needed then.

‘Are you asleep?’

Still, I kept silent. She nodded her head and closed the book. Somehow content with the silence, as she supported her head on the palm of her hand and stared into the flames.

‘Good.’

She sighed, deeply, mournfully and repeated.

‘Good.’

And when the silence became prominent, when it stretched impossibly around us and started eating at the flames I though I heard something. Faint and uncertain, but it was like branches knocking at a window moved by a soft breeze. One, two, three times. Then a pause, and silence. For a second I thought I only imagined the sound, but after a while I heard it again, this time louder, more confident. I didn’t move, paralizad by comfort and heath, but after the third knock like that she did. I thought that she had fallen asleep long before that, but the sharp snatch of her head, and her quick, precise movements as she got up from her sit pointed otherwise.

‘Who… they are going to wake him up.’

I heard her snark under her breath and I couldn’t help but smirk slightly. But that content grin faded from my face as she opened the door.

‘What are you doing here?’

She was wearing that furious frown of a warrior on her face, pure Mars, I could tell without even having to see her. It was all written down in her strained back, in the coldness of her words.

‘I came here to talk.’

And then I froze as well, because at the doorstep, hidden from me in the dark swayed the dry voice of Henry Winter.

[argentaur]

Prompt: Magic

“How do you feel?” He didn’t know how to answer that. Maybe I was expecting nothing to happen.

And nothing did happen.

“I still didn’t quite believe that it would work,” Remus told, barely a whisper, “until now.” Sirius came to join him on the edge of the bed. He didn’t close the door.

Remus didn’t look at him. His eyes were transfixed on the full moon hanging high on the sky, hanging like an ornamental silver plate in the frame of the window. He should have been used to the sight by now, having used Wolfsbane consistently for years, having spent the moons tucked away in their bedroom. Sometimes he’d turn away, avoiding the sight of the moon. Sometimes he’d stare at it.

Today, he kept the lights on and the curtains open. For the first time in forty years he was seeing the full moon through human eyes.

The shift of fabric finally made him tear his eyes away from the window that seemed like a painting on the wall, like an illusion. This is not real, his racing heart cries, I am dreaming, this is a lie. But his mind and body felt nauseatingly like his own.

Sirius had put his wand away and relaxed against the headboard. “You’re shaking,” he opened his arms and Remus wanted to throw himself into them. But then he stopped and his mind conjured the image of the wolf lunging at Sirius. For a second his heart stuttered and he couldn't tell where the line between the wolf and the man lied.

But the wolf is gone.

So he turned his back to the moon, careless to the fact that she held power over him for too many years, and leaned into Sirius’ embrace. First cautiously, then melting into it, tucking his head into the crook of his neck, arms wound around his body, and Remus subtly sniffed. He doesn’t know what he was looking for.

Remus was feeling cold in his skin. He used to run hot. He used to feel the static of Sirius’ magic on his skin and it’d make his hair stand on end. But he felt nothing.

He used to have an innate sense that seemed to just recognize Sirius in whichever form, wherever, like a hook pulling something deep within his belly. And he’d once taken it as proof of their twin souls, of a star forged in likeness of a perfect companion to his lonely moon. But perhaps it had been the wolf all along.

Remus was feeling the distinct lack of magic in his body, and he should have been relieved. To keep possession of his body. He could look at the moon without fearing to see a beastly countenance in the reflection of the window.

It had made a huge splash in the newspapers, a cure for lycanthropy. Getting rid of the affliction for good. The fact that lycanthropy entrenches itself deeply in the magic of the infected is barely explained to the layman. The fact that removal of the infection will almost certainly lead to the loss of most if not all of the infected’s magic is barely a footnote in the article.

Remus took it anyway.

Curing lycanthropy didn’t alleviate his isolation from the wizarding world. He barely counted as more than a Muggle now, but he couldn't sate the curiosity of Muggle-loving wizards and he would not be favored as someone learned in magic over someone who could actually perform the magic. Curing lycanthropy didn’t rid him of his ingrained fear of the moon. Curing lycanthropy was supposed to bring him peace, but now he just felt hollowed out.

At least he still had Sirius.

@wolfstarmicrofic (616 words)