#bell's stout

[my-anime-goods]

Ryza no Atelier: Tokoyami no Joou to Himitsu no Kakurega (Atelier Ryza: Ever Darkness & the Secret Hideout) - Gyugyutto Acrylic Keychains, Badges, and Mini Stands by Bell House. Release: November 2023

[ikaikaaaron]

Diesel Fool’s Errand Simple Fool Figurado (5×58)

notes of espresso, earth, and spice balanced by a dense creaminess.

Black Note Stout

11.2% abv

A harmony of flavors captures the finest features of all three components: malty notes of dark chocolate, espresso & dried fruits, all buoyed by the warmth and fragrance of the bourbon barrel.

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

CAPTURING THE FAERIE MAGIC OF NEVERLAND IN ALL IT'S NIGHTTIME WONDER.

PIC INFO: Resolution at 900x1288 -- Spotlight on a Tinker Bell piece by American illustrator, William Stout, c. 2014.

MEDIUM: Ink and watercolor

SUPPORT: Illustration Board

ILLUSTRATION SIZE: 13 x 9 in. (33 x 22.9 cm.)

©William Stout

Sources: www.cartoonbrew.com/artist-of-the-day/william-stout-137434.html & Illustration History.

[juliusceasersblog]

Mea-culpa

Warning, this is the first fanfiction I've written since 2021.... anyway!!

In this story, y/n is a not so innocent nun. She and the "beloved" Archdeacon of Paris are close. *Extremely* close.

Kinks ( innocence, degradation, sadism, masochist, size difference, breeding, orgasm control, age play )

Click, click, clack

The noise vibrated through the Cathedral as she walked. Pushing through the doors of the kitchen where Reverend mother Jaqueline was waiting.

"Those shoes of yours are absolutely far too loud, sister y/n." The stout woman replied as she walked over to younger girl.

"My apologies, Reverend mother..'' she spoke with a slight whimper at the end of her sentence. "They were given to me by my late sister. She passed of the pox." Y/n spoke with a shutter.

"I know child. You told me when you were in your novice training." The greying lady spoke. "I did?" Y/n shrugged. "I must've forgotten about it." The nun shrugged again.

"Archdeacon Frollo is requesting your presence in the hall of justice. Questions about the orphans singing at the Christmas mass." Reverend mother explained.

The Young nun sighed. "He couldn't call on sister Margaret?'' Y/n called out as she busied herself with pulling a cloth off rising sour dough. "He told me he'd like to talk to you in specific." Reverend mother explained.

"Alright. I suppose we did Have a rather interesting conversation at Thanksgiving mass." Y/n explained with a smile.

"Oh goodness. I suppose I should get going if Archdeacon Frollo would like to speak to me before the midnight bells begin to ring." Y/n laughed. "I'll see you in confession Reverend mother." The young girl smiled as she walked out of the kitchen.

The walk to The hall of justice was a cold one. Frost had accumulated around the windows of the Cathedral and as y/n threw her dark wool coat on. A ring of fur was around the collar of the coat. Another gift from Claudette. Y/n's late sister.

Y/n exited the Cathedral and the cold air of the parisian winter hit her in the face. The walk to The palace of justice was not a lengthy walk by any means.

But as y/n walked up the steps of the hall. Raising her hand to knock on the door. But before her fist could meet the door. A young soldier opened the door.

His blonde hair was rested against his head as a halo would rest against a angels head. "Hello, sister. I don't believe we know eacho-'' the young man was inturrupted ny the sister.

"Captian, we have met on several occasions. At Thanksgiving mass and at the children's benefit last week. Phoebus. Am I correct?'' Y/n said with a small smile spreading across her face. A light blush across her cheeks now.

"Oh- yes- your the one who I pulled under the stai-" the capitan cleared his throat as a hand was pressed to his shoulder. Spindly fingers that were adorned with rings and such.

"Ah, capitan Phoebus. Nice to see that you've found the woman of the hour." The Archdeacon snapped. "I've been waiting well over an hour for you. Sister." Claude clapped quickly. Escorting her up to his office.

The Archdeacon pressed the door of his office shut. Humming and handing y/n a paper. A large scroll of parchment with 3 unsigned signature marks. "Here.'' He said.

Pointing at the spot where the sister had to sign. "I need Reverend mothers signature as well." Claude explained as y/n dipped her quill in ink and Began to write her name.

"Of course, these things must be in order for the matron of the orphanage. She expects everything in pristine order. Although she is paying for none of it.'' Frollo laughed stiffly.

"Thats unfortunate. I suppose they don't have much money.'' Y/n shrugged as she handed the parchment back to Claude with a small smile.

"I do have to wonder. Sister. About something I over heard.." the Archdeacon started out. "With your novice training, you are not supposed to be having any sexual relations. And as I've seen on several occasions. You clearly aren't following any of your training." Claude smirked as he stalked towards the young lady.

"Excuse me? How dare to talk to me like that. This is highly inappropriate conduct." The sister shuttered. Had he seen captian Phoebus on his knees. Eating her out as the churchgoers got the holy communion.

"If you don't want you and your .. sun-god to be exposed to the entire church. I suppose you give me what." The older man smirked. Standing behind the sister.

"Your just like the rest of them aren't you? Men, you all want the same thing in the end.'' Y/n snapped.

Before the young woman could tell what was happening. Claudes arm had traveled up to y/n's face. His hand colliding with the nun's face. Earning a yelp from the sister.

Her face became quickly red. Her hand had sat upon her cheek. Whining softly. Y/n took her hand from her face. Putting them on Claude's chest. Resting against frollo with a whine.

Frollo took her face in his hand. Her chin in his forefinger and middle finger. His thumb resting against y/n's jaw. Bringing his lips to brush against the sisters own.

Frollos kiss was soon inturrupted as y/n bumped against his desk. She sat down and the Archdeacon yanked her skirt up. Kissing up her thigh. Nipping at the inside. Drawing blood.

Y/n let out a groan of pleasure as she pulled her habit off. Her hair sliding around to frame her face and shoulders. "Just- please fuck me already." The sister begged.

Claude brought his hand to cover the young woman's mouth. "Don't have such foul language in the house of justice.'' Claude said sternly. Standing up and undoing his robes. Black pants and a black shirt adorned his body.

Unbuttoned his pants quickly. Opening his hand. "Spit in it." He said quickly. Lathering his cock in y/n's spit. Groaning and taking her undergarments off quickly. Pushing into the girl as she put her hands on claudes shoulders.

Moving so y/n threw her head back. Moaning loudly and biting on Frollo's neck. "You certainly don't sound like a virgin.'' The Archdeacon taunted.

Y/n scoffed. "How many anatomy books have you looked at to know how sex works?" The sister taunted in response. Watching as claude growled lowly. Feeling his neck being bitten.

Claude let his hand move lower. Circling y/ns clit with tight and hard circles. Smirking as she bit down on her hand to draw blood.

The sister nearly came then and there. How was he so good at this? Was he a virgin. His movements inside of her said otherwise.

Frollos cock was large. Longer than it was girthier. Looking upon the girl as he felt her thighs began to shake. The soft flesh of her thighs shaking as she came around his cock. "F-fuck-'' the nun cried out.

"That was fast. Shall I cum inside you? On your ass? Your bosom?'' Claude called out.

"Inside of me- please?'' She begged. Claude was close himself. His age had been catching up with him snd he could tell he couldn't last as he used to.

Frollo came deep inside her. Spilling his seed all over her womb and kissing her as he did so...

_________________

That's it... #Yolo

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller: Oliver's Eye Exam

Masterlist

tw: mind control, dehumanization

Just a side story that takes place in the future of Bookseller, around 1927. Mainly inspired by the fact that I find eye exams to be fascinating and they give me major ASMR.

Like most vampire-run establishments, the jewelry shop looked entirely ordinary from the outside, the windows dark with metal bars protecting the merchandise within. "Here we are, Oliver," said his master, gently pushing him along.

"A jewelry shop, sir?"

"Yes -- the owner, Mr. Eugene, makes lenses and glasses as well. There isn't much call for glasses for thralls, so it's a bit of a side business, but he's certainly reputable."

Oliver still couldn't help being a bit nervous as Alexander pulled the bell for the door -- not the door to the jewelry shop, but the nondescript one next to it. He always felt anxious when meeting a new vampire, no matter how much his master reassured him.

The door opened, and a short and stout vampire with a magnifier on a chain around his neck greeted them. "Ah, Lord Alexander! What can I do for you this fine evening? Another present for your husband?"

"Not tonight, no." Alexander put his hands on Oliver's shoulders, presenting him to the vampire. "My thrall here has been having trouble with his vision. I noticed the other day that he had difficulty reading the titles of books on higher shelves."

"Oh, he reads?" said Eugene, surprised.

"Avidly. It's an endearing trait that I did not wish to dampen." Alexander's grip on Oliver's shoulders tightened reassuringly. "I suspect the prescription on his glasses may be out of date, and they've acquired some scratches besides. Could you fit him for new ones?"

"Of course, of course!" Eugene waved Alexander and Oliver into the stairwell. "It's good to see a vampire so attentive to a thrall's needs. Too many vampires these days simply don't care about the craftsmanship that goes into a high quality thrall."

"I couldn't agree more."

The door at the top of the narrow stairwell opened up into a cluttered workshop. Bins of loose gems lay about on the workbenches as though they were trifles, sparkling in the light of a dim electric bulb. The tables were strewn with all manner of tools, both large and minuscule, some which looked too tiny to be operated by human-sized hands.

Eugene walked over to a chair crammed in the corner. "Have your thrall sit right down here. I'll fetch my kit and be with him shortly."

"Go on, Oliver, it's all right."

"Yes, sir." Oliver walked to the chair and sat down in a daze. Alexander had strengthened his aura to help him keep calm, and he could feel Eugene's aura as well, steady and firm.

"Here we are," said Eugene, pulling out a case. "He seems very well behaved. Will he require any additional enthrallment?"

"Not at all," said Alexander with a hint of pride, patting Oliver's head. "I enthralled him myself, and he's wonderfully obedient. Lily has also had a hand in molding his mind."

"Ah, yes, I wouldn't dream to doubt Miss Lily's work. A fine example of a vampire and a fine customer as well."

Eugene took Oliver by the chin, his touch feather light, and he gazed deeply into each of Oliver's eyes. His hands smelled of metal and dust, and Oliver couldn't help but get lost in the sea of hazel-brown. "Eyes are clear and bright. Very good. Let me take a closer look, now." He had pulled out a small magnifier to examine Oliver's eyes in more detail. "Hold still and try not to blink."

Oliver froze in place, eyes wide and unmoving, as the vampire looked into one eye and then the other. By now, his initial nerves had melted away with the gentleness of Eugene's demeanor, the praise of his nearby master, and the deep desire to do as he was told.

"Very, very good," said Eugene, putting the instrument away. "He certainly is as obedient as you say. Fine blood, too, I'd wager."

"Yes, he's my prized possession," said Alexander, his hand on Oliver's head once again.

"No doubt. I'll have to take special care with him, then. What is his name, by the way?"

"Oliver," said Alexander before Oliver could answer himself.

He tapped a card pasted to the opposite wall. It had rows of letters on it, large at the top and gradually becoming smaller. "Oliver, can you describe the symbols on the third row from the top?"

"They're letters, sir," he said with mild confusion.

"Oh yes, it slipped my mind that you could read. Read me each letter, then."

"D, L, N, sir."

"Good boy. Below that?"

"P, T, E, R, sir." The letters were becoming fuzzier.

"And below that?"

Oliver squinted. "I think that's an E, sir. And, um, a Z. An O?"

"That'll do." Eugene pushed aside some of his tools to make room on a nearby table, opening the case. It was filled with sample lenses attached to simple frames. Eugene took Oliver's glasses off his face without asking, and perched a different set on them. "Is this better or worse than your usual pair?"

The world was a blur, the letters on the chart a distant dream. "It's much worse, sir."

The test glasses were plucked off his head and replaced with another pair. "How about these?"

"Better, sir."

"And these?"

"I'm not sure, sir. Could I see the others again, please?"

"So polite." He chuckled. He kept putting more and more lenses on Oliver's face, asking him to compare, switching them back and forth, for what seemed like forever, making little notes as he did so. Finally, Oliver was in a pair that made the world seem so much clearer.

"Can you read the bottom line now?"

"It says O, F, L, C, T, G, sir."

"I think we have it, then. Very good." He pulled out a few more samples from his case, these all in slightly different metals and shapes, and turned to Alexander. "Which of these frames do you prefer for him? I can show you any you'd like."

Alexander glanced over the frames. "I favor these round, gold ones, but I'll allow Oliver to make the choice. Which do you like, Oliver?"

Oliver was still wearing the testing lenses, so he could clearly see the sample frames that Eugene put in front of him, all different colors and sizes. He wasn't sure what to pick. He'd always just picked the cheapest frames available, so he had never given much thought to what might look good on him. "I also like the round, gold ones, sir," he said sheepishly.

Eugene smiled. "Of course you do. You want to please your master, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," said Oliver eagerly.

"You can pick what you want, Oliver," said Alexander. "It doesn't have to be the ones I chose."

"Oh, now, why not let him please you? You're lucky to have a thrall so absolutely docile." Eugene took the test lenses off of Oliver and put the sample frames on him. The lenses were very much not Oliver's prescription, and he squinted to try and see anything. "Besides, it's a good choice for him. See?"

"Yes, you're right. I'll take it."

"Very good, very good. I just have to take a few more measurements." He removed the sample frames and the world blurred into indistinct colors. A fuzzy yellow line crossed Oliver's field of vision, and he realized it was a measuring tape.

"Between your eyes…" Eugene muttered as he took each measurement, writing down more notes. "From top to bottom… corner to corner… eye to ear… there." He replaced Oliver's glasses and smiled at him as he pat his head. "We're all finished." Eugene pulled a piece of penny candy from his pocket and handed it to Oliver, who unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. It tasted of butterscotch.

"All together, that'll cost you three dollars for the exam and the spectacles," said Eugene to Alexander.

Alexander pulled out his wallet and handed Eugene a few crisp bills. "When will they be ready?"

"Come back in oh, four days. I recommend bringing your thrall with you so that you can make sure they fit properly. I can make adjustments if needed."

"I'll see you on Thursday, then. Come along, Oliver."

Oliver stood from the chair, stiff from trying to stay perfectly still the entire time, allowing himself a big stretch. "Thank you for the eye exam, sir, and have a good night."

"You're very welcome," said Eugene with a smile. "You've been an excellent thrall, very well behaved."

Oliver beamed from the praise as Alexander took his hand and led him back down the stairs out into the cool night. The moon was bright overhead, and Oliver was pleased that he'd soon be able to see it more clearly. "Thank you for buying me new glasses, sir."

"Don't think anything of it, Oliver."

Masterlist

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@vampiresprite @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @und3ad-mutt

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping @natthebatt @fire-bugg14

@fuckcapitalismasshole @slightlydisturbedbeans @paperprinxe @demetercabingreen-thumb @the-broken-pen

@pokemaniacgemini @jumpywhumpywriter @basica11ywhumped @anoontjecanush @cepheusgalaxy

@whump-me-harder

[soli-nepenthe]

A Hallowed Secret

A Wander in Wonder/Alternate

genre: romance/fluff

characters: Sylus & fem!MC

warnings: fluff/terms of endearment/hint of central asian steppe

word count: ~ 1800

When the warriors from the Kael tribe returned, they were dyed with the rich vermillion hues of the setting sun at their backs, looking like heroes blessed by the sun god Yaşk. They descended the last of the dusky green hills with rousing hollers as their sturdy steppe horses swiftly carried them towards camp.

Because the tribe had settled on the outskirts of the khanate capital, Tala, it was a relatively easy distance for a horse to cover. Many other grassland tribes did the same, for no matter how grand the walled city might be, it could hardly contain the multitudes that came to partake of the celebrations. It was a matter of tradition that participants would enjoy a respite at their leisure on the eve before a tournament. 

From your higher vantage point near a small grove of trees, your narrowed eyes searched among the stream of stout men for a familiar shock of silver hair. Your fingers forgot about the basket at your feet, absently fretting with one of the braids that Sylus had re-plaited for you that morning.

Oh! He’s back!

You felt your heart soar with relief upon spotting him. He rode nearer to the front, accompanied by the formidable warrior he had bested the day before in the races, a man named Tumur.

Tarna, who had observed your ever-changing reactions with quiet amusement, set down her basket of leaves, twigs, and berries for wreath-making, and nudged at your shoulder playfully.

“Ah, so, I wasn’t mistaken then. Your eyes show favor to Sylus.”

You turned to face her, trying to feign nonchalance.

“Well, it’s just that he was gone for a long while. He’s the kind to attract trouble wherever he goes.”

“Oh? Is he a troublesome one?”

Tarna kindly handed you your basket, already taking her first steps to head down to the celebrations that had begun in earnest. The gentle breeze already brought with it the tempting smell of roasted meats and fried bread and the aroma of sweet fruits from the yurts below. Even the gentle hum of voices, bells, and drums were setting the promise for a jubilant evening.

“Come on, then! You don’t want to fight off other girls who may want to throw their yoke over him.”

A bitterness settled in your gut at that friendly reminder, not that you didn’t appreciate her good intentions. Your hand reached for the embroidered pouch that you managed to finish in time. You studied the silky black threads with an unforgiving eye. The crow truly looked clumsy and amateurish.

Was there a point in offering this token to him? And would he accept it?

To these young women, it didn’t matter if Sylus was an exotic outsider. They surely appreciated his athleticism, horsemanship, and general boldness of spirit that were the makings of a warrior par excellence here. And even if this place was an illusion, everything about the people and their customs, to how they lived and loved, felt all too real. 

Thrusting the pouch back under your thick belt, you hastened your stride to match Tarna’s.

“Let’s go! I’m also kind of…. hungry.”

Tarna laughed.

“All is well. Let us get our fill tonight!”

The moon goddess’ hand mirror shone brightly like a lamp, casting the valley in a romantic silver glow by the time Sylus had come to seek you out. He had a rather unusual talent for singling you out of a crowd of thousands, whether it was in the dizzying tumult of a metropolitan plaza or in this pastoral tableau of people making merry.

“You’ve been hiding from me, my shepherdess.”

His towering shadow fell over you like a smoky veil.

After you had supped with Tarna and her friends, you did not have the heart to throw yourself into the festivities, given that your fate would be decided forever tomorrow. There were too many variables. Not quite understanding the reason behind your suddenly low spirits, Tarna did not push the matter further and left you to your solitude as you wished.

“Have I?” You finally raised your eyes to meet his keen-sighted ruby ones. 

Like the night before, he had tarried with the elders and men of the tribe, but this time he eschewed his role as poet-musician. He came to you with neither wine nor music to dull your anxious mind. You wished he had.

“Oh, yes, I believe so. You and Tarna appear to be as thick as thieves now. In passing, she admitted to me that she finds you pleasant company but… a strange one.”

You perked up in your seat. “Me? How so?”

“She says she knows of no other girl who, and I quote: ‘Makes love with fiery eyes to her beloved and runs away like a timid lamb the next’. Were you too shy to welcome me back?”

You could feel your face flush with embarrassment at her direct phrasing. 

“H-Hardly. Also, my eyes were not “making love” with your face. Or any other part of your body for that matter, just to be clear.”

“Of course not.” 

The familiar vexing smugness in his expression returned, a sight that would’ve had you seething any other day. But tonight, under the mystic light of the moon, you found that your heart was undergoing a different kind of turmoil. 

You had half a mind to flee to the sanctuary of your yurt.

Before you could implement such a hasty plan, a raucous and upbeat melody soon replaced the sentimental strains of the morin khuur. Young and old alike began to dance in a wide circle now, clapping and cheering, their faces tinged with the amber glow of the bonfire. 

It was clear how abundantly happy they were.

“Dance with me.”

The deep and pure tones of his voice were like a lifeline that tugged you back. 

He leaned forward as he offered you his hand. 

“I have two left feet! Besides, I wouldn’t want to cause offence by attempting a traditional grassland dance.”

“It doesn’t matter. No one will be watching us, I promise you that.”

You stared openly at each other for a long while, the rest of the world falling away as your gazes tangled together. It was a peculiar habit of late. Was it the effect of the thrumming music or was it the depths of his wine red eyes that made you feel almost drunk?

Taking his chance, he seized your hand that was absently adrift in the air, pulling you to your feet in one deft movement until you were chest to chest, snug in his hold. 

He pressed a reverential kiss against it.  

“Come with me, Şavanika.”

If you were guilty of only one thing tonight, it was for not always matching the beat. And yet, there were no tongues wagging in censure as you danced together in wanton revelry. Under his guiding touch, every hard line and edge of your body was smoothed away to airy lightness. The pair of you continued to laugh and smile, no matter how many occasions you stumbled into the safety of his burly arms. He caught you, unfailingly, every single time.

Slightly winded, with his chest heaving in a similar manner to yours, he looked upon you as if you were his whole world. Intrepid fingers pushed away unruly tendrils that had fallen over your eyes. 

“There’s…there’s something I want to show you.”

You took several breaths, trying to steady your own galloping heartbeat. 

“Lead the way.”

Even as he bore you away to a special place, you felt as though you could still hear the plucked strings of a zither, a divine and otherworldly tune, haunting your path. You gripped his waist tighter as his horse flew over wide blue plains and past silvery rills of water, looking like the fallen diadem of some earth goddess. But nothing was ever so magical as the sight of a cascade of water that sprang from seemingly barren heights into the gleaming opal-like waters of a lake strewn with stars.

It was a place of perfect untouched beauty.

“Tell me, beloved, is this humble gift to your liking?”

He helped you dismount with ease, one hand tethered loosely about your waist as he waited for you to speak. Venturing forward carefully, you drank in the sublimity of the scene, your eyes sparkling with a newly kindled light.

“It's…beautiful.”

It was impossible to remain profoundly unaffected by the splendour he lay at your feet.

“This place…is sacred and holy to all the tribes. And so, I vow to you, we will return home, whatever it takes. The beauty of this transient dream will always be with us, just as my feelings for you will never waver.” 

He paused to catch a lone tear that strayed down the curve of your cheek.

“Trust in me. In us.”

He stepped closer to you, reaching for your trembling hands. He was so warm.

In this numinous place, you felt as though each and every one of your senses had been ignited to a degree of poignant clarity. The man pouring his heart before you now was neither the enigmatic, devilish Onychinus head nor a brother warrior of the Kael tribe. He was just Sylus. And you were not merely an elite Hunter with a terrible weight on your shoulders. There was nothing here for you to prove. There was nothing here to fight.

You loved him. 

It was that simple. 

You were a woman in love.

Even if you couldn’t put a voice to those feelings just yet.

With countless emotions bearing down on you all at once, you edged closer, bracing yourself against the grounding solidity of his body. As the stars wheeled high above your heads, you held each other, locked in tender silence. After a moment, he bent forward, touching his forehead to yours. You could tell he was holding back, his eyes elated by the love he could see in your dazzling eyes. But for you, this tantalizing distance was no longer enough. Like the brushing of petals, you claimed his lips for the first time in delicate dreamy yearning.

“I trust you. Wholeheartedly.”

He breathed in your hushed words with a gasp of emotion, letting your lips linger softly against his, smiling, before you braved to close the space once more. As the kiss deepened, he held you achingly close, sweeping you into his arms in the way you had always wanted to be held by him — like a true lover. 

Whether this secret vow was blessed by the gods or not, you did not know. You believed in him and you had each other, and that was enough, whatever Fate willed.

On this star-studded night, standing together amidst this pristine wilderness, tomorrow felt too far away.

END.

Final Notes:

Thank you so very much for reading! This is my first foray into LADS fanfic territory, especially here on tumblr. I hope I was able to stay true to the feel of the characters as shown in the Grasslands Romance story, in view of their developing relationship. For me, I think we get a taste of who Sylus really is underneath the intimidating and luxe outer shell. He brought a lot of reassurance to an understandably worried but tries to play it off like nothing MC. I think Grasslands will go down as one of my favourite Sylus cards next to Nightplumes.

Please feel free to like and reblog or comment! But please do not copy/steal/feed this written work into AI.

Further notes:

The god Yask was inspired by a sun god in Turkic myth called Koyash. Although the original story had a more Mongolian feel, I thought it would be nice to kind of expand it to more of a Central Asian Steppe influence (so, I hope no one minds too much ^^;)

I was also partly inspired by John Keats's from Endymion introduction.

Anyway, adieu, gentle readers!

And special thanks to @strangergraphics for their beautiful dividers.

[ink-flavored]

Anthology Blast Prompt 1: Stone Hearted

for the Tales from Athendrolyn Anthology Full prompt list for the Anthology Blast Tips are appreciated! Contains: implied animal abuse, injured animal

The sunny window cast long shadows along the inside of the workshop, a long afternoon stretching ever so slowly into evening. An amateur stonemason or sculptor would have taken nature’s queue to pack up their tools and save their efforts for the following day. All angles go fuzzy in the shadows, after all, how could one hope to be precise? But Ostaeline Darkbraid was no amateur.

Hunched over her workbench, the jeweler’s lamp mounted to the frame ensured that not a speck of dust from her project went unaccounted for. Another cloud of the stuff rained from the cut of stone as she struck her flat chisel across the pale surface with a small hammer, smoothing out a soft curve. She turned the stone and brushed it clean with her thumb, all ten of her stout, brown fingers dusty from her work.

The project itself wasn’t much—for now, just a lump of stone with expertly sketched guidelines along the gray-white block. But it was how all gargoyles began.

A clacking sound, like two pebbles tumbling down a hillside, came from her window. Ostaeline glanced up from her project.

“Don’t clatter at strangers, Beryl,” she chided.

Beryl, a crow-sized gargoyle wearing a dazzling collection of inset gemstones for a collar, shuffled on the windowsill. It turned to Ostaeline and clattered again.

“Yes, I’m talking to you,” she said. “You’ve had your supper already.”

It hopped onto her desk, landing with a thunk. With a sigh, she brushed the dust off her hands with the towel in her lap, and let Beryl climb onto her arm. It scrambled up to sit heavily on her shoulder, clattering into her ear.

“You always want attention at the worst times, don’t you?” she said, with tired affection, and Beryl picked up on her feelings, if not her words. It nipped at the thick braid she wore while working, her thick dwarvish beard tied back into her hair to keep it from catching her tools or getting in the way of her hands. It wasn’t her favorite hairstyle, but it did make her family name, and the name of her shop, all the more apt.

In the next room over, a bell chimed. Ostaeline pushed away from her desk and off her stool. “Let’s go greet our guest,” she told Beryl.

It clacked excitedly and spread its stony wings. Dropping off her shoulder entirely, it glided across the room to land in front of the slightly open door. It tried to nudge the crack open itself, only for Ostaeline to save it the trouble and open the door herself.

“Welcome in,” she called, stepping behind the shop counter. Beryl raced up the ladder of its perch right above the cash register.

The single patron—an elf, tall and thin with their olive-skinned hands folded politely behind their back, and boasting the wide sleeves and long sashes of elvish finery — looked up from where they perused the inventory of dozens of handmade gargoyles. A wide variety of shapes, sizes, and engravements adorned the shelves and statue plinths. Most were perfectly still, asleep, but the ones nearest the elf shuffled around, trying to get their attention. They looked coolly disinterested in all of them.

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” they asked.

“Sure am,” she replied, deciding to ignore the chilly reception, “Ostaeline Darkbraid of   Darkbraid Gargoyle Adoptions & Workshop. It’s been in the family six generations, so I can tell you anything you’ve ever wanted to know about gargoyles and then some.”

“Then I think you’re exactly the person I’m looking for.”

Ostaeline didn’t have time to ask what that meant before the elf approached the counter. They snapped their fingers, and a sketchbook appeared in a puff of smoke. She didn’t have time to ask about that either.

“Do you take projects upon request?” the elf asked.

“I do,” she answered slowly. “You’ll have to provide a reference, and depending on how detailed you want it, they don’t come cheap.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about the price.” The sketchbook flipped itself to a random page and slapped itself on the counter. “Would you be able to replicate this design?”

Shaking off a little whiplash, Ostaeline pulled a stool out from behind the counter and plopped down to review the sketch. Each detail she took in had her eyebrows creeping closer to her hairline.

The elf had given her a lovingly rendered drawing of a gargoyle from all four sides, size estimates, close-ups on details, and even requests about the design of the plinth. The gargoyle itself took inspiration from lions, dragons, bats, and eagles. The engravings requested specific plants, gemstones were noted “optional” but there were multiple placements for insets and requests were detailed down to the cut and carat. It was one of the most complex designs she’d ever seen, much less been asked to sculpt.

“This is very impressive,” she praised. “How long did it take you to come up with this?”

The elf visibly brightened. “I’ve been designing it on and off for a little while.”

Ostaeline found that hard to believe—maybe a “little while” by an elf’s standards. Which is why such a beautiful design made her a bit nervous.

“I can replicate this design, but”—she added quickly, when the elf started to look a bit too excited—"I can’t carve a gargoyle’s personality.”

Their face fell. “What do you mean?”

“A sculptor’s job is to bring the stone to life—whatever life is born from that gift isn’t nearly as malleable. Take Beryl here.” She gestured up at the perch, where Beryl sat happily. “I sculpted this one myself nearly thirty years ago, and fully intended to adopt it out with my others. It wouldn’t take to anyone but me, though, so I kept it for myself.” Beryl clattered happily, and Ostaeline let that happy story sink in for a moment. “A gargoyle is as unpredictable as any animal, and even I don’t know how they’ll act once they’re sculpted.” She tapped the elf’s design. “This is a beautiful thing you’ve done, and I’ll do my best to recreate it as closely as I can. But I can’t promise the life inside the stone will bond with you.”

The elf replaced their cool, unflappable expression. “I see. And if that happens?”

“I usually include the price of adoption in a commission by default, and if the gargoyle doesn’t bond with you, I’ll waive that fee. I can’t offer a full refund, since the work will have already been done, and I’ll have to keep it here with me.”

Until it gets adopted by someone else, was the unspoken end to that sentence. Ostaeline never liked handing out warnings and risks and doubt—but she liked false promises even less. She’d rather this elf, who clearly poured their heart and soul into a design of their wildest dreams, understand what they were agreeing to.

A long hesitant pause later, the elf nodded. “I understand. And I’ll take that risk.”

“Alright, I’ll get you the forms.” Ostaeline produced her standard adoption application form, a form for specially commissioned projects, and a pen. She pushed them on top of the sketchbook and pushed it back across the counter. “Fill these out, and then we’ll talk about price.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

The elf took the pile and stepped aside to the end of the counter near the windows. Several plush stools sat empty for adopters to fill out their paperwork. Even seated, the elf had to hunch over from the height difference.

While she waited, Ostaeline took the opportunity to check on her gargoyles on display. They awoke, one by one, as she stepped over and around them to dust the shelves, adjust plinths, and make note of any fractures. They clicked and clattered, either in delight at her presence, or annoyance at being woken up.

A traditionally sculpted gargoyle on a high shelf—all bat wings, sharp claws, and menace—had a particular ire for her scrutiny. About as large as a parrot, it snapped at her hand on her way up the stepladder, and just barely missed.

“Quit it, Feldspar,” she scolded. Feldspar had no remorse, going for her again as she reached the top. “Don’t get an attitude with me, you literal blockhead.”

Before it could try a third time, Ostaeline snatched Feldspar by the face to keep its mouth closed, plucking it off its plinth for an inspection. It struggled so recklessly that she was able to hold it for all of eight seconds, but she saw all she needed to see. The crack at the base of its left wing hadn’t improved.

“All done, see?” She put it back on the plinth and twisted it to face out the window behind the shelf. “Go back to bed.”

Feldspar gave another angry rattle, hunched over, and went motionless. Ostaeline sighed, trudging back down the ladder. With perfect timing, the elf stood up with their forms in hand as she made her way back to the counter.

“Thank you, thank you,” she said, collecting up the forms and a magically duplicated copy of their design. Skimming over the top of the first page, she read, Name: Myril Genwarin, Age: 170, Pronouns: all, mostly they/them/theirs.

“What was wrong with that one?” Myril asked, gesturing at Feldspar.

“Poor thing has a fracture,” she replied. “It’s been fussy ever since, but Feldspar’s always been a bit of a jerk.”

“Always?”

“Oh sure—came right off the chisel looking for a fight.” She ran through the commission forms, tallying up the cost in her head. “See, if I could carve their personalities to be whatever I wanted, I’d make them all enthusiastic about my check-ups.”

A little smile touched Myril’s face. “I suppose most people would.”

One transaction later, the new project was officially instated onto the list. With a promise to call them as soon as the gargoyle was finished, Myril left the shop, leaving Ostaeline alone with her work again.

Not for long, though. It was only minutes later that she flipped the shop’s “open” sign to “closed,” and went back to the workshop, Myril’s paperwork in hand and Beryl close behind, to clean up before leaving for the night.

The jeweler’s lamp still shone a spotlight down on her interrupted project, and washed the rest of the room with its bright white glare now that the sun had slipped even farther away. Her collection of tools sat patiently in an upright case behind her workbench, organized into perfectly sized compartments. Each of the dozens of shelves underneath it held different gems for decoration, separated by color and cut. In the corner, a massive collection of pale stone blocks, sized anywhere from a minotaur’s coat stand to a goblin’s shoebox, awaited her craftsmanship.

Beryl climbed back up onto its regular perch on the windowsill. Ostaeline put the commission form and requested design on her workbench, intending to leave it for the next morning… but picking out a properly sized block wouldn’t hurt.

She whisked her unfinished project away. On the other wall, it fit snugly between two other projects on her large shelf of unfinished gargoyles, and she muttered a promise to get back to it eventually. Next, she swept her workbench clear of dust and debris, put her tools away, and turned her light toward the back of the room. Now, finally, she could pick her next block.

Myril’s form, and the design sketch itself, requested a height of about thirty standard inches, converted from elvish measurements. Ostaeline plucked a standard unit tape measure out of her tool case, and set the enchanted dial to show elvish units on the other side—just in case. The tool shimmered, humming in her hand. When she pulled the spool, the second set of numbers appeared.

She got to work pulling block after block out of the pile, measuring width, height, length, and the instinctual unit that she couldn’t explain, that none but a gargoyle sculptor could ever truly understand. Ostaeline sat with the block, and tried to feel if it wanted to be carved.

After a dozen dead ends, she found one. It was the exact size she was looking for—thirty standard inches, and almost as wide as she was. It was absolutely too large to fit on her workbench, so this gargoyle would have to be sculpted on the floor. Hopefully it wouldn’t mind.

Ostaeline sat down and leaned against the block, pressing her forehead to the cold stone. She wasn’t there long—it practically sang with the urge to become something else. It was perfect.

Satisfied, she pushed the block to the center of her workshop and placed Myril’s design on top. Tomorrow, she would get to work.

“Come on, Beryl,” she called, holding out her arm. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Beryl scampered to the end of the workbench and launched itself over. Ostaeline stumbled as it clung to her arm like a weight, before managing to scrabble up, and climb onto her shoulder to perch. It clattered in her ear.

“I should just start picking you up myself,” she said, and turned off the light.

After all her years of gargoyle sculpting and caretaking, Ostaeline found one piece of advice to hold true above all others: the mind should never wander from the task at hand. When crafting something so intricate as a magical creature that would leap to life as soon as it had a body to move in, there was no room for distraction, daydreaming, or idle musing. If she wasn’t entirely focused on the stone under her tools, the tools in her hand, her hand attached to her arm—then she wasn’t really working at all.

But somehow, this commission tested her iron-clad will.

Point chisel in one hand and hammer in the other, Ostaeline carved away a wide chunk of stone, and it collapsed on the floor with a heavy thud. A cloud of dust followed, and she coughed. Her hands and beard were cloudy white, at this point, and she’d barely started carving away at her sketches. Or, rather, Myril’s sketches.

Not for the first or last time that day, Ostaeline turned to reference the commissioned design on her workbench, displayed on a small lectern. It had taken her days to get a sketch on the stone she was happy with, and she thanked every god she could name that her enchanted pencils could be erased from any surface. Even excluding all the detail work she’d have to do to engrave the finished body, the gargoyle had a lion’s head and tail, an eagle’s beak, a dragon’s body, and an extra set of bat’s wings. It was a puzzling combination of animals, pieced together in a puzzling way.

Beryl hopped across the workbench, nudging the lectern curiously. Ostaeline put her hands on her hips.

“I know I shouldn’t judge,” she started, “but who designs a gargoyle like this?”

Beryl clattered, oblivious to her question. Its gemstone collar twinkled in the light of the jeweler’s lamp.

“It’s not a bad drawing,” she continued, turning back to the hunk of stone, “it’s a beautiful drawing, but for a sculptor, it’s complete madness.” She chiseled across one of her sketched lines, forming the shape of the creature’s head. “I wouldn’t have taken the job if I didn’t think I could do it, obviously, and I do believe I can. But why all this—excess?”

It was what had been distracting her the whole time. After working on this gargoyle for barely a week, the extravagance of it all had started to eat away at her. And to know Myril had been working on it “on and off” implied there used to be even more detail that must have been redesigned. Ostaeline would never know how many revisions this gargoyle had seen, which just made her more curious as to how it came to exist in the first place.

“You know what it feels like?” she said, hammering away. “It feels like a child’s drawing. Like a kid who mashed together all their most favorite things in the world and—”

She almost hammered her thumb into the stone. Blessings and curses, she thought, it is a child’s drawing.

With a strange mix of affection and dread, Ostaeline set down her hammer and chisel and went to her desk. Slowly, she wiped her hands free of dust and picked up Myril’s sketch, beholding it with new eyes. The haphazard combination, the odd specificity, the amount of love and care and detail. She remembered how excited they were to see it complimented, how fast that excitement drained away when she couldn’t guarantee the gargoyle would like them. This had to be a drawing from Myril’s childhood, maybe even a dream pet, that they finally had the opportunity to bring to life. And Ostaeline could bring it to life—but she couldn’t promise it would be theirs at last.

“That’s a little more than I bargained for,” she muttered. She dropped the design back down on the lectern, folding her fingers under her nose.

Beryl looked up at her, innocent as any animal. Ostaeline glanced to the workshop door, and the gargoyle shop beyond.

Feldspar was a commissioned piece, intended to leave her shop the moment it was finished. When it woke for the first time, it was a bit snappy, which wasn’t abnormal for a creature brand new to life. The client came to pick it up, confident that they had exactly the pet they’d requested.

Two days later they came back. Ostaeline remembered Feldspar getting dumped on her desk and furiously insulted by her client—they were convinced she’d carved a “broken” gargoyle and demanded a refund. She refused, with similarly colorful words, and kept Feldspar in the shop, confident that someone would adopt it.

That was years ago. Nobody had.

An anxious clatter snapped her back to the present. Beryl swiped the air with its paw, reaching for her. Ostaeline smiled, smoothing her fingers over its head.

She remembered the days she spent sculpting Beryl, as routine a project as any of her other gargoyles. When it finally woke up, as she added the finishing touches, Ostaeline couldn’t help but feel especially proud of the work she’d done. She was especially surprised when Beryl refused to leave her side, attempting to follow her out of the shop so many times she gave up trying to stop it. She set the gemstones in its collar the same night she adopted it, a gift for Beryl, and for herself.

“Nothing’s guaranteed, eh?” she mused, talking more to herself. “This thing could go any way at all.”

Sculpting gargoyles, as rewarding as she found the work, was truly an art without an answer. Nobody knew how this stone was able to breathe life into statues, or why it was only one type of stone. History had long since forgotten how gargoyles came to be before there were those around to carve them—if they existed at all before some ancient creature took up hammer and chisel.

There were plenty of theories: that gargoyles were blessings from the gods, they were curses from those same gods, that they were simply magical wisps finding a magic-porous stone to inhabit, or that the compound sediment of this particular rock was susceptible to magical transformation. Ostaeline never paid them any mind—what mattered was that gargoyles could exist, and she would be the finest sculptor her statues could have ever asked for.

She looked back at the unfinished brick that would soon become Myril’s gargoyle. Often, she wondered if the life inside the stone could hear her voice, feel her hands, maybe even see her chisel working to break it free. Ostaeline would be the finest sculptor it ever knew—the only sculptor, frankly—but what happened when the sculptor’s job was over? Were gargoyles born knowing companionship, or was it something taught to them?

Ostaeline scooped Beryl into her arms. She sat down on the floor next to the unfinished sculpture and placed her palm flat to the stone. Breathing deeply, she tried to reach that mysterious spark of life inside the rock. The potential for more.

“Just between us,” she told it, “there’s someone out there who’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

The rock didn’t reply. Beryl clambered over her arm and mirrored her pose, pressing a curious paw flat against the cool surface. Ostaeline chuckled, scratching behind its wings.

“I’d be excited too, if I were you,” she added. “If Myril is anything like me, I know for a fact you’ll be pampered to death. Beloved more than any diamond. More precious than any amount of gold. And if you’re anything like Beryl, you’ll bring them more joy than you’ll ever understand. That’s what being a companion is all about, after all.” She cradled Beryl’s stone head in her palm. “It’s about taking care of someone, and letting them care for you back.”

Beryl made a sound like stones scraping together, nuzzling into her hand. She smiled down at her lap, but she let her mind wander a little farther.

“It’s not all perfect. Maybe you don’t fit into someone’s house. Maybe you get a chip in your wing, or a crack on your face that people would rather scream about than actually try to fix. Or maybe they gave you that crack themselves. Maybe…” She swallowed thickly, unsure who she was keeping her composure for. “Maybe you feel like giving up on care. Companionship. All that. But there’s always someone out there who wants to care about you. All you have to do is let them.”

Her voice broke and a few stray tears slipped into her braided beard. Beryl turned away from the stone entirely, anxiously trying to climb her shirt. Ostaeline let the rest of her emotions burst out in a laugh instead, plucking Beryl off and setting it on the floor.

“Anyway,” she finished, “keep your mind open to being someone’s buddy while you’re in there.” With a grunt, she pushed up to her feet and swiped her abandoned tools off the floor. “We’ve got a lot of work to do in the meantime.”

Ostaeline went back to work as if she’d never stopped, focus renewed, and more determined than ever to complete this project.

A month later, Ostaeline was finally satisfied.

She called Myril the morning after she completed their commission, and they promised to arrive to pick it up that same afternoon. A few rushed preparations later, Ostaeline managed to clean up her workshop and move the gargoyle to the front of the main shop with the help of an enchanted hovering dolly. It sat proudly at the front counter, a testament to her efforts.

An elegant beak extended from its bowed head, the lion’s mane flowing with an expertly sculpted mane. The dual set of wings were tricky to place, but she managed to place them almost on top of each other—the dragon wings raised to the sky, and the bat wings at a lower angle underneath. Its dragon body had individually engraved scales, from the neck down to the tail, curled around the plinth as requested. The flower-engraved plinth itself was some of her finest detail work in years, if she could say so herself. And finally, the gemstones: brilliant opals set into the head, chest, and front legs. All things considered, the gargoyle was perfect.

Except it hadn’t woken up yet.

Ostaeline inspected the gargoyle one last time and hoped she didn’t look nervous. She had carved gargoyles that slept through their first night alive, but they were always awake the next morning. This one hadn’t so much as blinked since she put the finishing touches on the plinth. She knew it was alive—she’d stake her career on it—but it was sleeping for an abnormally long time. Like it was damaged, or shy, or… something.

“What do you think, Beryl?” she asked. Beryl was too busy chasing a bug around the counter to respond.

Behind her, the welcome bell jingled, and the shop door swung open. Myril bustled in dressed to impressed, somehow wearing an even more extravagant outfit than the one Ostaeline had met them in. They had the stony facial expression of someone trying very hard to hold themself together.

“Right on time,” Ostaeline greeted. Beryl abandoned the chase to crawl forward curiously.

“It’s ready?” they blurted, letting the mask slip a tad.

She stepped aside, presenting it with one hand. “See for yourself.”

The cool façade completely melted. Myril rushed to the gargoyle and dropped to their knees in front of it. They reached a shaky hand out, unsure. “C-can I?”

“Hold on, hold on,” Ostaeline said, and they snapped up straight. She couldn’t help a smile. “I was just going to warn you it’s sleeping. The best way to wake a gargoyle up is with a treat.”

They nodded seriously. “Of course. I—I’m afraid I don’t have anything.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Ostaeline produced a handful of colorful landscaping pebbles from her pocket. Myril held out their cupped hands for the offered treat, eyes wide and reverent.

“Just hold them out like this,” she said, guiding their hands under the gargoyle’s beak. “It might take a minute for it to recognize the smell, but—”

She cut herself off as the gargoyle stirred. The dragon paws shifted on the plinth, blank stone eyes blinked for the first time. It stretched both sets of its wings and folded them onto its back. It was alive. Myril appeared to have stopped breathing.

It looked at the pebbles in their hand, head tilted. It lowered its beak, pulling back at the click of stone hitting stone. Then, it plucked one out of their hand, and swallowed it. And then another, and another, until it was eating out of Myril’s hand like it had known them all its life—and, Ostaeline supposed, it had. Myril laughed in breathy disbelief, smiling ear to ear.

Ostaeline finally let herself relax, sighing against the counter. “Congratulations,” she said, “on your newest member of the family.” Beryl crawled up its perch and clattered in agreement.

“Thank you,” they breathed. “Thank you so much, I never—” They choked, eyes shining with happy tears. “I’ve always wanted a gargoyle, but I was never able to convince my parents.”

The gargoyle nuzzled into their hands, now empty of pebbles, and clattered. Myril laughed wetly, petting its stiff mane and the back of its neck. Now that the worst was over, Ostaeline couldn’t help brimming with pride at the work she’d done.

“There’s still one thing left to do,” she said, marching behind the counter.

Myril followed with their eyes, but didn’t move. “What else?”

“I’ve approved your application, obviously.” Ostaeline presented a new form. “Now, you fill out the adoption certificate, so we can make it official.”

“Oh! Right, of course, of course.” They bustled to standing, but had their eyes trained on the gargoyle sitting at their feet.

“Have a name picked out yet?”

Myril beamed at her. “Summerset.”

Ostaeline couldn’t help but return their enthusiasm. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thank you.” They looked down at Summerset again, their smile never wavering. “It’s everything I dreamed it would be.”

While Myril filled out the certificate, Ostaeline put together a care sheet for them to take home. It included everything they’d ever need to know about caring for a gargoyle properly, and her shop number, just in case they had any questions. She went over it briefly after the adoption was certified, but she could tell Myril was only half listening. Summerset had every ounce of their attention—and Ostaeline couldn’t blame them.

After another round of profuse thank-yous, Myril left with the plinth under their arm, and Summerset following at their heels. Ostaeline stared out the door, arms folded behind the counter, for a long few minutes after they’d gone.

Was her pep talk all that Summerset needed for this to go well? Was it all useless, and it was always meant to be this way? Could Ostaeline have changed its mind at all, knowing how much she didn’t know about how gargoyles thought?

“I guess it’s another mystery,” she said, looking up at Beryl. “But I did a pretty damn good job, don’t you think?” Beryl stared blankly at her. Close enough.

Ostaeline patted herself on the back for a job well done, and meant to retreat back into her workshop, to continue one of her dozen unfinished projects… but there was something else on her mind.

Instead, she shuffled up her stepladder and grabbed Feldspar off its shelf. It rattled and snapped at her, of course, but she didn’t let go. She tucked it against her chest and carried it away.

“Come on, you little stinker,” she told it. “Let’s see if we can’t fix that wing of yours.”

-

Tales from Athendrolyn Taglist: @foxys-fantasy-tales @auroblaze @thelaughingstag @auntdarth @damageinkorporated

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[softagenda]

rest, ye merry gentleman

leander x reader(neutral)

jealousy x gift giving x winter vibes

originally posted on ao3

masterlist

Preview

“And should I not expect a simple morsel of your regard, or am I not worth even a crumb from your table?”

An incredulous laugh bubbled up from your throat. You watched his expression grow mulish at the sound, before shaking your head. “You’re serious about this.”

_______________________________

Winter’s chill covered the city in a thin, gossamer sheet of ice. Moonlight glinted and sparkled off rooftops and lampposts, icicles like sharp fangs dangling from their eves and arms. Snow flurried down and slipped beneath your hood as you skirted along the slippery street toward the Wet Wick.

Even Eridia, the city that never sleeps, seemed to settle in for a night indoors - the streets empty but for a few hurrying travelers, some carrying boxes and satchels, eyes darting around and arms guarding their packages. You drew more than a few wary looks with the black cloak and sword strapped to your hip.

When you turned the corner and spotted the familiar sign trembling above the door, you sagged a little with relief. Finally. After three back to back jobs hunting down monsters, your body ached for the sweet release of a bath and sleep. 

As you’d expect, the end of year festivities in Eridia enticed people to congregate: packed markets with sumptuous food and exotic ingredients, vendors hawking jewelry and luxuries for gifts, buskers singing, dancing, and playing instruments all along the street. And congregating people drew not only more business and fanfare into the city, but monsters along the trade routes and Soulless within the alleys. You and Mhin had been running into each other so frequently in between exterminations that you’d set up an informal coffee break in the early evening at a local strudel stand.

The bell jingled merrily as you stepped over the threshold. A wave of warm, ale-steeped air embraced you, soothing the chill across your cheeks. A small crowd of people remained in the Wick, a huddle of Hounds here, a sleeping drunk there. The musician drowsily strummed on his lute as he sat on the edge of the stage, listing toward the young man watching him moonily from a nearby table.

The bartender glanced up, caught sight of you, and lifted a brow.

You thought for a second before nodding. A bath could wait a little longer - the open armchair by the fire was calling.

By the time you reached the bar, a glass of whiskey awaited you. You grabbed it, took a fortifying, burning sip, before making your way toward the fire. As you grew closer to the two wingback armchairs, two leather boots came into view propped up on the rug. A hand draped over the edge, gloved fingers holding the rim of a twin whiskey glass.

Your gaze drew up the stout, black leather and golden buckles, thick thigh muscle encased lovingly within the material, before you forced yourself to look away, your mouth suddenly dry.

Leander stirred when you dropped into the armchair opposite him. His dark eyes caught yours for a moment, the firelight flickering from within their depths, before a smile turned the corner of his mouth. “Wondered when you’d come back. I almost gave up and turned in.”

You shot him a look, not dignifying that lie with a response. Even without knowledge of his insomnia, you knew for a fact that Leander would not have casually shrugged off your absence. He had likely planned to wait until midnight, then send a call out to the Hounds to find you.

His protective nature, once he had decided to include you in his ‘pack,’ warmed your heart and at times frustrated you to no end. 

Leander grinned, his cheek propped up on his palm. “You’re right - who am I fooling? How could I sleep without you there to warm my bed?” 

“I suppose that explains why you don’t.” You snorted, taking a larger sip and relishing the sweet taste in your mouth, the burn down your throat. 

“Yet,” he murmured, his deep voice warming your blood faster than any alcohol, before he changed topic. “How’d the jobs go?”

“Fine.” Your schedule had been so full of exterminations, the cycle of monsters so repetitive, that you’d grown almost bored with it all. “There was a small adjustment on the last one - requester had noted one Soulless, but we found four - but nothing we couldn’t handle.”

“We?”

“Mhin and I.” A yawn broke through your words, a weight of sleep settling in your chest. You nestled a little deeper in the armchair and leaned your head against the leather side. “They were working the same street, so we teamed up. Then I skinned a zalamander, sold it to the leatherer, and here I am.”

Leander hummed, staring at your wrist. “That bracelet’s from them, I suppose.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” You lifted your arm. A thin silver band gleamed in the firelight, etched with runic symbols of protection. It’d been a surprise - a welcome one - when, face aflame, they’d shoved a satchel into your hand and shot off into the night, stammering all the while. You glanced up at Leander’s face and promptly sighed. “Don’t.’

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that.” Your eyes narrowed on him, knowingly. “Lock those dragon eyes away.”

Those same eyes bore into yours, covetous and secretive, emerald depths glowing ever so slightly effervescent. 

“Mhin’s terrible about gifts. You know it. They literally threw it at me before vanishing into the night, like a vampire fleeing a rosary.” You looked away and drank the rest of your whiskey, the ice kissing your lips. “Said they didn’t like to owe people.”

“And why did they feel a debt was owed?”

“I gave them and Kuras a couple loaves of spiced walnut bread. Remember, from last week?”

“Ah.” A long moment passed, then Leander slowly uncurled from the armchair and leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees. He held your gaze over the bridge of his fingers, his mouth hidden from view. “And you say I shouldn’t feel envious?”

You frowned. “Over bread?”

“Mhin, Kuras. Ais. Even Vere has received a gift from you this winter.” 

“You mean the dagger he literally stole from me after I tried to stab him with it?” Certainly an unintentional gift that you very much held a grudge over. It was an enchanted dagger with a blood-thinning curse - cuts from the blade would prove particularly difficult to heal. You could only hope he chose to ‘regift’ it at some point. Probably in a dark alley, when you least expected it.

Leander’s eyes narrowed. “I know that scarf around Morhan’s neck was from you.”

You glanced at the bartender before replying, a little defensive, “After so many free drinks, it seemed rude not to give him something.”

He huffed, glaring into the fire.

You sat up, drowsy warmth fading at his tone. “You literally ate two of those loaves by yourself at breakfast that day. You wouldn’t even share with your men.” Indignant, more than a little confused, you wondered where this was all coming from, when - “Wait. Are you… jealous?”

“And should I not expect a simple morsel of your regard, or am I not worth even a crumb from your table?”

An incredulous laugh bubbled up from your throat. You watched his expression grow mulish at the sound, before shaking your head. “You’re serious about this.”

The flicker of hurt, barely there and quickly concealed, sobered you up immediately.

With a long, heavy sigh, you sat the glass down on the floor and rose from the chair. He straightened at your approach, his jaw clenched before dropping completely when you nudged him back with a hand on his shoulder and braced a knee on the cushion, leaning over his lap.

One of Leander’s hands settled on your hip as he tipped backward, lifting his chin to stair up into your face. Your gaze trailed over his strong jaw, high cheekbones, proud nose - the thick fan of lashes around his gorgeous green eyes. You cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking the jagged edge of his scar, heat pooling in your stomach.

You smiled. “Go to bed.”

He listed closer, his fingers searching for the hem of your shirt. “Come with me?”

Your thumb rose higher, brushing the dark circles under his eyes. “It’s been two days at least. You need the rest. Actual rest.”

“I spoke true, earlier. I would sleep much better with you in my arms,” he said, his voice low and deep. Maybe, after hours of decidedly sleepless activities. His gaze dipped slightly to your lips, before rising once more. Then he stilled. “Two days?”

You licked your lips, delighting at the way his eyes immediately paid fervid attention to them, before craning your neck to say, just beyond his mouth, “Had you returned to your rooms since, you would not be sulking over gifts at all.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in as Leander rose, attempting to capture your lips in a kiss. Then the hazy longing cleared as his eyes brightened in understanding. “You…”

Two days prior, you had snuck into his room and laid a wrapped parcel on his nightstand. A gold spyglass, enchanted with the ability to see through walls, across vast distances, and to map the stars. Compact enough to hand on his belt or in the pocket of his coat. Engraved with the symbol of the Bloodhounds. It had cost several days wages, but luckily you had enough to spare after the busy season.

Smirking, you kissed him quick and sweet before sliding out of his grasp. He was a couple seconds too late to trap you, missing your waist but catching your hand. Leander tugged you closer and held your gaze as he placed a slow, equally sweet kiss on your knuckles. “Well, now you have to come. You must be present so that I can convey my gratitude immediately and …  appropriately.”

‘Appropriately’ undoubtedly meant enthusiastically, carnally, and relentlessly. 

Heat burned in your cheeks, but you held fast to your intentions. “I won’t be complicit in your insomnia.” At his pout, you mused, “rest well tonight, and perhaps I could be persuaded tomorrow…”

“I’ll hold you to that,” and to me, his eyes seemed to say.

“I’m counting on it.” 

Finally, you tugged your hand free and headed toward the stairs, his gaze like a heated caresse on your back.

When you had removed your coat and prepared to undress for a bath, you noticed a box on your pillow. Beneath the wrapped lid and silk ribbon, nestled in a velvet cushion, laid a new, enchanted dagger. It had a supple leather handle and a large, oval emerald set into the pommel. 

You lifted the dagger and brought the blade to your face. Pure silver. Runes etched into the spine forming the cornerstone of a curse: paralysis and blood-thinning.

You paused for a long moment, hot down to your bones, before turning on your heel and heading to the door. 

Leander could get that night’s sleep tomorrow instead.

__________________________

a/n: comments and kudos appreciated! happy holidays!

[josephquinnswhore]

the devil is real and he’s a besotted outlaw - micah bell x female reader

summary: Micah bell can be a twisted man, and you’re complacent in his actions.

word count: 1.7k

content warning: micah bell, LOL. micah uses a gun to get reader off, p in v, raw sex, creampie, f and m orgasm. use of degrading words. Karen slander (just for the plot I swear I love her.)

At this time in the evening, generally everyone around camp had retired to their tents, the sun had set many hours ago. But the orange hue from the fire burning around the empty campfire still flicks embers into the sky, you watch them disappear.

Your boyfriend had been stoking the fire every so often before tossing the stick with his usual carelessness beside the seat he had leaned backward in to find a comfortable position. As comfortable as he could with you sitting on his lap, cradling the warm metal mug in your cold palms, sipping occasionally.

“Shouldn’t be drinkin’ that right before bed,” he chastises softly, but there's no real scolding behind his words.

“It don't seem like you're gonna head to bed anytime soon.”

Not now that he’d picked up one of his twin revolvers. The custom piece featured a unique dark grey steel frame, one that had been polished only the evening prior. The grip was also custom created, black skulls engraved and delicately painted contrast against the red grip.

He pours some gun oil onto a cloth, and wraps his arms around your hips to your front as he begins his chore of cleaning the weapon, movements precise and meticulous. After a few moments, he feels a strain in his neck trying to gaze over you, so he simply rests his chin on your shoulder, stopping the task for but a moment to press a delicate kiss to the exposed skin.

A small hum escapes you, and he gets back to his task at hand. One thing you liked about him, he didn’t favour small talk, he preferred these moments of tranquility with you where there were no peering eyes and stout whispers.

When you finish your cup of coffee, your attempt to stand was intercepted by Micah’s hands gripping onto your hips. “Where do you think you're going? Weren't you stayin’ up with me?”

“I am, just going to Pearson’s wagon to clean my mug and I’ll be back.”

You let out a noise of surprise when he pulls you back down onto his lap, taking the mug out of your much smaller hands to set it carefully on the ground beside him. It was sweet, seeing how he cared for your things with a delicacy that he held private for the things most important to him.

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere without me, an’ I ain't ready to get up yet.” His tone is quiet, but you know better than to disobey what he asks when it's not reasonable. The mug could just be cleaned later on.

A small yawn escapes you, regardless of the mug of caffeine you’d finished moments before, and Micah sets aside his guns at the noise. “Tired?” The soft murmur against your skin created a demand for goosebumps on your neck. Coarse hairs of his moustache tickle your neck as he begins to kiss the raised skin.

“Partially,” you reply in a quiet murmur.

“Well, I best wake you up, hm?” Pulling away from your neck, all of your attention is now drawn to his large hands on the skirt of your dress as he bunches it at your waist to expose your legs underneath. “Now ain’t that a sight?”

“Micah–” a soft protesting whine is about to deny him, and he interrupts.

His hands trail upward, making you forget what you were about to scold him for, fingers trailing up your thighs over the sheer material of those pretty drawers you always wore. His thick digits were moving the piece to the side delicately to get where he wanted without much resistance from you, to his delight.

“Christ, girl, ain’t fair keeping this all to yourself.”

A protestful noise escapes your throat when his hands pull away from your need, causing you to rut your hips in search of his thick fingers. “Tsk, so impatient,” he chastises.

But it's not his hand that returns to caress your swollen clit, it's cold, and you flinch backwards against his chest. When you look down to see what it was that he was using on you–a part of you stills, perhaps in curiosity, fear or need. You weren’t entirely sure what you felt.

Before you could say anything he runs the already oiled up clean gun against your sensitive nub, causing your back to arch further, head resting on his shoulder behind you. “Oh.. Micah..” you trail off, unable to deny the pleasure from the crude act. “This.. is so twisted.”

His chuckle is deep and causes another demand of goosebumps to rise against your hot skin, rubbing the sleek barrel of his revolver agasint your clitorus at an agonisingly slow pace. “I don’t see you pulling away from it, girl.”

The sensation is incredible, ending up in you resorting to seeking more friction by rutting against the weapon sloppily, the increased pace makes your thighs tremble against his own. “Seems like my desperate girl is just as twisted as I supposedly am.”

Unable to control yourself, selfishly ravishing his weapon for your own sake, the orgasm you experience has you crying out softly into the still air of the evening, a smirk plastered on Micah’s face as you tremble against him. Your hips finally still from your greedy seeking ruts.

Micah partially lifts you off his lap, unzipping his cream coloured jeans before lowering you back down onto his hard cock. Your hole was perfect, the kind of pleasure that a man would seek salvation in. His hands are guiding you in a repetitive motion, a low groan coming from Micah that only allows his cock to slide easier into you.

“Micah..” there's not much more you can think to utter other than his name. Completely unable to make any sense after that absurd orgasm he caused moments before.

There's one thing about him, his impatience, the need for you. In his greed, he tires of slowly guiding you down onto him, and prospers to drill into you harshly as he raises his hips to thrust into you. No coherent words leave your lips, merely the strangled sounds of pleasure as you struggle to catch your breath against his cock pummelling into you. Hands sliding underneath the bodice of your gown to grasp roughly onto one of your breasts.

With a few harsh and desperate deep, sloppy thrusts he is spilling into you, pulling you closer to him as he bites down into your neck. His breathing is uneven and hot against your shoulder, giving your breast one last squeeze he removes his hand, and a wince of overstimulation he pulls his cock out of you.

Offering one of his hands, he helps you to stand, fixing your dress and helping smooth it out at the bodice. You're still in a daze, confused and your entire body feeling the aftermath of the explosive intimate encounter.

You didn't say anything as Micah led you to his tent, a hand resting on your lower back to guide you, but you didn't need to. “You did good, girl. Real good.” At his praise, your skin warms, flushing with your entire body at the sweet sentiment.

Of course you're having troubles the next morning, because why did you think that no one heard your performance with Micah last night? Karen is the only one with enough gall to confront you, the look of pure disgust she gave you, and the way she tried to stand over you like she was trying to intimidate you. “You’re disgusting, Micah of all people. You must really be some desperate kind of whore.”

This infuriates you, they didn't know micah like you did, how sweet and consolable and caring he really could be. “No, I guess you don't understand, do you? You’re being sour toward me because you know no man wants you at all!”

The blonde woman saunters closer to you, with a tone of threat. “What did you just say?”

Micah hears the commotion and intercepts, changing his course as he starts walking towards the scene.

“Oh look, it's the sack of shit himself.” Karen gestures towards Micah and you sneer at her.

You’re quick to lash back to defend Micah. “Get back on the bottle, you miserable cow.”

Things are heating up between the two of you, Micah standing tall beside you.

“Back off you drunken wench,” Micah snarls, finally stepping in front of you.

But Karen does not allow this to deter her rampage directed at you, looking past Micah to spit drunken insults. “I mean seriously, sleeping with Micah Bell? You’re making a damn fool of yourself. Micah is the last person you should trust. He’s no better off than the devil, you’d do best to stay away if you had any mind!”

“I didn't ask for your goddamn opinion, now shut the hell up!”

“You stupid little girl,” she spits, pointing a finger at you. “You think you're safe with the likes of him?”

But this had gone on long enough and Micah had finally had enough of Karen and her drunken tirade against you. “Enough outta you.” Glowering down at Karen, “say another word that insults her, and I promise I’ll make use outta that gun I cleaned last night, y’hear me?”

“Now back off.” He threatens, standing tall in front of you, creating a barrier between the women as he protects you from any further in slew of insults.

Finally, karen gets the message, albeit muttering as she walks away from the scene she had created.

“You alright? She didn't touch ya, did she?” He murmurs softly as he glances at you, inspecting you to make sure you are unharmed.

“I’m fine. I.. I mean I’m not hurt.” You correct yourself.

He grips onto your chin softly. “Don’t listen to her nonsense, y’hear me? I ain’t about t’let her get in your head.” A frown forms on his face at your silence. “It don't matter what she, or any other folk think about us. You trust me, don’cha?”

“Course I trust you,” you utter in promise.

“Good.” His murmur is soft, meant for only your ears. As is his gentle caress as he runs his thumb over your cheek, his frown fading into a more neutral expression. “Then don't you pay no mind to what folk say about me, especially when it comes to my involvement with you. They don't know the first damn thing about me, none of ‘em.”

His words sink in, and a crack of a smile finally reaches your lips, to which his expression mirrors your own. “There's my pretty girl.”

Yeah, it was worth it.

[caltropspress]

Earl Sweatshirt: A Geography of Grief and Growth

I made myself the poet of the world. The white man had found a poetry in which there was nothing poetic….I had soon to change my tune.

—Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (1952)

I suggest that we do not necessarily need to hear and know what is stated in its entirety, that we do not need to “master” or conquer the narrative as a whole, that we may know in fragments.

—bell hooks, “Teaching New Worlds/New Words” (1994)

Breakin’ ’em down to micro-fragments.

—Saafir, “Battle Drill” (1994)

What is asked of me is not to ascend but to descend.

—Robert Bly (1990)

1.

Earl Sweatshirt’s arc, swerving and dervishy, isn’t difficult to see, as we’ve witnessed it with him—we’re either interlocutors or interlopers, both with questionable motives. So when Earl looks back on school daze, as he does on “OD,” we look back with him (though ours is often an imperial gaze [HOW COULD IT NOT BE?]). We tee-hee and titter as we hear that “somebody tooted in the student commons,” tooted being the most puerile word for gas he could have chosen. An array of scatological options were ignored. It’s a deliberate gesture toward juvenilia. He doesn’t want his expression to be too mature, ha. He wants to welcome you to the romper room, ha. Remaining a kid until the moment he expires, apparently. So he sets the adolescent scene: the student commons. “The bell rang,” and the accused student was spared the prolonged opprobrium. In about four seconds, the student will begin to post. He “went home and argued in the comments,” channeling his embarrassment elsewhere, talking shit (shit) on the internet behind the safety and quasi-anonymity of a screen—an odd facade. He can walk right up to your avi and diss you. That’s his philosophy. The public humiliation replaced with a private self-possession. The discomfort of the crowd exchanged for the solace of solitude.

2.  DID AN ANGEL SPEAK?

The sonics of “tooted” and “student” are twee, giggle-inducing. We laugh along with the concatenation of m and n phonemes [somebody | student | commons | rang | went | home | then | in | comments]. The near-homophonous commons and comments scan hysterical. With “OD,” it’s easy to confuse adolescence with adulthood. That “somebody” committed this social transgression seems defensive. Maybe it was him—the subject, Earl, Thebe—seeing as how the rest of the song is delivered in the first-person. Embrace the Age of Immaturity. Channel the Fat Boys: Darren Robinson’s flatulent beatbox. Place it beside the disorderly lyrics that Bobbito spits: “I write my own shit from finish to start, / Diminish the heart, / I eat a knish and then I fart.” Like the Cenobites, Earl kicks a dope verse, and only that. “I keep my sentences short,” he says on “EAST.” Beauty is brevity, brevity beauty. A “brevity pack,” as Earl has referred to the Feet of Clay songs. He strives to be live ’cause he got no choice. He runs his own business like James Joyce. In A Portrait of the Artists as a Young Man, a similar flatus incident unravels. At Clongowes Wood College (Stephen Dedalus’s Coral Reef Academy), a “stout student who stood below…on the steps” by the name of Goggins “farted briefly.” Sonically, the sentence shares much with Earl’s opening line. Dixon asks, in a “soft voice,” “Did an angel speak?” But the others react with bellicosity and name-calling (stinkpot; flamingest dirty devil). Goggins doesn’t retreat home; he simply asks, “It did no one any harm, did it?” You still bet that you can harm me, but you don’t alarm me, Goggins might say another way, reprising Del the Funky Homosapien, echoplexing Masta Ace. 

3. 

Earl “watched the doppler move,” the wavelength shift—the siren song of the “toot,” something insidious—or maybe it’s just the tremors we’re feeling. Woop, woop: that’s the sound of the beast, KRS would say. The frequency shivers. The shift, the movéd doppler, means Earl is immediately older, he’s the child who “get[s] introduced to violence,” even if he acknowledges the line was inspired by his nephew on a playground in South Africa, experiencing apartheid reincarnate as a whiteboy cuts him in line for the slide. Cranly, bullying Goggins, “shove[s] him violently down the steps.” The doppler moves. It slides into violence—like the violence visited upon the MOVE compound located at 6221 Osage Avenue in Philly in 1985. Gradations of black/white. ELUCID mentions the “gray on [his] face showing age” on his Osage (2016) project. Isn’t it strange—how the youngins can turn cold, hoarfrosty, in an instant? The grayscale cover to ELUCID’s tape is graced by a photograph of Birdie Africa, the sole child survivor of the siege. The bone fragments of the MOVE children have since been used in anthropology courses at UPenn and Princeton—case studies. It’s a good trope. Fascinating stuff.

4.  TRYIN’ TO TRANSFORM YOU BOYS TO MEN LIKE DAYCARE

When JuJu of the Beatnuts asked, You want pain?, he wasn’t referencing the dramatical-traumatical pain Earl negotiates—JuJu’s question posed a ruffneck and ruffian pain on “Watch Out Now.” Somewhere closer to Marcy, where Jay-Z’s streets was watching. Earl clocks minutes, anaphoric with what he watches (I watched the doppler… / I watched a child…), much like Dylan’s portentous hard rain in which he saw endless racialized visions: “I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it”; “I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’”; “I saw a white ladder all covered with water.” For Earl, the ladder is a slide. The saw is watched. Witnesses all.

5.

In “Theory as Liberatory Practice,” bell hooks writes that she “came to theory because [she] was hurting”: “I wanted to make the hurt go away. I saw in theory then a location for healing.” hooks says that she “came to theory young, when [she] was still a child,” citing Terry Eagleton who argues that “[c]hildren make the best theorists.” Children, Eagleton insists, possess “a wondering estrangement.” No wonder, then, that “since a jit” Earl has found no use in “giving up.” He rather make it make sense. 

6.

I beat you to the point. Having gained experience, there’s nothing you can tell Earl that he doesn’t already know, that he hasn’t already seen. He’s seen enough, had enough. He doesn’t await the mob’s pursuit; he places the noose on himself, he RE: DEFines it within his own lexicon. His noose, therefore, “is golden.” He’s a young youth, rockin’ the gold [noose], DEATHWORLD goose. He speaks with criminal slang, with a split tongue like ELUCID. Where ELUCID was “true and living, actual—no dull axes, owner of all heads,” Earl is “true and living, lonesome,” with no skulls to keep him company. He has to square up with the “pugilistic moments” on his own. 

7.  I AM OLDER THAN I ONCE WAS AND YOUNGER THAN I’LL BE

I’m thinking of “The Pugilist at Rest” (1991) by Thom Jones, whose epileptic protag describes a “grainy black-and-white photograph” of the bronze statue called The Pugilist at Rest. The pugilist, with a pocketful of mumbles, has “slanted, drooping brows that bespeak torn nerves” and a forehead “piled with scar tissue.” Torn nerves and scar tissue—sounds like the physical manifestations of grief. And, yes, Earl has grieved, and he continues to grieve—as listeners, we’re accustomed to his grief pedigree, as per Ka. In the past, Earl was “panicking a lot”—he just “want[ed] [his] time and [his] mind intact.” That’s a cold fact.

The narrator of “The Pugilist at Rest” readies himself for a cingulotomy—a psychosurgical procedure that will “cauterize a small spot in a nerve bundle in [his] brain.” In other words, he wants to keep his mind intact. The neurosurgeon promises the operation will lift “the heaviness of a heart blackened by sin,” which is what convinces the narrator to agree to it. Good grief, he thinks, he’s been reaping what he sowed. He “can’t go on like this,” barely living “with a deadening sense of languor,” a phrase which calls to mind Earl’s lethargic, slugabed flow. Feeling insane in the membrane, like he’s a Soul Assassinated, exploring the depths beneath his whooligan behaviors. 376 was a brothel. “Good and evil are only illusions,” Jones writes. In anticipation of the surgery, the protag considers the worst-case [so what, so what] scenario: “If they fuck up the operation, I hope I get to keep my dogs somehow.”

8.  MOURNING & MEDICINE FOR MELANCHOLIA

Grief carries its own antidote along with it.

—Charles Brockden Brown, Wieland (1798)

“Grief is the door to feeling,” Robert Bly says. But Earl, on “Grief,” told us he “ain’t been outside in a minute”—and that minute, whether we’re speaking with criminal slang like Nas on “It Ain’t Hard To Tell” or not, is an eternity. Earl hadn’t crossed that threshold, hadn’t kicked in that door. MIKE would realize it much later on “No Curse Lifted (rivers of love),” how you “had to walk through the grief,” even if it “was the worst feeling.” In 2015, though, Earl found these passageways distorted. Like the undulating photograph on the cover of his first mixtape. Like the blur-obscured selfie on the cover of Some Rap Songs. Like the static-scrambled cover of I Don’t Like Shit, I Don’t Go Outside. Earl’s dealt in fragmentary confuzzled noise for a full career. He’s been standing on the corner, red burnt, moving down alien lanes paved by GBV, greenthinking to himself. It ain’t hard to tell that Earl “don’t act hard” and yet is a “hard act to follow.” The density or opacity of his exterior notwithstanding, grief don’t come easy. “As men,” Bly says, “we’re taught not to feel pain and grief as children.” So Earl spits somnolent, numb-tongued and slack-jawed. Like he said on “Cold Summers”: muffle my pain and muzzle my brain up. 

“I’ve been alone in my shit for the longest,” he spit on “Grief,” and in work as recent as “Vin Skully,” he’s still figuring out “how to stay afloat in a bottomless pit.” Bly says that “we receive something from our father by standing close to him—something moves over that can’t be described in material terms.” Bly speaks of being in a “conspiracy with his mother” from early on. Earl finds himself “thinking ’bout [his] grandmama” while he wallows and lies in a bottle. “Grief” catalogs all the things his mama taught him. Earl’s work, of late, is autodestructive. He peels away and pastes back haphazardly. He vibes with this Bly shit: “If you can deny something so fundamental as grief in the whole family, you can deny anything. And then how can you write poetry if you’re involved in that much denial?”

Bly goes on to quote Alice Miller, the psychoanalyst who gave us The Drama of the Gifted Child (1979): “When you were young, you needed something you did not receive, and you will never receive it. And the proper attitude is mourning.” Mourning is the proper attitude, not blame—mourning. Mourning makes its way through moaning and mumbling—Earl’s current intonation. On “Grief,” he “cut the grass off the surface [and] pray[s] the lawnmower blade catch the back of a serpent.” Philip Larkin’s poem “The Mower” (1979) leans more literal: “The mower stalled, twice; I found / A hedgehog jammed up against the blades, / Killed. It had been in the long grass.” Larkin’s speaker genuflects before the innocent critter, recalling how he “fed it, once.” Now, he mourns how he has “mauled its unobtrusive world, / Unmendably. Burial was no help.” Earl, of course, is less forgiving of the serpents in the grass. They’re threats, not friends. Still, a void opens up when the mower—(and let’s not forget the lawnmower is a modernized scythe)—does its mowing. Grief is the door to feeling, and on the other side:

Next morning I got up and it did not. The first day after a death, the new absence Is always the same; we should be careful Of each other, we should be kind While there is still time.

9.  NOBODY KNOW WHO MADE THIS WELL, FOR IT WAS HERE WHEN I WAS BORN

“Come get to know me at my innermost…”

Riveting, Earl raps. Earl raps are riveting. We fix to the flow—riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s. We’re invited to know Earl, to become familiar, and his “innermost” is a constant vacillation between optimism and [afro]pessimism. The sudden switches—these switches on bitches like fixed with hydraulics—establish what Danny Schwartz, writing for Rolling Stone, called an “uneven terrain.”

Earl’s “family business [is] anguished,” and that’s recognizable. We’ve known Earl (on “Chum”) with the “pendulum swinging slow” and low. He holed up, hostage-like, in his “heart’s bottomless pit.” Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum” (1842) brand of captivity. “I was sick,” that narrator says, “—sick unto death with that long agony.” Something tells me there should be an exclamation point there (SICK!). Earl Sweatshirt was down, down, down. “I was in the fucking pits for like 10 months post my pops dying,” he said in an interview. The Spanish Inquisition ain’t shit.

But for these countless downs, “OD” tracks the ups like naloxone in the nasal membrane. “Now I need atonement,” Earl notes—he makes a case for reparations. He “sets the goal[s]” like some motivational speaker. If “half [his] wings is broken,” he can “spread the other for [his] brodie OD.” Somewhat circumspect as he’s “tiptoeing,” yet the approach is laden with “too much love.” Even when his “sister showed in a rut,” he’s joining arms with her and “getting over, sending up.” That rut she walks—like Eudora Welty’s worn path (1941)—is a path through the pinewoods, and she’s suddenly Phoenix Jackson. “She was very old and small,” Welty writes, and she moves “with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock.” Even with her pentium processing and pendulum low, she swings back up—the rise of her namesake. She screams phoenix, her feathers and flames are one skin. “Living in the moment,” Earl raps, and his craft is bars. “You been corrupt”—and, sure, who hasn’t?—but you recover with “some ginabot.” Welty’s Old Phoenix surveys a spring “silently flowing through a hollow log.” She bends and drinks and says, “Sweet gum makes the water sweet.” It’s the equivalent to Earl putting “shilajit in his sippy cup,” which is “healing cuts revealingly.” And, yes, from a “sippy cup,” so we’re back to toddling around again (“Since a jit,” he says). “I can’t give enough,” Earl raps, his last winding-sheet made of nard and myrrh. 

10.

We crouch and teeter, caterwauling along the ledges, for we’ve got these clumsy feet of clay. This is the intended effect[/defect]; this is the rubble of what Earl calls the “crumbling empire.” This is us feeling the violent vibes of the “death throes” he speaks of. Why would we expect anything to resemble traditional song or rhyme structure when the earth quakes, civilization trembles, and Earl’s dungeon shakes? His chains have fallen off. The tenor is tremors. He’s living the trife life—hell on earth—but still living. Earl’s done trying to not look down—he embraces an outer appearance which scans dour; he deliberately gazes into the pit, inviting the vertigo, for it “haunts the whole of existence,” as Fanon says. But Frank B. Wilderson III promises a “vengeance of vertigo.”

11.

Gallons of rubbing alcohol flow through the strip, and Earl’s lips. He’s “refilling the pump”—his heart, yeah—but with a sawed-off shotgun, hand-on-the-pump posture. There’s “no concealing it,” not even with a concealed carry permit. He brandishes right back at “the enemy up in arms bearing snubs.” The mood swings; been down so long it looks like up to him. The turns require tourniquets. This is some Battle of Dak To torture—somewhere between Retaliation and the Heavenly Divine. Emotional turmoil seems violent by design, and Earl’s “memory [is] really leaking blood.” Fear not, the blood is “congealing, stuck.” Like Havoc says, “The Mobb rollin’ thicker.” Prodigy cites it, too: “This ain’t rap—it’s bloodsport.” But Earl has known that all along—he’s been “mobbin’ deep as ’96 Havoc and Prodigy did” since 2013.

12.

HipHopDX’s Kevin Cortez referred to listeners having to “sift through the muddle” in order to appreciate the bars, but where muddle suggests a disorderly conduct, a kaos network, Earl’s style, more appropriately, models. The woozy, wavy, and inner-conflict-war-torn vocals model an abstraction that anticipates the listener’s loyalty. This is what I’ve got, brief and cryptic as the gesture may be, the model says. Writing for NME, Dhruva Balram described Earl’s lyrics as “slurred,” but slurry is the form.

13.

If the empire can deploy Orwellian technologies of repression, its outcasts have the gods of chaos on their side…

—Mike Davis, Planet of Slums (2005)

So if we’re giving ourselves over to the woozes and waves, we’ll just as well find ourselves lost. Let’s go—like those tourist books run by students—and let’s wander eastward. Follow our napkin-scrawled directions and disorientations to a somewhere elsewhere. Let’s go east for a second, for a spell, on a lark, in the dark (word to AKAI SOLO). Earl’s bloodwork contains “pieces of slums”—or more aptly, [sLUms]. He’s hand-to-hand with that Jungle Boy MIKE, but also the god Mike Davis. “[T]he cities of the future,” Davis wrote, would be “constructed out of crude brick, straw, recycled plastic, cement blocks, and scrap wood.” Just the same as an Earl Sweatshirt verse is built—under the tutelage and overstanding-sharing, symbiotically, with MIKE. Davis says our cities aren’t “cities of light soaring toward heaven,” but a world that “squats in squalor, surrounded by pollution, excrement, and decay.” Smells like somebody tooted in the student commons. Smells like a slum village, something we’ve smelled before—possibly coming straight from the slums of Shaolin. 

14.  ACID EASTERNS

Earl trekked to the East and squinted into “one beacon in the dust weaving”—like Clint Eastwood arriving out of the hazy horizon ether of High Plains Drifter (1973). But Earl is heading to the East, blackwards. And though Brother J claimed you can’t define what’s direct from the East, Jeru told us on The Sun Rises in the East that you can’t stop the prophet either. So on “EAST,” Earl traverses a tricky terrain—it’s tricky, tricky, tricky because it’s an acid western landscape: an acid eastern.

The path isn’t direct or linear—it zigs and zags like rolling papers, and stimulates the same. “Double back when you got it made,” Earl says at the start of his journey “EAST.” The objective is to talk sense condensed into the form of a poem like Special Ed once did on “I Got It Made.” Instead, Earl’s poems—his L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poems—skew [non]sense, go form[less], and vaporize rather than condense. Lyn Hejinian in cinnamon Timbs: “constant change figures / the time we sense.” The narrative is hallucinogenic (note: “how the story careen against the bars”). Earl’s bindle contains “thirty racks and weed [with] no fat in the collard greens.” That’s how he gets funky on the mic like an old batch. That’s how he gets sincerity on the mic: “Off top it’s me—no cap, / I don’t bottle things.” That buck that bought a bottle could’ve struck the lotto, maybe. But Earl’s “canteen was full of the poison [he] need[s].” He gets where he’s going like El Topo, bereft. The “trip was long and steep”—that being an acid trip—so let me see you try to ride a horse into the chasms of the canyon.

“EAST” is a death meditation, a grand duel between Dantean and Donneian lyric voices [he damn-near well should’ve double-tracked the vocals]. In a 2015 interview with SPIN, Earl is asked about the worst thing he did that year, to which he replies: “Umm…acid?” He elaborates: “I took it at a time when I really didn’t need to be taking acid. I had like a fucking existential crisis at, like, four in the morning. But it was tight. We reeled it back.” Jodorowsky called El Topo (1970) an “eastern” in that it “incorporat[ed] ancient eastern wisdom in the materiality of American cowboys.” For Earl, it’s more a rhinestone cowboy—he holds the cold one like he holds an old gun (as evidenced in the “EAST” music video). DOOM was no stranger to grief, of course, and the rumors persist regarding the bad acid that precipitated Subroc’s early demise (“Bad Acid” also being the original title for “December 24”).

Estranged Earl, alienated—a high plains drifter (not Clint Eastwood, though) who rechristens a town “Hell” through a baptism of blood. Like the Beastie Boys’ version, Earl pulls out a pair of pliers and pulls a bullet out of his chest. He pulls through, true and living. “I’m long distance from my girl,” Mike D raps, so he’s “talking on the cellular,” but Earl is more alienated than that—beyond racking up roaming charges, immersed in dead zones. He “lost [his] phone and consequently all the feelings [he] caught for [his] GF.” Relationships can’t be sustained in these bleak and barren locations. All the blood has been drained from the ruddy faces—sanguine scenery. In his essay “On the Acid Western,” Jonathan Rosenbaum discusses how the subgenre “refuses to respect or valorize bloodshed.” Memory really leaking blood. Congealing. Stuck. To paraphrase Rosenbaum, Earl’s acid eastern “formulat[es] a chilling, savage frontier poetry to justify [his] hallucinated agenda—a view at once clear-eyed and visionary, exalted and laconic, moral and unsentimental, witty and beautiful, frightening and placid.” Earl’s “innocence was lost in the East,” and obsessives speculate whether this refers to Samoa or New York City—how far east we going? Countless spirit-questers pit-stopping at ashrams, searching for that Gifted Unlimited Rhymes Universal guide. 

“I wait a beat,” Earl says. His canteen stays filled, auto-replenishes. His “cognitive dissonance shattered” and the “necessary venom restored.” Jodorowsky reportedly once taped snakes to his chest for an experimental theater performance. As if it matters if you think it matters anymore. Or, as ELUCID says, “Words mean things but don’t have to.” Acids and bases. Occident and Orient. Western and Eastern. Up is down.

15.  NOTHING LIKE US EVER WAS

Earl’s “EAST” accordion beat—or whatever Orkes Gambus Al Fata instrumentation is at work—is more madcap than madvillainous. In my head is Erick Sermon, though, speaking about how “the flow slow…like a jazz player, or someone on the accordion” on “Knick Knack Patty Wack.” But I’m less concerned with the flow of air through bellows—compressing and expanding—than I am with Earl’s rendering of wind. (Somebody tooted.)

“Let the dead be dead,” Carl Sandburg says at stanza’s end in “Four Preludes on the Playthings of the Wind” (1920). Later, he reports, “The only singers now are crows crying.” And so Earl, a lonesome crow, reminds us—and himself—that “the wind get the ashes in the end” on “December 24.” The whining, wheezing consonance of /-nd/ in “wind” and “end” manages to evoke both the wind itself and the circularity of life. The bar whooshes and whips until we’re at our end, the terminus. That circularity, that full circle: ashes to ashes. “We are the greatest city,” Sandburg repeats, “the greatest nation: / nothing like us ever was.”

Global winds be blowin’—[Of the Soul]—and so billy woods cites that same line on “Haarlem”: “Thebe said the wind get the ashes in the end, bruv.” Check the configuration of the rhime: 

The wind | gets | the ashes | in | the end   {birth}                    {life}                {death}

Even that get does work—whether it’s the violence of Death Grips’ “get got”; Too $hort threatening you to “get in where you fit in”; or the satirical sadism of Keenen Ivory Wayans’ I’m Gonna Git You Sucka. The wind wins out—it gets what it wants. On “EAST,” the wind—infinitely personified—“whispered to [Earl], ‘Ain’t it hard?’” It ain’t hard to tell that it is. How about some hardcore? Yeah, we like it raw like M.O.P. But those burns yield ashes. In Adrienne Rich’s poem “The Burning of Paper Instead of Children” (1989), she struggles with the words she uses, knowing “[t]his is the oppressor’s language / yet [she] needs to talk to you.” I know it hurts to burn, she writes, but writing is no less ardent. “The typewriter is overheated, my mouth is burning.”

Let me bring it back to Robert Bly. “In the ancient times,” Bly says, “the movement for the men was downward—a descent into grief. It’s referred to in the fairytale as ‘the time of ashes.’” Ashes, he explains, is the “code word for the ‘out of it’ time.” 

We know what it is like to take ashes in our hands. How light they are! The fingertips experience them as a kind of powder… Ashes, we note, find their way into the whorls of our fingertips, cling there, make the whorls more noticeable, more visible, more clear to us. We can take our own fingerprints with ashes.

Ashes, then, aren’t simply for the wind’s taking—ashes are for us, are necessary for us to transcend the grief the boys, the men, and the man-child experience. Bly points to the various cultures that have used ashes in initiation rites: “Ashes Time is a time set aside for the death of that ego-bound boy.” Ready to give up, so you seek the Old Earth. The elders cover your face—even your whole body—with ashes “to make [you] the color of dead people and to remind [you] of the inner death about to come.” Consider Earl’s ashen white face produced in the negative imagery of the “Grief” music video.” “The word ashes contains in it a dark feeling for death,” Bly says. “Ashes when put on the face whiten as death does.”

Earl Sweatshirt is a far cry from knocking blunt ashes into caskets.

16.

Feet of clay, hands of light…

—Moor Mother and billy woods, “Furies” (2020)

For Cheryl I. Harris, Earl’s mother, the feet of clay refer to a vulnerability we all possess no matter how formidable we may appear to become. Earl invokes the King of Babylon’s dream, a dream of an idol “meant to represent all the empires of the world,” echoing Sandburg’s imperious “greatest nation.” Earl believes “we at the feet of clay right now…We posted up live from burning Rome.” Imagine the ash pile. So Earl is here, ostensibly, to turn the disco into something dismal—how Mtume becomes “MTOMB” with its entombed sonics, as if he’s rapping from within a wall, the victim of some Poe immurement. 

17.

“I remember woods,” Earl raps on “OD.” “I remember Endom when he wasn’t remembering much, / I remember love healing the ruptures.” I remember is also the refrain and title of Joe Brainard’s poem-memoir, a term which aptly describes much of Earl’s recent output. Brainard’s memories bum-rush into the present:

I remember a dream I used to have a lot of a beautiful red and yellow and black snake in bright green grass. I remember painting “I HATE TED BERRIGAN” in big black letters all over my white wall. I remember liver.

If Earl recalls love “healing the ruptures,” then he also likely recalls Fanon: It is essential to convey to the black man that an attitude of rupture has never saved anyone. But Fanon also speaks of young Black men “maintain[ing] their alterity. Alterity of rupture, of conflict, of battle.” Earl, “feeling rushed, grew up quick.” He echoes Biggie, who “grew up a fucking screw-up,” and Raekwon, who “grew up on the crime side” (though Earl’s mama taught him, as we know from “Grief,” how to avoid the pigs, persecution, and prosecution). Eyes on the clock, Earl acknowledges this “trip around the sun” is his “25th,” so “give it up”—his survival alone deserving of a standing [on the corner] ovation. He celebrates life with “gin and rum.” Again, notably not gin and juice—murder was never the case. The only death is the inner death, the death of the ego-bound boy, that Bly describes. Earl’s gin is the drink of be[gin]ning, of genesis (“Light them Phillies up then…”), of Super Nintendo, Sega Genesis, when I was dead-broke, man… “We wasn’t supposed to be alive,” Earl says, yet here he stands.

18.  RUMINANT

Stare at the Feet of Clay album cover—an evocation of folkloric imagery: a Grimm forest with gnarled tree branches—and the enchanted, diabolic goat lying in wait. Earl’s parasocial following speculate G.O.A.T., of course, but I’m more inclined to mythopoeic possibilities. The Feet of Clay goat glares like Baphomet but frolics like a faun over fractured beats. “OD,” Earl has stated, “brought [him] up out of [his] little wreck”—a wreck of wracked nerves. Adrienne Rich encourages “diving into the wreck” (1973).

I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power.

Earl’s right there with her, submerged and blacking out, but still surviving: Really leaking blood, but refilling the pump.

In her essay “Teaching New Worlds/New Words,” bell hooks invokes Rich’s struggle to navigate the “oppressor’s language.” For hooks, as a Black writer, managing that is even more difficult and historical. “I think now of the grief of displaced ‘homeless’ Africans, forced to inhabit a world where they saw folks like themselves, inhabiting the same skin, the same condition, but who had no shared language to talk with one another, who needed ‘the oppressor’s language.’” hooks explains how Black folks have “remade that language so that it would speak beyond the boundaries of conquest and domination.”

Earl Sweatshirt, especially in his later work, has “altered [and] transformed” English, just as “enslaved Black people took broken bits of English and made of them a counter-language.” The emotional wreckage is also a linguistic heap of fragments—micro-fragments, if we’ve learned anything from Saafir. Earl, in the tradition of his ancestors, “put[s] together [his] words in such a way that the colonizer ha[s] to rethink the meaning of the English language.” “The grammatical construction of sentences in these songs” by Earl, just as by the spirituals of hundreds of years prior, “reflect[s] the broken, ruptured world of the slave.” That crumbling empire Earl mentions was faulted by feet of clay.

At the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles in 2019, sharing a dais with his mother, Cherly I. Harris, Earl spoke to this lineage directly: “Rap music is slave music—the modern-day iteration of it. Slave communication had to be encrypted. You got a code.” He shifted: “If I know what I’m saying…I can teach it to you.” On Feet of Clay, Earl is teaching to transgress. “I’m cracking my own code,” he says to an audience member during the Q&A, “how it comes out garbled…,” and then he trails off, as if making a deliberate effort to keep his answer cryptic.

hooks always saw language as “a site of resistance.” This included the incorrect usage and placement of words—she called such practices a “rebellion.” Weaponizing syntax. hooks recognized rap music as a continuation of this fight—the latest [sound]clash, hip-hop artists as rebels without a pause—while still acknowledging the collateral damage it might cause.

Rap music has become one of the spaces where black vernacular speech is used in a manner that invites dominant mainstream culture to listen—to hear—and, to some extent, be transformed. However, one of the risks of this attempt at cultural translation is that it will trivialize black vernacular speech. When young white kids imitate this speech in ways that suggest it is the speech of those who are stupid or who are only interested in entertaining or being funny, then the subversive power of this speech is undermined.

Or, as Earl once said on “Chum,” “Too Black for the white kids and too white for the Blacks,” an axiom he’s come to loathe. Perhaps Fanon had the better bar on this subject: “The white man had the anguished feeling that I was escaping from him and that I was taking something with me. He went through my pockets. He thrust probes into the least circumvolution of my brain. Everywhere he found only the obvious. So it was obvious that I had a secret.”

Despite the pitfalls (and, yeah, the pit is bottomless), Earl’s words play [wordplay] a part in retraining minds, all while exorcizing his own demons through a steady diet of ashes and fractures. hooks promises us that “in the patient act of listening to another tongue we may subvert that culture of capitalist frenzy and consumption that demands all desire must be satisfied immediately.” Through his embrace of a language that indulges in passion and cerebral coding, Earl “heal[s] the splitting of mind and body” so common within Western metaphysical thought. Earl Sweatshirt speaks “words that do more than simply mirror or address the dominant reality”; he builds blips into a reality that is worth the rewind.

Images: Dead Man, dir. Jim Jarmusch, 1995 (screenshot) | Teen at 1990s computer photograph, Unknown (c. 1996) | James Joyce, Age 2, Unknown | ELUCID, Osage album cover (2016), photo by Michael Mally, Philadelphia Inquirer | The Boxer at Rest, bronze statue, Palazzo Massimo alle Terme, Rome, Italy (330-50 BC) | Alphonse Legros, The Pit and the Pendulum, second Plate (1861) | High Plains Drifter, dir. Clint Eastwood, 1973 (screenshot) | Subroc on an Apple IIc, Unknown (c. 1987) | Earl Sweatshirt, “Grief” music video, 2015 (screenshot) | Arthur Rackham, The Water of Life, Grimms Fairy Tales (1916) | Dead Man, dir. Jim Jarmusch, 1995 (screenshot)

[hyperfix-wip]

Octobie Anarchy: Skirts Are For Everyone

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! OC/ Spider-Punk x fem! OC (can be seen as platonic or romantic, up to you guys 😂)

Summary: Earth-318's Mei Prak never expected her first day back to school to end with helping a skirt-wearing Brit argue with a shitty teacher.

Word count: 4.7k

Author's Note: HOLY SHIT, I WASN'T EXPECTING THIS ONE TO BE THIS LONG 😭🤣 Also, I am pleased to introduce my OC Mei for the Spiderverse fandom! I am thinking of building up her lore in the long run, so we'll see how this goes lol. Event by @the-kr8tor and banners by @mushroom-graphics-allotment

Tags: Discussions of school uniforms, TW mentions of sexual harassment, TW brief violence to an object with an object, Possibly OOC!Hobie(?)

The shrill ringing of the school bell shrieks through the crowded corridors, signaling students to disperse from their friend groups and trudge over to their classes. Chatters echo against the walls and metal lockers while waves of teenagers wade through to their destinations. Amongst the crowd on the wayside is a young girl with disheveled dark curls languidly grabbing her textbook, stifling a yawn while shutting her locker before trudging along with the rest of the student body.

Bodies of monotonous black, white and beige surround the girl in her matching uniform, her beige cardigan blanketing over her hands and past her hips, her matching black tie and white button up peeking underneath, and her pleated black skirt fluttering against her knees. Her drooping eyes scan past her lashes and wispy curls, scanning through the throng of bodies in the hallway, while her skin prickles from being in close proximity with everyone around her. Despite being surrounded by students and faculty minding their own business, either facing forward or looking down on their phones, her skin vibrates into a low buzz, as if all eyes are on her. With a drowsy grimace, the girl weaves through the masses with ease, avoiding bumping into anybody while she navigates herself to her Calculus class.

The girl’s head grows a little fuzzy the more she traverses through the cramped hallway, her sensitive ears picking up different chatters and gossips among the sea of people around her–

(“ –need to pass this exam–”

“ –going to Flash’s Halloween party–”

“ –hot British foreign-exhange student–”

“ –saw Spider-Girl kick Hobgoblin’s ass last week–”)

Her lips curl up into a slight smirk at the last comment she overheard, a tingle of vindication creeping up her chest.

The girl’s wrist throbs into a dull ache as the metal web shooter rubs against the skin, further irritating the slightly swollen joint while she covers her hands with her sleeves. She briefly makes a mental note to check her sprained wrist during lunch before her eyes drift off to the familiar sight of her classroom, her face briefly pinching up while her Calculus teacher stands by the door lecturing a group of girls in front of him, holding a ruler in his hand. Even with hordes of students walking between her and that classroom, she can see his leering eyes lingering on their legs while he holds the ruler by one of the girls’ legs. Her skin prickles more intensely at the sight while the girl having her skirt measured shifts uncomfortably in front of him. The teacher then gives a gruff nod and a dismissive flick of the wrist to the group of girls, who quickly scurry away from him and into the classroom with unease.

Fucking creep.

The girl’s sleep-ridden eyes quickly harden while her skin continues to crawl the closer she gets to the classroom, her fingers fidgeting inside her sleeves from the impending dread of having to interact with the old and stout man. The teacher doesn’t look physically imposing to her– hell, she’s fought with bigger and stronger criminals before– but he still makes her skin crawl like them, like he is a lurking danger to be wary of.

Fortunately for her, she easily weaves into the stream of students entering the class without detection, avoiding his beady eyes while he catches another unfortunate student with a dress code “violation” that no other faculty member seems to notice.

The moment the girl steps into the dull gray classroom, she instantly spots her childhood friend Miles settling down in one of the desks in the back. As he takes his headphones off and looks up from his phone, his eyes light up at the sight of her while a teasing smirk creeps up on his face.

“Welcome back, Mei,” Miles calls out to the girl with a cheeky grin as she crosses the classroom to him. “How’s your first day back after getting suspended for a week?”

Mei rolls her eyes with an amused huff before pulling the chair in front of Miles’ desk out before leisurely straddling on it. “Shut up, man. Kinda wish I could stay home a little longer, to be honest.”

A snort slips through Miles’ nose as he leans forward, his dark twists swaying against his forehead while his grin softens into a lazy smile. “And leave me here to fend for myself? That’s fucked up, dude.”

“Whatever, dumbass,” Mei snickers as she leans against the backrest of the plastic chair, propping her cheek onto her knuckles. “So, what did I miss? Anything big happen while I was gone, or was everything the same as usual?”

Miles’s lips grow into a cat-like grin before leaning closer, and Mei follows suit with slight intrigue in her eyes.

“Well, you missed out on the new foreign exchange student starting beef with Mr. O’Neil.”

Mei raises her eyebrow before she looks over her shoulder, her freckled nose crinkling at the sight of the Calculus teacher lecturing another group of students, before she turns back to her amused friend. “So? Half the student body has beef with him. The damn narc pretty much got half the school in detention or suspended for–” she holds her hands up and air quotes– “ ‘not following the rules.’”

“Yeah, but this guy’s on a whole new level,” Miles snickers. “Like, the dude will find any loophole in the rules and argue his way out of trouble, pissing O’Neil off to no end.”

Mei stares at Miles with a confused look, but he only rolls his eyes as he continues. “Okay, first off: makeup. Y’know the deal– have minimal makeup and not wear bright and bold colors?”

Mei nods in response, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle a smile as she watches her old friend make his case.

Miles narrows his eyes at her, causing her to hold in a laugh trying to sneak out of her, before he goes on. “Dude practically came in all pretty and shit– gloss, eyeliner, blush, lashes. Like you can tell he was wearing makeup, but you’d low-key forget he is, and O’Neil got really pissed that he couldn’t outright call him out without being sure of it. Y’know what I mean?”

Mei shakes her head while stifling another giggle, mirth gleaming in her eyes. “You might have to give me another example or something, man,” she teases lightly.

Miles’ face drops to a deadpan before he scoffs and continues. “Okay, fine. Nail polish. O’Neil tried to send him to detention for having his nails painted, but the guy ended up getting out of it when he pointed out how his nails met the requirements in the handbook—“

Miles stops mid-sentence with another deadpan as Mei struggles to keep her giggles in.

“You’re just fucking with me, aren’t you?”

“A little, yeah. You really need to work on explaining things better.”

Miles groans before he drops his head down on his desk while Mei lets a small snicker slip through her lips.

“But nah, I think I get it though,” Mei murmurs with a pensive furrow in her brows. “Basically he’s fucking with O’Neil by taking advantage of the dress code not being gender-specific.” A small smile curls up on her lips at the thought of the narc turning red at the mysterious boy skirting around the rules. “Not gonna lie, I’m a little impressed that somebody’s that down to piss him off.”

Miles snorts and shakes his head at her, his own eyes lighting up with amusement while his lips curl up with a smirk. “Like you wouldn’t do the same shit if you had the idea.”

Mei only shrugs in response before crossing her arms against her chest. “Could’ve, but didn’t. Not that good with talking when angry, remember? Kinda why I got suspended in the first place, all because O’Neil stopped me to do a uniform check during lunch–”

“ –before you slapped the ruler out of his hand and cussed him out for being a creepy pervert?”

“Okay, is he not though?”

Miles holds his hands out in surrender, his demeanor still calm and casual. “Never said he wasn’t. I’m just saying you got in trouble on your own terms. Everybody else though…”

Both teenagers sigh at the same time before Miles drops his teasing demeanor and looks at Mei with a flicker of concern in his eyes. “O’Neil didn’t actually try anything with you though, right?”

Mei instantly shakes her head, her face pinching up into a grimace. “Nah, just tried to do his usual ruler thing, holding that stupid thing against my leg. Made my skin crawl and shit when his hand touched my knee.”

Miles’ eyes harden in anger and disgust, but Mei quietly waves it off. “I already spooked him when I called him out. It was bad timing on my part when the headmaster walked in on me cussing him out. The nerve of the bastard turning that shit against me and convincing the principal to suspend me for being ‘disrespectful’ and ‘aggressive.’” She then shrugs it off, “And honestly, it could’ve been worse than me getting suspended for a week.”

Miles sighs again as he pinches the bridge of his nose before looking back at Mei with a deadpan, which Mei instantly shrinks from with a groan.

“Miles, c’mon. Nothing actually happened to me–”

“Something could’ve–”

"Well, it didn’t–”

“It could’ve–”

“But it didn’t–”

“Mei, it could have.”

The bell suddenly rings in the classroom, and the rest of the students groan and wander to their seats while the two friends stare at each other in frustration. Miles’ eyes then soften from a harsh glare into a gaze filled with worry. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you…”

Mei’s glare instantly falters, her stomach lurching at the sight of her oldest friend worried about her, before she lets out a resigned sigh and looks away from him. “I know, Miles…”

A small lump sinks into the pit of Mei’s stomach from Miles’ words. She knows he means well, only worrying for her safety and well-being, which makes the guilt gradually fester inside. The metal web-shooters bound to her wrists also grow heavy, reminding her of her secret double life, of her responsibility as a hero, of keeping her as Spider-Girl a secret from her loved ones. Her face pinches up into a pensive frown as she stares down at her arms, a soft barrier hiding bruises and scars littered all over her skin, some from as recent as last week, and others from when she first became Spider-Girl years ago.

After a moment of silence, a small smile slowly creeps up on Miles’ lips before he gently nudges her arm. “We’ll talk more after, okay? Don’t want you getting in trouble on your first day back.”

Mei rolls her eyes with a snort before giving him a lazy smile of her own. “Can’t promise I won’t…”

Mei then turns herself to the front of the class just as the narc in question finally enters the classroom and steps to the front of the class. The old, balding man glares at the rows of students with a slight scowl, his face wrinkled up like an old bulldog, before snatching his clipboard for attendance. His beady eyes roam across the room, scanning through the sea of bored faces in front of him. When Mr. O’Neil’s eyes meet Mei’s, his eyes narrow in disdain while Mei returns the glare before sinking down on her seat. With a disgruntled sigh, Mr. O’Neil drops his clipboard back onto his desk before stepping closer to the front row of students.

“Before we start our lesson today,” his gruff voice echoes in the room, “I would like to share some concerns I have with you all.”

“Oh god,” Mei instantly mutters under her breath and rolls her eyes before her attention drifts to the empty seat in front of her, mentally preparing to tune out the incoming lecture.

“You all represent Horizon Academy, one of the most prestigious schools in all of New York City,” Mr. O’Neil continues, to the growing displeasure of the rest of the class. “This means you all have to behave like model students, to uphold the pride of this school and what it stands for.”

Mr. O’Neil’s eyes then narrow into a harsh glare as he crosses his arms against his chest. “This includes how you present yourselves in public.”

More groans echo in the classroom, but the narc continues to admonish everyone in the room. “Now, as of late, I have noticed that a lot of you students have grown complacent with yourselves. With all of you loosening your ties, leaving your top shirt buttons unbuttoned, shortening the length of your skirts, and wearing makeup and other varnishes on yourselves! Have some decorum! You all must uphold yourselves in a higher standard and not let yourselves look like slovenly hellions–”

SLAM!

Mr. O’Neil’s spiel suddenly gets interrupted by the heavy door slamming open, and everybody turns their eyes to the surprise guest. A tall, lanky boy pants as he leans against the doorframe, his dark coils puffed out and in disarray before he pushes his hair out of his face and carefully ties it up with a red scrunchie. The fluorescent lights shine down on the silver piercings scattered along his face and the slight perspiration on his dark skin as he stumbles into the stunned classroom.

“This is 318, right?” his deep British accent smoothly rumbles against the walls, but everyone stays dumbfounded at his appearance. His beige blazer is decorated with numerous pins, his white button-up is unbuttoned and his tie is loosely hanging around his neck, and his undereyes are stained with black smudges. However, the one thing everybody’s eyes are focused on before breaking out into a tizzy is the pleated black skirt fluttering against his thighs.

“Is that the foreign exchange kid?”

“The hell happened to him?”

“Dude, he’s wearing a skirt–”

“Why does his legs look good, though?”

Miles tilts his head to the side with a disbelieving chuckle as his eyes follow the stumbling student. “Well damn, today’s your lucky day, huh Mei?”

Miles’ face falters soon after as he looks at his friend in front of him, her body suddenly frozen and tense at the sight of the new kid. “Mei? You good?”

No matter how much Miles taps on Mei’s shoulder for her attention, she still stays frozen in her seat. Her skin prickles with an intense burning sensation as the metal web shooters under her sleeves grow heavy, and her hands slowly ball up into fists despite the throbbing ebbing from her wrist. Adrenaline pounds into her ears as her fists ball up tighter, her blunt nails biting into her palms and her wrist screaming from the sudden tension in her body.

Mei shouldn’t be feeling like this, shouldn’t be panicking from the sudden appearance of this guy. She’s only felt like that during her patrols when she faces her deadliest foes in New York. The Prowler, Mister Negative, Green Goblin– those guys are way more intimidating to her, not this lanky Brit stumbling into her Calculus class with a damn skirt on. Despite this, she still feels that familiar tingle on her skin, like small spiders frantically crawling all over her body, itching for her to get the fuck out of this classroom. 

Sirens blare in Mei’s mind the longer her eyes stay on the approaching figure of the student, murmurs of the new kid’s skirt fall on deaf ears for her.  All she can think of this guy is one word.

Danger.

The boy suddenly stops in front of the classroom as soon as his eyes land on Mei, and the tingles on her skin instantly crawl up to the nape of her neck and her scalp while she stares at his steely-dark eyes, as if they were the only two in the room. His eyes linger on her, as if gradually unraveling her layer by layer, intensifying the crawling sensation on her skin. After a moment of silence, the boy breaks out into a boyish grin before quickly approaching the empty seat in front of her and straddling on the chair.

“Well hello, darling,” the boy greets her with an unwavering smile like an old friend would. “I’ve waited a long time to finally meet you.”

Mei stares at the boy in confusion and disbelief at his sudden interest in her, her freckled cheeks warming up as she ignores all the chatter and stares surrounding them. “Uh, who are you?”

The boy’s smile grows as he leans against the backrest of his chair and closer to her, his towering figure hunching over her desk to stay eye level with her. “Hobie, Hobie Brown. And may I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”

The intense tingle on Mei’s skin and the sirens in her head gradually subsides the longer she stares at him, her heart rate calming down and her fingers slowly unfurling out of her fists, until only a faint buzz lingers under her skin. His stormy eyes soften as his gaze stays on her, his arm now propped on her desk with his cheek resting against his knuckles. The muffled noises in Mei’s head grow quiet, and the uncomfortable prickling along her scalp warms up into a fuzzy sensation, soothing the brief pang of anxiety inside her.

Before she could respond, a loud clack! reverberates in the air, and both Mei and Hobie look up at a fuming Mr. O’Neil standing in front of them with the end of his ruler on Mei’s desk.

“Mr. Brown, Miss Prak, it seems you two have more important matters than what I have to say for the class?” Mr. O’Neil sneers down at them. “I do hope the conversation warrants enough of a reason to avoid detention...”

The teacher briefly narrows his eyes at the annoyed Mei as she gives him a sidelong glance. “Or in Miss Prak’s case, another few days of suspension.”

Hobie’s face drops from a friendly smile to a blasé stare once he turns his attention to Mr. O’Neil. “I find introducing yourself to someone is actually very important. However, it is quite rude to insert yourself into a conversation you have no involvement in.”

Mr. O’Neil’s eye twitches while a small vein starts to pop out of his neck. “But Mr. Brown, is it not also rude to walk into class tardy, let alone interrupting an important lesson that concerns you and your fellow peers–”

“Sorry, Teach, but I doubt Calculus would be useful for most of us here,” Hobie interjects with a dismissive flick of the wrist before turning back to Mei. “Now, where were we, darlin–”

“Mr. Brown, it seems you have misunderstood something,” Mr. O’Neil interjects with a slight snarl. “I was just discussing with the class about the importance of maintaining your appearance here on campus–”

“So in other words, you’re not teaching what you’re supposed to be teaching–”

“It is quite the opposite!”

Tension buzzes inside the classroom as sparks fly between the feuding teacher and student, one close to popping a blood vessel and the other staring up in boredom. Mr. O’Neil huffs out in frustration before his eyes narrow at the fluttering fabric covering Hobie’s lap.

“Speaking of appearances, Mr. Brown, you have seem to have disregarded the dress code yet again—“

“Again?” Hobie raised a pierced eyebrow with a cheeky smirk, languidly pushing himself up from his seat until he towers over the stout older man. “I don’t recall ever being out of dress code.”

Mr. O’Neil grits his teeth while the vein on his neck slowly pops out more. “Don’t you start. You may have an excuse to continue wearing that paint on your face—“

“Gotta make myself look decent—“

“And continue to stain your nails with that varnish—“

“Never thought a neutral or baby pink would look good on my nails, but they’re growing on me—“

“Would you stop interrupting?!”

Hobie feigns an innocent grin as he cheekily holds his hands up in surrender, irritating the reddening teacher. “I don’t see why you have any issues with my makeup and nails. I’m just abiding by the rules like any other student.”

“Those rules were mainly for the female students—“

“Rules never actually said that though, did they?”

The vein on Mr. O’Neil’s neck grows bigger as his face turns redder with each comment.  Meanwhile Hobie continues to look down at the teacher with a Cheshire Cat-like grin on his pierced lips.

“I can let the makeup and the nail polish pass, despite my best judgment,” Mr. O’Neil growls through gritted teeth, his hands curling up to fists before he sharply points his ruler at Hobie’s skirt, “but I cannot allow this!”

Hobie glances down at his legs, swaying his hips side to side to watch the fabric follow the motion, before looking back at the stout man with a confused pout. “What’s wrong with it? I got it from the school, so this is the official uniform.”

Hobie then looks over at Mei, who up until now has been watching the back-and-forth with growing intrigue and amusement. “Although, seventy-one US dollars for this skirt alone? Is this school really having a laugh?”

Mei only shrugs in response, hiding the growing smile on her face with her hand. “Still gotta buy the spring skirt if you haven't yet. Costs another sixty–”

“Oh, fuck off–” Hobie mutters in disbelief as Mr. O’Neil glowers at Mei, who stares back at him with an unimpressed deadpan.

“Miss Prak, you are not involved in this conversation–” Mr. O’Neil rebukes before turning his attention back to Hobie, “ –and you need to change back into the right uniform, or I will have you sent to detention for weeks–”

“A little excessive, innit?” Hobie mutters as a nearby student quietly offers him some makeup wipes, and he sends a quick wink at her before grabbing a couple of wipes to clean the smeared black makeup off his undereyes. “I mean, I’m just wearing a uniform like everybody else.”

“You are wearing a female student’s bottoms!” Mr. O’Neil barks back, his face practically steaming like an angry tea kettle. “You are to wear the male’s khakis just like the rest of the male students–”

“But they’re so restrictive,” Hobie pouts mockingly as he starts to bend his knees and straighten up, “and these skirts are so freeing. You can practically run in these without worrying about your trousers ripping.”

Hobie then glances behind him as his fingers reach to the back of the skirt with a furrow to his brows, “Although I suppose most people would not want to expose their bums if they run…”

“MR. BROWN–”

As Mr. O’Neil’s face starts to turn purple while he continues to argue with Hobie, Mei glances over her shoulder and notices Miles blatantly holding his phone out with a stifled smirk on his face.

“Are you…?” Mei whispers with a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

Miles’ smirk grows a little more as he nods, and Mei’s lips curl up into an impish grin.  She slides her hand into her backpack and pulls out a small booklet before she turns back to the trainwreck of a show in front of her and pushes herself up from her seat.

“Okay, as riveting and important as this conversation is,” Mei interrupts the two with a cheeky smile on her face, slowly walking between them with her hands up in mock surrender, “I think we stayed on the topic of dress code for a little too long.” She turns to Mr. O’Neil, as if shielding Hobie from any more of the teacher’s tirade. “I mean, I don’t know about you guys, but I came here to learn some Calculus and try to make up some work after being gone for a week.”

Mei’s eyes then narrow at Mr. O’Neil as her grin becomes more taunting. “And isn’t education the most important priority for students to focus on?”

For a moment, Hobie looks down at Mei with confusion before his eyes briefly catch Miles recording them. Miles glances over to the Brit and puts a finger against his smug lips. Hobie’s eyes light up with respect and intrigue as they drift to Mei further provoking the seething teacher.

“Do not patronize me, Miss Prak!” Mr. O’Neil angrily yells at her as he points his ruler at Hobie. “As a teacher, I refuse to ignore this blatant disrespect against the morals and prestige of this school!”

“Morals?” Hobie scoffs dramatically as he sits on his desk, crossing his ankles and rocking his heels against the vinyl flooring. “These are just clothes, fabric that covers our bodies. Is this school’s reputation so fragile that a student wearing a skirt would ruin everything here?”

Hobie then looks around the classroom full of watchful students before looking back at the teacher with a bored deadpan. “If that were the case, then the school should get rid of the skirts entirely.”

“That is not the point!” Mr. O’Neil barks back. “The point is that skirts are for female students only!”

“Dress code didn’t say skirts should be only worn by female students though,” Mei jumps in as she flips through the mini booklet in her hands, stopping at a page before holding the booklet out to the teacher’s scowling face. “See? No mention of gender anywhere in the dress code–”

Mei’s skin on her hand tingles intensely for a brief moment, and she instantly lets go of the booklet and pulls her hands back in the air before the booklet gets slapped across the classroom with a loud SMACK! by a ruler. All eyes watch the booklet land on the window and slide down against the glass before everyone turns to the irate Calculus teacher.

“BOTH OF YOU! GET OUT OF MY CLASSROOM TO THE HEADMASTER’S OFFICE! NOW!”

Both Mei and Hobie stare at the teacher in disbelief as he stomps over to the school phone to make a phone call to the office. Mei glances over to Miles, who puts his phone down with a proud smirk, and she gives him a cheeky grin before looking over her shoulder to Hobie.

“We should probably go,” Mei whispers to Hobie with a snicker before grabbing their bags and gently pushing him towards the door, leaving behind a stunned classroom and a screaming teacher as they walk out to the empty corridor.

As the heavy door closes behind them, Hobie instantly lets out a snort before barking out a laugh, and Mei soon joins him as she walks up to his side. Their cackles echo through the halls as they wander down, with Hobie draping his arm around Mei’s shoulders and pulling her close to his side.

“Bloody hell, that was brilliant!” Hobie gasps out, his lips stretched out into a broad grin. “I didn’t think that wanker was gonna explode like ‘at. Honestly thought he was gonna drop to the floor with how purple he got.”

Mei struggles to wipe away her tears as she hiccups her laughter. “Dude, I’ve never seen him that pissed before! The fuck have you been doing for him to instantly hate you like that?”

Hobie scoffs playfully as he rests his hand on his chest. “I have done nothing, darling! I merely followed the rules like everyone else! S’not my fault that knob is too anal about the rules!”

Mei chokes out more laughter as she leans against him, barely able to breathe, before she grins up at him. “Oh, I think we’re gonna be great friends, Hobie Brown.”

An impish smile curls up on Hobie’s lips as he gazes down at her, his eyes lighting up with mirth. “Oh, I know we will…Miss Prak?”

Mei rolls her eyes with a chortle at Hobie’s teasing smile, her freckled cheeks growing more flushed from the laughter. “Mei’s fine, man.”

Hobie’s expression softens as his hand gently squeezes her shoulder, “Alright then, Mei…”

The two new friends trudge along to the office, unaware of the domino effect of their chance encounter as a certain live video of a teacher yelling at two students circulates throughout the school and social media.

[driftward]

Title: FFXIV Write 2024 - 24. Bar Characters: Estinien Varlineau Rating: Teen Summary: Tony Hawk was in this fic? Notes: None

Landing lightly outside of the Seventh Heaven, Estinien dropped from the clouds, surprising a few people nearby.

He did not bother to acknowledge them. A sudden fit of nostalgia had come over him while he just happened to be in the area, and he was just here now to check out the old haunt. He walked inside, setting aside his spear.

The place had changed some, but also was much like how he had remembered. The wandering minstrel was in his corner, tuning his harp. He could have swore he saw the man over in Tuliyollal, but then again, he was pretty certain he saw that man practically everywhere. He didn't recognize too many other people, but it had been some time since the Scions had 'disbanded' and he had cause to drop in. And Revenant's Toll was not the kind of place one made a permanent home of. Come in, stay for a few seasons, then go where the adventure went.

Like he had.

He didn't recognize the barkeep, either, but that didn't have to mean anything either. He decided he'd sit down, grab a mug, enjoy the moment, and then go before he felt like he was overstaying his welcome. As he sat, he looked up, and was startled to see familiar faces looking back at him.

Painted pictures of all the Scions hung in the back wall. Where, he supposed there was no real reason to pretend at secrecy anymore. Even before he'd joined, their little organization was the worst kept secret on the star. He'd grown well used at Aymeric's excited near-breathless sharing of their tales of adventure and derring-do before he himself had even met them. The man could be like an overexcited spratling about topics that drew his interest.

None of that here, though. No sharing of stories tonight, unless the minstrel was plied to play a tune. Estinien himself was certainly no bard, and would be telling no tales.

He was admiring the details on the Warrior of Light's portrait in particular when the barkeep finally made their way to him.

"What'll it be?"

"Darkest stout you got and an Eft pie, if you still make those."

"Sure," said the barkeep, flipping a mug up in front of Estinien and beginning to pour. "Huh. You look just like that famous lancer guy we used to get through here, what was his name? Estinien? I wonder what he's up to these days?"

Estinien's eyes drifted to the right behind the barkeep as they poured his drink, and he locked eyes with the somewhat severe yet accurate recreation of his very own face that was hanging from the wall.

"This," he said.

The barkeep looked at him skeptically.

Well, no matter where you went, there you were, Estinien thought to himself as he decided to not clarify any further and just enjoy his drink.

When he left a half-bell later, his painting continued the watch in his stead.

[snailqueenforever]

Bill Cipher VS a Dill Pickle

Bill Cipher drifted through the boundless void between dimensions, his singular eye scanning the vast multiverse with a weary disinterest. The thrill of warping reality and twisting minds had begun to dull after countless eons. The chaos that once fueled his existence now seemed monotonous. He craved something new, something so mundane that he could delight in turning it into something bizarre. That’s when he saw it: a small, unassuming deli nestled in the heart of a quiet little town, in a dimension that had somehow evaded his notice until now. The place was quaint, almost laughably ordinary, with a red and white striped awning. "Bob’s Deli" was painted in neat, cheerful letters on the window. The sheer normalcy of it sparked a wicked idea in Bill’s twisted mind.

“This is perfect,” Bill cackled, his voice reverberating through the void like a sinister echo. “Let’s see what happens when chaos comes to lunchtime!”. In a flash of yellow light, Bill zipped through the dimensional rift, materializing in the center of the deli. The bell above the door jingled as if announcing his arrival, though no one seemed to notice the sudden appearance of a floating triangle with an all-seeing eye.

The deli was cozy, with wooden shelves lined with jars of pickles, fresh loaves of bread, and various condiments. The counters displayed platters of meats and cheeses, meticulously arranged by Bob, the middle-aged owner with a kind smile and an apron that bore the marks of years of service. Bill floated lazily over the shelves, his eye zeroing in on the rows of pickle jars. Each one was filled to the brim with crisp, tangy pickles. Their briny liquid catched the overhead lights and gave the display an almost magical sheen. The pickles varied in size and shape. Some tall and slender, others short and stout…but all were carefully labeled, as if they were precious treasures to Bob, rather than mere snacks. As Bill inspected the jars, his eye was drawn to one pickle in particular…a plump, green gherkin that seemed to occupy nearly the entire jar. Its surface was glossy, and it looked as if it were glowing with some inner vitality.

Bill clapped his skinny black hands together. “At last!” he thought to himself. “I’ve found a pickle worthy of my time!”. He hovered closer, his voice dripping with mischief. “Hey there, green guy! You’re looking… fresh. Hows about we have a little chat, you and me?”. The pickle, shiny and briny, remained still in its jar. Its bumpy surface reflected the light of the quant deli, but it offered no response. No sudden burst of life, no sprouting of arms or legs, no squeaky voice acknowledging Bill’s presence. Bill’s eye twitched, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Come on, don’t be shy. I’m Bill Cipher! Dream demon, master of chaos, all that jazz. You’ve probably heard of me, right?”.

But the pickle stayed silent, its green form utterly unresponsive. It was just… a pickle.

Bill floated even closer, scrutinizing the pickle with suspicion. “Okay, maybe you’re one of those strong, silent types. That’s cool. But you’ve got to have something to say. What’s it like being a pickle? Any deep thoughts on life in brine?”. Still, the pickle offered nothing in return. It sat there, looking like every other pickle that had ever existed. It was completely indifferent to the fact that it was being addressed by a reality-bending entity. Bill’s patience, such as it was, began to fray. He circled the jar, tapping it with a spectral finger. “You know, I only come around every one hundred years,” Bill began to lie. “I only ever appear when one of the greatest minds of a generation needs a muse. And YOU, dear former cucumber, are that greatest mind! So, what do ya say? Want me to be your muse?”

But the pickle didn’t so much as twitch.

“Look, you gherkin,” Bill snapped, his frustration boiling over his lie. “I can give you anything! Freedom from the jar, endless adventures, maybe even a spot on a gourmet platter! But you gotta do something in return for me”. The deli carried on with its normal routine, customers coming and going, oblivious to the cosmic drama unfolding in their midst. Bill, however, was fixated on the silent pickle, refusing to let it win whatever strange game this was. He tried everything, such as snapping his fingers to animate it, making exaggerated gestures…he even offered bribes of fame and fortune. But the pickle remained stubbornly non-verbal.

Finally, Bill sighed, floating back in reluctant defeat. “Alright, fine. Be that way. You might just be the most stubborn pickle I’ve ever met.” He paused, then added with a grudging hint of respect, “That’s kind of impressive”. With that, Bill turned away, leaving the pickle to its jar. As he floated off to find some other form of amusement, he couldn’t resist glancing back one last time, half-expecting the pickle to spring to life. But it didn’t.

Bill looked down at the deli’s linoleum floor, defeated. “It’s moments like these where I miss Sixer most of all” he sighed to himself. And with a final, echoing snap of the fingers, Bill zipped off into the chaos, leaving behind a simple, unassuming cucumber preserved in brine…completely impervious to the madness that was Bill Cipher.

[charthurlover]

What perfume/cologne would the Van Der Linde gang wear

hi!! this is my first tumblr post, and i don’t exactly know how to do this or work the app, so forgive me if this is horribly worded or confusing.

anyways, this is my opinion on what colognes or perfumes the gang would wear. horses and cain included, since they are technically a member of the gang!!

Abigail -

something woodsy, maybe like the forest or a campfire, cedar wood, trees, plants.

examples:

- G-Water

- Tam Dao

- Snoqualine

Arthur -

tobacco, scent of alcohol, mud, outdoors.

examples:

- Jasmin et Cigarette

- Rien

- Earthworm

Baylock -

ashes, grease.

examples:

- Tobacco Blaze

- Garage

- La Yuquam Homme

Bill -

any popular male fragrances, or like gunpowder and fire.

examples:

- 9mm Ballistic Therapy

- High Noon

- Campfire Nights

Boaz -

dynamite, money.

examples:

- Wall Street

- Don Xerjoff

- 1805 Tonnerre BeauFort London

Branwen -

oatcakes, apples, water.

examples:

- Lostmarch Lann-Ael

- Be Delicious

- Cavalli Acqua

Bob -

blood, gunpowder, sweat.

examples:

- Vena Cava

- Richard Dark Side

- Secretions Magnefique

Brown Jack

pomade, alcohol, blood.

examples:

- Classic Fragrance

- Heeley Agarwood

- Molotov Cocktail

Cain -

dog, mud, grass.

examples:

- La Panthere Edition Soir

- Grass

- Zoologist Bat

Charles -

light florals, nature, clean fur.

examples:

- Coach Floral

- Super Cedar

- Coyote

Dutch -

blood, metal, tears.

examples:

- Vassago

- Spacewalk

- Rainy Season of Dresden

Davey -

snow, wood, fire.

examples:

- Waltz of the Snowflakes

- Tobacco Vanille

- Inquisitor

Enis -

whiskey, beer, grass.

examples:

- Tom Oud

- Stout ‘n Smoke

- Dune Road

Grimshaw -

sulfur, metal, cinnamon.

examples:

- Bloody Smoke

- Vanille Absolu

- Jupiter

Gwydion -

birds, leather, salt.

examples:

- Seemannn

- Black Saffron

- Millésime Impérial

Hosea -

moonshine, stew, metal.

examples:

- Moscow Mule

- Starfish & Coffee

- Santal 33

Jack -

water, horse, corn oil.

examples:

- Petrichor

- Cuir de Russie

- Seems Legit

Javier -

mahogany, cotton, musk.

examples:

- Redwood Leaves

- Lazy Sunday Morning

- Urban Musk

Jenny -

snow, wool, wood.

examples:

- Redwood Mist

- Battaniye

- Grey Vetiver

John -

sweat, musk, grease

examples:

- Flores Negras

- Silver Musk

- Cristina La Veneno Ni Puta Ni Santa

Kieran -

blood, grass, oats.

examples:

- Hora de la Verdad Sombra

- Figuier Eden

- Harran

Karen -

beer, guns, whiskey.

examples:

- Beguile

- Wicked John

- Kutay

Lenny -

blood, books, bullets.

examples:

- Seems Legit

- Diamonitirion - elixir atonit

- Moon Child

Mac -

metal, bullets, kerosene.

examples:

- Craft

- Iron Duke

- Nuvolari Rubini

Maggie -

dirt, stone, bog.

examples:

- Le Sillage Blanc

- During the Rain

- Swamp elixir

Mary-Beth -

books, ink, gold.

examples:

- Bibliophilia: Love of Books

- Supreme Vanilla

- Royal Blood

Micah -

rot, corn, mold.

examples:

- Saint Louis Cemetery #1

- Funerie

- French Kiss

Molly -

roses, grass, trees.

examples:

- Roses Musk

- Leila Lou

- Colors de Benetton

Nell II -

sweat, cows, pig.

examples:

- Amyi 3.17

- Cuir de Russie

- Hyrax

Old Belle -

carrots, beer, hay.

examples:

- Carotte

- Sónar

- Basilico & Fellini

Old Boy -

musk, tears, cow.

examples:

- Another 13

- Ozone

- Osmanthus

Pearson -

meat, vegetables, crawfish.

examples:

- Gino: Steak Scented Eau de Parfum

- Eau de Cuisine

- Wild Carrot Oud

Reverend -

whiskey, incense, coffee.

examples:

- 7 Loewe

- Bourbon e Fava Tonka

- Black Opium

Sadie -

blood, tears, gunpowder.

examples:

- Bull’s Blood 2nd Edition

- Cool Glacier

- Rendez-Vous!

Sean -

whiskey, sweat, bullets.

examples:

- Malt Akro

- Monochrome

- Amour Nocturne

Silver Dollar -

fire, wool, metal.

examples:

- Encens Pyro

- The Sheepfold, Moonlight

- Rosenrot

Taima -

deer, blood, meat.

examples:

- Ma Bete

- Trinity Blood

- Good Girl Gone Bad

The Count -

sugarcubes, peaches, pears.

examples:

- Pixie Dust

- Allure Eau de Parfum

- First Base

Trelawny -

doves, rabbits, silk.

examples:

- Ruğa Sablo

- Wet Garden

- Baklava Musk

Tilly -

bullets, baby powder, swamps.

examples:

- 266ts Pontiff’s Harley

- Cashmere Mist Eau de Toilette

- Haxan

Uncle -

manure, horse, cow.

examples:

- D’zing

- L’heure Fougueuse

- Zoologist Cow

again, this is my first post so i’m very sorry about it being bad or isn’t looking right for tumblr. so sorry.

[rom-e-o]

After Wolf and Bess get together, at a "small" gala the Twins and girls attend, an old, pretty face from their past shows back up. Not Isabel or Belle. They would be welcomed.

Turns out, years ago when the Twins were in their 30s, Marley took on another apprentice. She was quite young, early-early 20s, smart, but more ambitious than anything. Like, so ambitious it was both an asset and flaw.

She didn't stay working for Marley long as she was snapped up quickly by even bigger bosses due to her talents, both in numbers but mostly in bed. Yeah, she's one of those people. Which I mean, get your bag, I guess? Can't say I agree with the methods, but as long as you're not hurting people, better for my mind to keep out of it. (Also, yeah, she most likely got her position with Marley by exchanging some favors.)

She was never romantically or sexually involved with the Twins. They were rebuffing advances hard and barely registering people's sexes by that stage. But she was definitely interested, and in Wolf especially. She did a lot of the street work with him, always opting to accompany him even if she had other duties in the office. Yes, she propositioned him. A lot. Again, he never bit. Honestly can't tell you if he even ever considered that she was being serious. Not very long after finally getting the vibe this thing was never going anywhere, she dipped and got taken on by a fish bigger than Marley.

Then, years later, she shows up at this party. Successful, married, well known, stunning and vibrant. She's got everything.

Now, when I say she's stunning, here's the thing: she and Bess resemble each other somewhat. Dark curls, dark eyes (this chick's eyes are almost black they're so dark brown), cool complexion, freckles (this girl only has a few cute ones over her nose and cheeks), full lips, hippy and bootylicious, taller than average. Except this woman is willowy and petite in frame as opposed to Bess' stout shieldmaiden-esque build. She's also busty. Not Connie levels, but she's got some spectacular girls to show off compared to Bess. Woman is the definition of a bombshell, especially showing up in the dress she does which may as well just be a few strips of luxurious cloth sewn together. (But damn if they don't fit her amazingly and look more glam than the dress Bess has on.)

She's also extremely bubbly in a self-centered and sexually charged way. She sees the boys, rushes them to embrace them, and is almost immediately yapping about her life while skillfully working in references about her exploits. ("Sammy?! Charlie?! Oh my God, how are you?! I haven't seen you two in... Bloody fuck, how long has it been? At least a dozen CEOs I've been under since Marley! Hahaha! Oh, boys, let's catch up, shall we? Have I got tales to tell you! Where should I start? Oh, I know! I'll start with my first marriage. I met my first husband on his honeymoon in Bora Bora, you know. Without his clothes, he wasn't much to look at, but that's what alcohol is for, yes? He wasn't much of a fuck either, honestly, but he certainly did open my eyes to some new things I went on to try with my second and third husbands.")

Btw, she does this while the girls are away for a moment in the powder room, so when they come back they're smacked in the face with a strange woman loudly regaling their men with a story of how her first orgy was, funnily enough, in a board room. ("It certainly changed my bar for how board meeting should be handled, I'll tell you that!") Adonis looks uncomfortable to say the least. Wolf, who definitely got used to this sort of sexual talk from this woman so many years ago, has the look of, "Yep, just another Tuesday".

The women are introduced. The interloper quickly latches onto Connie being Adonis' fiancée. ("So you're what could finally get him to open up and settle down. Ha! Never thought it possible! Tell me, Darling, what's Sammy like without his clothes on? The time I had trying to find out! I thought maybe they didn't come off; maybe they were permanently sutured to his skin!")

Bess is hardly given a "howdy-do". Wolf does introduce her as his sweetheart, of course, but it earns Bess a particularly but subtly chilling gaze from the interloper. ("Girlfriend? Oh, how nice. Such a cute little thing. Young too. Finally sowing those oats, ey, Charlie?")

As the night goes on, the interloper remains latched to the group, especially the boys, especially Wolf. Wolf is always beside Bess, of course; never bites at all the hooks the interloper throws out... but he doesn't really rebuff her either? He kind of just seems... oblivious to all of her passes and insinuations. To be fair, they can be hard to pick up sometimes as every other thing that comes out of this woman's mouth seems to be related to sex. (The group is painfully aware of how many marriages she's had--on her seventh--and what each one really liked to do in bed.)

At some point Bess goes to get a drink. Much to her annoyance, the interloper comes with. As they're at the refreshment table, a conversation is struck up.

"So. You and Charlie, hm?"

"Yes. Wolf and me."

"Wolf? Your pet name for him? Haha! That's cute! Did he get that from the bedroom scene?"

"Um, no. No, he's always been Wolf to me. Even when we were friends."

"Ah. So he's not a wolf in the sack then?"

"... I really don't think that's any of your business."

"Oh, come on, Love. We're both adult women here. You're a wannabe midwife--you're not exactly uneducated about the relationships between men and women. I tried to shag your Wolf for years and couldn't make him bat an eye, and now a cherubic little girl like you comes along and suddenly, not only is he shagging, he's calling you his "sweetheart". Do a fellow girl and favor and satisfy her curiosity."

"I'd rather not."

"... Oh. Oh, I see. You're one of those."

"One of those?"

"Yeah, one of those little prudes. The little prudes that call liberated women like me "whores" and "sluts" because they're jealous I can get men and action they can't."

"Maybe you get called those things because you seem thirsty for anything with a dick that walks on two legs and actively pursue taken men."

"Ah. So the little cherub does have some bite. All right. Maybe you're not a prude."

"Maybe I'm not."

"Maybe you're something worse. One of those pious little girls that's "saving herself for marriage". As if that's something to aspire to."

"Not that it's any of your business either, but I'm not waiting for marriage."

"No. But "somebody special", I'll bet. Or "when you feel ready"."

Bess can't say anything. That's exactly what she's waiting for, what she's making Wolf wait for.

"Ha. In that case, Charlie's definitely going to need a real woman to show him what a good time is tonight. Well, doesn't the universe work in mysterious ways."

"The universe or your assistant reading the guest list for this party?"

"What's it matter when such amazing opportunities arise?"

"Aren't you remarried? Like, newly?"

"Hahaha! Oh my, little frumpy cherub, haven't you learned anything about me tonight? Rings never stop me, whether they're his or mine."

"You honestly think you can make Wolf give you a second glance when I'm right there beside him?"

"He'll have to give me all the glances if you're not here, won't he?"

"What?"

With a quick look around to see if anyone is noticing, the interloper picks up the bowl of punch and just dumps it over Bess before she can even react. "Oh my god--I'm so sorry! Typical me--just can't control my intrusive thoughts sometimes. At least it's not a total loss--this look wasn't doing anything for you."

Bess can just stand in shock and boiling fury. She hasn't endured anything like this since high school. And maybe that's what sets her mindset back to make her react like she does from here on out.

"Go home, L&D nurse. Maybe your old Marley's daughter, but you and I both know you don't belong here. And you certainly don't belong with someone like Charlie."

And with that the interloper walks away back to rejoin the group.

Bess just runs after that. She doesn't think, she just leaves the gala without a word and catches a taxi back to the cottage. It's not until she's already on the way home she thinks to let the others know she's left, and it's only text messages that start coming in that makes her think of it.

Connie: ~Hey, are you okay? [Interloper] said you weren't feeling well and decided to leave? Do you want me to come home and help you?~

Wolf: ~Are you all right? [Interloper] said you were feeling ill and left. Do I need to come take you to a hospital?~

Bess just tells them not to worry and that she's fine, just going home early to rest, and they should stay at the party. After all, she doesn't want them to see her this way. And the interloper was right: She didn't belong back there. And who is she even kidding? She hardly belongs with Wolf either.

She finds the cottage, mercifully empty when she gets there (except for Sunshine, of course) and just strips down as she beelines for the bathroom, throwing her dress in the trash on the way. Bess doesn't know how long she sits in the shower, but the water is cold before she gets out. And she cries the entire time.

(Why do I keep dreaming up all these horrible scenarios for Bess while you give me nice ones for Connie?)

OHHH BESS. ;; Bess, Bess, I want to hug her so bad.

First of all, Interloper has done the impossible - she's at Karen levels of annoying. Now, we don't know if she's abusive like Karen, BUT from the sound of her, she sound like an emotionally and potentially physically manipulative bully to others.

It is INTERESTING how she looks similar to Bess, but she's still obviously jealous of Bess:

Bess is beautiful. They look alike, after all. They're built different, but both are womanly and gorgeous.

Bess is YOUNGER than her. She seems like the type of person that would be annoyed by that, especially since she can't buy time back. she even tries to demean Bess by calling her 'cute' or 'cherubic.' Bess is a younger woman, and it irks her.

Annnnnd finally, Bess has Wolf; the prize SHE wanted but could never get, even in the 'prime of her life.' Even when they look similar. He never chose her. That must eat her up.

The way she flutters up and gets insanely personal with the Twins SO quickly is beyond tone-deaf. Like, time and place! Also, when someone clearly isn't in to you, you GOTTA take a hint!

I picture the ladies coming back from the powder room and seeing this woman accosting the boys. Wolf looks unamused and Adonis looks uncomfortable.

Connie sees Adonis looking flustered and goes in to redirect the woman's attention and help. Connie reads and clocks her pretty quick, I'd imagine. Her comment about him undressing earns a chuckle, and not a friendly one.

"Well, [Interloper] it's much easier to get one out of their clothes when there is mutual interest in the whole affair. I assure you, my Adonis and I have no such concerns. He is positively sterling in ALL regards." As then kisses Adonis' cheek for good measure and smiles. Then she gives Bess a nervous glance. You know the look, it says "girlfriend, watch out for this one."

This woman's attitude and verbiage toward Bess would catch Wolf's attention. He picks up on her choice of words, and with eat passive-aggressive taunt earns a squeeze from Wolf. His lips even skim the crown of her head as he calls her "sweetheart."

I don't think Wolf stops the Interloper from following Bess to the drink table because, honestly, it doesn't don on him that this woman would go for Bess. He thinks, "I can ignore her, so can Bess." He might not realize immediately that women play a little dirty with each other, and that perhaps she has other goals.

THEN, the punch situation. I don't blame Bess for leaving, poor woman. just to ... escape it.

When Interloper comes back, red flags are everywhere.

"Where did Bess go?" Wolf asks her, his tone only slightly suspicious. He's more concerned.

"No clue," she shrugs. "Feeling sick, she said. Stomach bug. Poor girl. Oh, but don't you worry, Wolf-y. I'll keep you entertained."

Annnnd the sirens go off. She should NOT know that nickname. His brow furrows.

Connie and Wolf text her, but her message that she left provides little comfort. She's safe, but ... it's not right. Connie stares her down, her face a mask of doubt.

C: Interesting timing of her illness, all things considered.

I: Just what are you implying?

Meanwhile, Wolf is obviously antsy. Looking around. He looks out of sorts without his Brightness at his side.

Wolf: Something isn't right. ... Sammy, you're going to hate me for this, but-

Adonis: Charlie, go check on her. I'll handle any speeches if we're called on stage, and Connie and I will ... distract our friend. It shouldn't be hard.

Wolf gives his a thankful squeeze on the shoulder and darts out. He grabs a cab and makes a beeline for the cottage. As he arrives, he texts her to let her know he's on his way. I imagine he has a key by this point, but he's not going to just creep in.

Then, he calls and leaves a voicemail:

W: Brightness, it's me. I'm outside. I wanted to check on you. You left so suddenly. If you're sick, I'd much rather help you feel well than spend another second in that stuffy ballroom and hear [Interloper] talk about ... ugh, I apologize for her. If she did anything, I need you to tell me. I can If you get this, can you just ... let me know that you're really okay? You know what I mean.

A part of him hopes he's not being too smothering, but ... he has a feeling in his gut. And he means every word. No gala is worth attending without her company.

It's the DRAMA, the delicious hurt-comfort goodness!

Meanwhile: Interloper continues to be loud and obnoxious, all while Adonis and Connie chug champagne to tolerate her.

[scarredlove]

Across the Waves

I wrote this... then stopped... decided to come back to it at midnight... whoops

Sun got a fic from me so... who's next~?

Forgive any mistakes or weird phrases

Even the night was gloomy. Not even one sparkling speck in the sky.

Your sandals separated your feet from the now cold sand, but didn't stop the few strays from sticking in between your toes. "Moon?" You called out, looking out at the span of the beach front, black waves washing the shore to your right, large rocks and trees lining your left.

Today, all of the boys had wanted out of the tank and to stretch their legs out. Eclipse wasn't always the most talkative, but as the biggest out of the lot (and the most stern), you had no worry when he ventured out by himself. He certainly had a presence to not be messed with. However, Moon was different.

Not that he couldn't take care of himself, being the most sneaky out of the trio had it's advantages... Until it pushes Sun a bit off the bend and he accidentally dirties his brother's bright yellow garb. If it had been Eclipse, or even reversed, it probably would have just made the whole event funnier. But not when one of your slugs was the largest germaphobe you'd had the pleasure to meet.

"Moony?" You called again, still no obvious 7ft slug man in sight. Of course, you didn't blame Moony. You did try to warn him that your drink was on the edge of the stout coffee table but by then, it was too late. The Hypselodoris Obscura startling its brother back and knocking the drink in the process.

An incident like this was very much like any regular family, a small thing blown out of proportion. But until it was clean enough again, Sunny wouldn't be able to return the water. So as much there was slight tension, you'd quickly thrown it into the wash before coming out here to hunt the culprit. You knew it would be fine, and so did Sun (behind all the frustrated grumbles). Now time to reassure blue boy.

A gentle hum reached your ears. Or at least, within your mind. You looked over to the trees and caught the faintest speckled glow. They were certainly not there a second ago. Chuckling softly, you made your way to the sulking incarnate of the moon, the musical mumbles growing in volume. Behind the scrawny trunks, Moon was crouched down to the half grass, half sand ground, both arms wrapped around his torso.

"Hey there." Though he already knew you were there, it never hurt to inform him that he was indeed found. He didn't look up to you, the back of his cloak losing its glow to return hidden in the shadows. "You ok, big baby?"

The bells on the large hood rang as he turned his head slightly to you, though you still couldn't see him. "Is Sunny angry?" He asked solemnly. Stepping around the train of his coat, you knelt down beside him to see he'd bent down before a little pool of water. You weren't sure if anything was within it, but didnt chance dipping your fingers in.

A small laugh left you. "You know he can never stay angry at you." You thought for a second. "At least, until he gets to scold you for being a menace to his wellbeing." A raspy chuckle was your response. Good. "So, am I going to have you drag you back, or do you want to stay here a bit longer?" Moon outstretched a hand to glide over the small pool before you both, the circular movements almost hypnotic.

Moon said nothing, though did return to his melody. It was a gentle song, he would hum it on occasion but it was always welcomed. And every time he did, you would catch his shoulders loosening up, the tension easing from his form. Seeing his back droop a little bit, you rose a hand and pressed it to his back, rubbing up and down for a few moments, a sigh leaving your sweet Obscura. "Sorry." The hood murmured, his face still hidden. "Knocked your drink." He elaborated.

"It's ok, Moony." You shrugged. "It'd probably been cold for ages. May as well be poison by that point."

He chuckled again, the tone not as croaky, and leaned into your touch. "Then I'm not sorry. I saved you."

A gasp left your lips in return. "What a generous hero you are!" Your free hand rose and pressed against your chest for added theatrics. "You should be rewarded instead!"

Red eyes turned to meet yours finally, the off-white glow of his pupils soft like his namesake. There was a charming grin on his face but you could see tiredness in the expression too, the mental strain of an internal war having taken its toll on him until he clawed back to himself. From him shifting, the hand on his back moved to his shoulder, cupping him whilst rubbing small circles with your thumb like his fingers across the dark liquid.

Dropping the arm from his chest, his hand moved to lay over yours on his shoulder, scooping up your dinky digits in his much larger hand and nuzzled his cheek over the knuckles, eyes closing as he red against them like a tiny pillow. "Warm." He noted softly, moving to press the back of your palm to his chin. "My sweet sea star..." His voice echoed in your head, making you sigh gently.

"C'mon..." you started, "we should get home before the other-"

He tugged you into his chest. Face planting into the ruffles of his gown. His hand leaving yours to secure your middle to his. An arm wrapping around your shoulders... Which all sounds nice enough... Until you feel wet fingertips rub the back of your neck. Body temperature falling drastically as stray droplets worked their way down your back. "MOON-!"

He ripped away from you just as fast as he pulled you in, leaving you stretching and almost scratching the coldness away from your throat as quickly as possible, though making you look like a maniac in the process. He was giggling and cackling to himself, standing back up on his feet though not too far away for you to see his face and glare at his betrayal.

"Alright boy. That's it." He stopped his laughter, the grin was still etched on his face as he watched you slowly take off your sandals and rise, the sand smooth against your toes. "You better run before you have to face both Sun AND my anger!"

The laughing resumed and he ran away as you gave chase, though, the way he was 'running' was more like a weird crab scurrying away. Making him looking like a little gremlin in your eyes. But he never outrun you. Always remained the same distance as you both ran back home. Where Moon was promptly scolded by his sunnier twin before being welcomed back home.