#Hastily edited

[evilfloralfoolery]

Love Bites: Romantic Operatic Fuckery

Yep, this again lol.

The vampire coerces the werewolf into going to see a bit of Mozart. Sort of.

As a reminder: Vampires. Werewolves. They do what those creatures do.

____________________

“I listened to some of this,” Marrok says.  “I thought Mozart was all about some funny and happy shit. This ain’t that.” 

“Did you believe that I would not take you to something worthy of your ears?” Lucian gestures to the curtained stage. “This is ‘Don Giovanni,’ one of Mozart's most grand achievements.” 

“Hmn, okay.”  Marrok scratches the space beneath his chin with a curved nail.  “What’s it about?”

Lucian smiles, the tips of his fangs showing.  “Promiscuity, infidelity, and murder.” 

“Huh.”  Marrok sits back in his seat, dark hair spilling over one shoulder.  “That actually sounds . . . good.”

“It is more than ‘good.’ It is magnificent.”

Much like his companion on this fine evening.  Marrok is dressed in unrelenting black, a combination of his own design with a jacquard vest beneath a more modern tailcoat with strategically placed metal studs that is more “goth rock” than it is operatic formal attire.  But Lucian has no complaints.  The mere fact that the werewolf is wearing a coat of sorts is nearly unheard of, a concession that he has made purely for Lucian’s sake.

The sentiment has not gone unnoticed.  

He nudges Marrok’s thigh with his own, lays his hand upon it with a squeeze. “Have I told you, mon cher, that you look lethal and divine?”

“You have.”  Marrok leans in close enough to run the utmost tip of his tongue along the shell of Lucian’s ear.  “But you can say it again.” 

“Rapscallion,” Lucian says.   

Marrok flashes him a smile that showcases both sets of canines. “Don't fuck with me or you'll be watching my face instead of the stage while I devour you.”

“Right here? Amongst all of these mortal gazes?” Lucian feigns a gasp, one hand upon his heart. “Why, I am scandalized!”

“Yeah,” Marrok rumbles. “Just like this.” 

Massive hands cup Lucian's face and Marrok kisses him with brief, but passionate fervor. 

“Well,” Lucian murmurs against his mouth.  “Scandalous, indeed.” 

The lights dim and the overture begins and Lucian is grateful for the change in lighting.  Why must mortals have the interior of everything bright as the midday sun?  Infuriating, to say the least.  At least he could manage without the sunglasses indoors.

For the most part.  

The effects of his latest sunlit excursion still persist, however.  Twenty minutes into the performance, Marrok is silent and attentive to the onstage antics.  Not at all what Lucian had expected.  

There is, of course, the occasional wince during a piercingly high note from the soprano or the ghastly idiocy of the assistant principal violinist, who clearly has the ear of deaf man.  Lucian himself does his fair share of teeth grinding aggravation.

“The fuck is wrong with that guy?”  Marrok’s breath is warm against his ear.  “The violin player.  I’m about to go break that screech plank over his head.”

Lucian nods. “Would it be unethical of me to drain him for such heresy?”

“No,” Marrok scoffs a laugh.  “I’d eat his heart in a fucking second.” 

“Hmn.  Better perhaps to consume his fingers, non?”

Marrok chuckles. “Something like that.” 

And while Lucian does his best to feign that nothing is out of the ordinary, things within his body are certainly amiss.  Particularly within his sinuses.  

Now?  His immortal body is choosing this moment for such nuisances?  Honestly . . . 

Lucian rifles through his inner coat pocket and cups the still-folded handkerchief in his palm for an instant before clamping it over his nose to muffle a tightly contained “Hhhuh–NKGT!”  His breath hitches and his chest heaves. “. . . IHHKGGTCH!” 

Marrok's hand  lights upon his own and squeezes. “You okay?” 

Lucian nods with a sniffle. “Yes, mon cher.” 

He tucks the handkerchief back into his jacket as Marrok's arm settles around his shoulders. 

He does, however, lean into the gesture just a touch, which elicits a dark rumble of approval from his companion. 

But putting away the handkerchief so soon was not the soundest decision. A pre-incident paralysis seizes him and he stifles the sound against the back of his hand with a clenching “--NXGT!” The one that follows is near silent, but the shuddering of his shoulders is far more pronounced. 

“Goddamn,” Marrok swears under his breath with such displaced frustration that Lucian chuckles. 

“Tres désolée,” ¹ Lucian says. “I could not prevent it.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Marrok says, but the words hold no true irritation now. 

After a good hour or so, the end of the first act signals an intermission and the werewolf clearly needs some air. 

Or perhaps, something more vital. 

______________________________________________________

A brisk walk around the fountain seems to cool the werewolf's near boiling need just a touch, which is, of course, amplified by the impending full moon.

“You're making it hard for me to pay attention to the damn story,” Marrok says, his fingers laced through Lucian's own.

The vampire offers him a coy smirk. “And for this, I am not sorry.”

“I'm so goddamn shocked.” Marrok rolls his eyes. “You French fuck.” 

Lucian laughs, but the sound is cut short by the very thing that has been incensing his companion for much of the evening.

He  holds up a hand in a halting gesture and leans away, the other hand pressed against his against the side of his nose in deflection.

“Hhih-iiih. . . ! HiihIESSCHHUh! –UhhISSCH! Hhk. . . ISSSCH–iiUUH!” 

The way his shoulders heave and shudder in such a horrid betrayal of decorum is mortifying, but not nearly as much as the fact that he has misplaced his handkerchief. Which, of course, had forced this ghastly display of indecency in the first place.

But Marrok has come to his rescue, pressing a clean fold of cotton into his palm. 

“Ah, such keen foresight you have,” he says, his voice softened and a bit breathless from the covert indiscretions of his body. “Mon dieu, that came upon me with such suddenness.” 

“Yeah.” Marrok's voice is a low, penetrative bass. “Yeah, it did.” He grabs the edge of Lucian's coat and pulls him into a claiming embrace. “I kinda feel like I should say something to you.” 

“What something?” Lucian arches an eyebrow.

“Whatever it is that humans say to each other. They still say it, right?”

He laughs at the absurdity of the thought, as does his companion. 

“Indeed, they do.” Lucian smirks as he meets the werewolf’s stare. “But that would be nonsensical, non? Blessing the damned.”

“But. . .'' Lucian drags a nail along the most delicate skin of Marrok's neck near the base of his throat. “You may say it to me, if it pleases you.”

“Nah, it's weird.” Marrok's claws sink into the shoulder of his coat. “Gonna do this instead.”

Marrok cups Lucian's face between his massive palms and imparts a growling kiss unto his lips.

“I'm wanna eat your fucking face,” Marrok murmurs against his mouth.

“Mmn, and here I believed your kind to be far more partial to the heart.”  Lucian nips at his lower lip and Marrok’s growl becomes increasingly more wolf and less human. 

The werewolf pulls back enough to showcase just how gleaming yellow his eyes have become, a tiny beading of blood upon his bottom lip.  And the ears.  Marrok never had bothered to hide those.  Decidedly pointed. And of course, the canines.  

What a magnificent, intimidating beast.  Remarkable in both mind and body.  Truly lethal, yet with the capability for chivalry and decorum.  

Lucian slides a hand over Marrok's cheek, nails skimming the skin with the most delicate of touches. 

“Je t’aime,” ² he murmurs.

Marrok cocks his head, ensnaring the fingers in his own.  “Yeah?” He pulls Lucian into a tight cinch of an embrace, pressing his forehead to that of his companion.  “You're mine.”  The kiss that follows is breath-stealing in its claim. “Say it.” 

Lucian’s voice is like warm velvet, softened by the wind. “I belong to only you.” He brushes a kiss over the hollow of Marrok's throat where the skin is visible and enticing through the cover of his scarf. “Only. To you.” 

Amber eyes flash back to bright yellow. “Je t'aime aussi.” ³

For once, the werewolf's accent is near perfection. 

“Ooh.” Lucian shivers, taken aback, a hand upon his chest. “You have been practicing, non?”

“Maybe.” Marrok tucks a loose strand of pale golden hair behind Lucian's ear. “Wanna skip the second half of this and go for a hunt instead?”

“Such a romantic,” Lucian says.

But he concedes to the change in plans nonetheless. 

__________________________

1- So sorry

2- I love you

3- I love you, too.

[cassandragemini]

in case you wondering what twitters like rn the answer is "not good"

[milkbreadtoast]

idk how i want to draw him yet and not ready to make a srs attempt but here's a bad kdj phone doodle lol🚶🏻

[kerorokai]

been thinking about all saints street again so i've decided to dump the abus i've drawn. my favouritest guy ever <3

^ i drew this while i was waiting for orthotics for my knees. i can imagine anything (disabled abu)

^ these are old but are my only other digital abus i have many many more but they're all in my sketchbook or on loose paper. i don't plan on posting those cause i want to redraw some of them digitally :]

[man-bat-moved]

tim sale gets it!!!!!!!!! he understands!!!!!!

[chubby-kingcandy]

I swear the Turbo model in the animation test is chubbier than the Turbo in the movie

[leavingkamino]

Some Crosshair (and co.) lockscreens from s3ep5 (1080x1920)

like/reblog if u save pls <3

[homoeroticgrappling]

If I could be anybody dead or alive, I would wanna be The Outrunners in 2024

[lunameimei]

❝𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒, 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑢𝑝 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝐿𝑢𝑐𝑖𝑓𝑒𝑟. 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧.❞

A small edit with the fallen Emily!

plus bonus!

quick version with angel Charlie

[astrhae]

"I was like are we gonna be kissing?"

Shadow and Bone Season 2 | Bloopers

[thelastdayalive]

his lovely mouth

[katisbadatnames]

Sebastian thoughts go

assuming Sebastian does end up contacting a rival company and getting out, can things really go back to normal again? Zeal said that Innovation Inc was “the goat” and that they’d be able to change him back, however it wouldn’t be an easy or pleasant process. Like at all. It would be just like turning into the fish again. If urbanshade couldn’t reverse the effects after a couple months I doubt Innovaton would be able to after 10 years. I assume it would be harder to remove transformations and dna than adding it.

so what would Sebastian do? Does he have to stay in yet another testing facility while scientists run tests and procedures to figure out how to properly turn him back? And then he’d have to go through the ACTUAL process.

would Sebastian even be willing to go through that again? Surrounded by scientists and medical equipment and injections and tests. Would he mentally be able to handle it? Would it be too much for his already fucked up body? Can dna even be removed in a safe way??

he’d be right back at square one, learning to live in his body again, barely knowing himself.

lol I rarely write posts like these I’ll probably delete it I have more thoughts about him returning to the outside world and his family (he can’t) (not really)

[mellotronmkll]

[evilfloralfoolery]

Daggers and Deception- Part II

Time to learn a little about the guy on the other side of the wall. Lots of absurd snz in this part.

________________

The morning sky is a sight to behold.  Rays of golden orange and the brightest pink peek through the branches of the tree-riddled horizon.  Indigo is, of course, up before the day has broken, but witnessing the splendor of the rising sun never grows old.  If only his contentious body would allow him a moment of reprieve from all of that "natural beauty."

The handkerchief is still clutched in his right hand and for good reason. His body gives little warning before he flinches into a muffled “--ihhEKSSCH!” 

He swats a thick wave of silvery blond hair from his face with the utmost lack of decorum. Must they insist upon assailing him with so little warning each and every time?

The phone in his pocket buzzes and he jerks it free, swiping the "answer" button without so much as a glance at who it might be.

"Solaris," he says.

"Ah, Indigo."  The jovial, familiar voice of his employer is a strange relief amongst all the silence.  "How are you on this fine day?"

"Spectacularly allergic," Indigo says in his brightest conversational tone.  "And you, sir?"

A chuckle from the other end of the line.  "I had no idea such things plagued you."

"Well, that makes two of us, then," Indigo says.  "Although I did sleep quite well, all things considered."

"Most excellent news."  Reginald 's voice softens just a touch.  "Do try and rest as much as you need to."

Indigo does not tell the other man that his request is akin to torture, that his concerns lie with his work and not so much with his well-being, but given the nature of Reginald’s tone, he dismisses the thought and forces his voice to remain as upbeat as he can manage.

"As you wish, sir."

"Indigo. . ."

He grits his teeth.  "Yes?"

"My son is a grown man.  He should have known better."

Willful ignorance was just as dangerous. And that was the root of the matter at hand.  One would think that a man in his twenties would at least have a modicum of common sense in these circumstances, would perhaps realize that his own idiocy reflected back to his family, but--

"Perhaps,” Indigo says.

"This was not your fault. Surely, you must know that."

Indigo swallows.  Releases a breath he didn't realize he held within the center of his chest.

"Yes, I do realize this."

"Good. I shall check in with you again in a few days.  In the meantime, do try to unwind, won't you?"

"Of course, sir."

A heavy sigh from the other end of the line.  "Indigo. We are not at a formal event.  You may dispense with all of this 'sir' nonsense."

"Understood," Indigo says. 

"Very well."  Reginald  says.  "Enjoy the sunshine and fresh air."

Indigo swipes a finger beneath his glasses and sniffles.  Hmph, indeed.  He bids Reginald goodbye and slips the phone back into his pocket.  What on Earth was one to do in a place such as this?  With nothing to edit and no impetuous youth to chase, Indigo is at a loss.

He tugs a handkerchief from his pocket just in time to smother a violent, unexpected “-EHKTSSSH!’ into its folds.  His breath quivers with a desperate catch. “EKSSCH! –ihhSSCHuh!”  A high, ridiculous hitching inhalation. . . and nothing.

Right, well clearly, that is enough "nature" for one morning.  Or perhaps an entire decade.  And to think he had considered having tea on the front porch earlier.  Not without a cocktail of antihistamines and a stack of handkerchiefs.  The canopy of trees would be best observed from the comfort of his accommodations upstairs, preferably with the window sealed shut.  

He moves to pocket the handkerchief, considers the alternative, and chooses instead to keep clutched between his fingers, an intuition that proves vital the moment he draws breath.  

“IhGKSSCH! IH’GKSSHISSH!”

 The itching, watery eyes are nearly as much of a nuisance as the constant urge to sneeze, neither of which can make up their mind about which is the greater annoyance.  

At least he can remove his glasses once he has made his way up the stairs.  His vision is decent at close range without the glasses, save the hazy discernment when the distance increases.  However, with a profession that demands clarity of both mind and eye, glasses are a dependable necessity.  

After unlocking the protesting door, he gives it a courtesy shove before it deigns to open.  Blessed silence and a lack of blooming splendor greets him and he pockets both the handkerchief and the glasses, stepping into the kitchen to procure a bit of tea in lieu of coffee.  One must learn the art of balancing one's caffeine intake with varying degrees of addiction, of course.

He ties his hair back, sets the kettle upon the stove, and sets about the task of scooping loose tea into the mesh infuser, reaching for a mug and setting it beside the stove.  From the other side of the wall, a crash sounds followed by a colorful array of expletives, some concerning particular family members and others cursing the heavens. 

Well, then.

His neighbor's voice is a rumbling growl of darkness that jumps into a booming bark and it is enough for Indigo to nearly drop the infuser before latching it.  He taps the wall with the handle of his spoon.

"Are you quite alright?"  he asks.

" . . . yeah," the voice grumbles.  "Fucking pots and pans and shit."  

A sniffle. A light cough. More clattering.

Indigo chuckles.  "Under attack, are you?"

A bit of muttering.  "Something like that."

For a moment, his neighbor is quiet. A bit sudden to stop all of that banging. 

But not for long.

“--UHCHSSSH! Huuh-ehhh. . .!”

Indigo freezes. 

Oh. How unexpectedly delightfu--

"Stop that," he hisses to himself.

“--UH’CHshu!”

Softer the time. As if it has been smothered into some manner of cloth.

“Bless you,” Indigo says, but the sentiment is most certainly lost amongst the kitchen chaos.

Cabinets slam.  The oven door springs shut.  Another curse.  Whatever the fellow next door might be attempting to do, he seems to have encountered quite the problem accomplishing it.

The kettle atop the stove begins to whistle and Indigo flicks the gas burner into the "off" position before reaching for the kettle . . . and barely managing to turn away for more allergic nonsense.

He ducks into the crook of his shoulder with a shudder of shoulders. “EKSSCH! EKSSCHuh! EhhKG–SSCHUH!”

"Excuse me," he murmurs, as if the man on the other side of the wall actually witnessed his outburst. 

Well, in a way, he had.

"Hey."  Tapping against the drywall.  "You sick or somethin'?"

"No," Indigo replies as he dabs at the corner of one eye with a napkin.  "Are you?”

A snort.  “The fuck are you talking about.” “Well, my issue is my blasted hayfever, if you must kn-iihh—EKTSCH!”

"Hmn.  You sure about that?"

Indigo sniffles indignantly.  "Of course I am.  It's simply all of this . . . " He pauses, clinking his spoon against the edge of his cup with a thoughtful tinkle of sound.  "Would you perhaps care for a bit of tea?”

Silence.  Indigo leans closer to the wall, hands upon the edges of the counter, waiting.  Well, perhaps that had been a bit too forward.  After all, precious few knew of this particular spot.  It wasn't as if people came to the unpopulated countryside to socialize with perfect strangers. Offering tea to someone through the wall was a most unusual introduction.

"Okay."

Indigo arches an eyebrow.

"Door's open."  

Just like that? Interesting.

(TBC. . . )

[theotherrichardpapen]

There has to be a way. To care for the wounds without reopening them. To name the pain without inviting it back to me. - Richard Siken, Crush // Lora Mathis

[toxifoxx]