#dreamy bee art ❀

[littlebeedreamer]

I drew me fursona :3 she's a red panda bee n her name is Princess Seraphir Twilight Beeswax 𖹭𖹭𖹭𖹭

[liliiskawaii]

[dolls-self-ships]

miserposting once again

[starmothpress]

[ruckeysquad]

One last post as Anirevo begins!

I freaking love bee and puppycat, so I had to take a swing at another bit of art for it!

[lyrinami]

Nocturne Apiary

Tools used:

Checkpoint: Jib Mix Realistic XL-v16.0 Aphrodite EclecticEuphoria Universal SD3_k4 black-forest-labs/FLUX.1-dev

web-ui:  stable-diffusion-webui (AUTOMATIC1111) stable-diffusion-webui-forge ComfyUI

Other: Photoshop

[clovertoast]

❥ Bee ❥ If anyone wants to they can add another bee to the transparent image and Reblog it with the new image version. Lets have a bunch of buzzy beans.

[rheya28]

Club Tropics [ Nightclub + Restaurant] ♥ The Sims 4: Build // CC

Welcome to Club Tropics, a place to let loose and dance the night away under tropical neon lights! Club Tropics is an exclusive nightclub known for its DJs and tropical-inspired food and drinks. The main nightclub is located on the ground floor, which has multiple bars and seating and, of course, a dance floor. On the second floor, there is a restaurant that overlooks the nightclub.

➽ Speed Build Video

➽ Important Notes:

● Please make sure to turn bb.moveobjects on! ● Please DO NOT reupload or claim as your own. ● Feel free to tag me if you are using it, I love seeing my build in other peoples save file ● Feel free to edit/tweak my builds, but please make sure to credit me as the original creator! ● Thank you to all CC Creators ● Please let me know if there's any problem with the build

➽ Lot Details

Lot Name: Club Tropics Lot Type: Nightclub Lot size: 40x30 Location: Arts Quarter, San MyShuno

➽ MODS:

TOOL MOD by TwistedMexi

♥ CC LIST:

Note: I reuse a lot of the same cc in all my builds, specifically cc's from felixandre, HeyHarrie, Tuds, and Pierisim so if you're interested in downloading past, present, future build from me i suggest getting all their cc sets to make downloading a little easier! other creators include Sooky, Charlypancakes, Sixam, Thecluttercat, Myshunosun, awingedllama, Peacemaker, kiwisim4. This will also ensure that the lots are complete and are not missing any items upon downloading !

● Harrie: Bafroom, Brutalist, Kwatei, Octave pt 2, Shop the look 2, Spoons pt 3, ● The Clutter Cat: Bussy Bee, Dandy Diaries pt 1 ● CharlyPancakes: Light house collection ● Felix Andre: Chateau, Fayun, Colonial pt 3, Kyoto pt 2, Paris pt 1 3, Shop the look, Florence, Grove, Shop the look ● Cowbuild: Millionaire Quinn Walk in Closet (only used wall slats) ● House of Harlix: Harluxe, Jardane, Livin Rum, Orjanic ● Little Dica: Greasy Goods, Rise & Grind, Sleek Slumber ● Myshunosun: Lottie, Macaron Kitchen ● Peacemaker: Bowed Living, Caine Living, Pointless Renovation, Terratiles horizontal ● Pierisim: MCM, Oak House, Unfold, Winter Garden pt 2, Woodland Ranch ● Max 20: Poolside Lounge Pack ● Charly Pancakes x Pierisim: Precious Promises ● Rusticsims: Simple Kind Modular ● Sixam: Dreamy Outdoor, Furniture Showroom, Hotel Bedroom, Teen room ● Taurus Design: Lilith Chilling Areas ● Mycupofcc: The Modernist ● Tuds: Cave, Ind, NCTR

● DOWNLOAD Tray File and CC list: Patreon Page ● Origin ID: anrheya [previous name: applez] ● Twitter: Rheya28__ ● Tiktok: Rheya28__ ● Youtube: Rheya28__

[promptfairy]

❥    𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒    [   𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂    ]   .

change gendered language   &   add context to your needs . happy roleplaying !!  ♡

“ the best way to make beautiful art is to constantly expose yourself to new & exciting places . ” “ nothing makes me happier than seeing a plant i’ve grown from a seed produce a gorgeous bloom !! ” “ you have this magic ability to make people happy . i hope you’ll show me how you do it someday . ” “ it’s good to live in the moment & not worry too much about the past . ” “ isn’t that nice ?? we’re all just little clumps of stardust , walking around . ” “ i was so innocent back then , before i learned the cruel ways of the world . ” “ all i want to do right now is hop into a warm bed & not get out until the end of winter . ” “ come on , treat me like a pretty princess !! ” “ i’ll love myself by eating my favorite ice cream & wearing baggy clothes . ” “ lots of folks try to take the easy road , but that just means you’ve gotta deal with a lot of traffic . ” “ thanks for being my friend . you’re always there for me , & i think that’s great . ” “ there are some things you just don’t realize about places until you leave them . ” “ it’s like i gave you a little piece of my heart , & you kept it safe & warm . ” “ i don’t feel like i can trust anyone right now , so i need to be alone . ” “ were you being nice or sarcastic ?? ” “ no matter how much time passes , i can’t forget him . ” “ why think about boys when you could be thinking about really important issues ?? ” “ my dream is for everyone to find something they can be passionate about & to fully enjoy each day . ” “ i’m okay with anything , as long as there’s some romance in the story . . . ” “ you’re looking awful as ever . who dresses you ?? ” “ are you some kind of antisocial freak , or something ?? ” “ whenever we talk , i feel like there’s a lot more going on inside you than you ever let anyone see . ” “ you’re so passive - aggressive . get some therapy . ” “ sometimes , all it takes is a good friend to remind you of all the things you like about your life . ” “ if you waste your time doing something you enjoy , then you’re not wasting your time . ” “ i hope you get stung by a thousand bees . ” “ who decided oranges have to be named after their color , but bananas aren’t just called ‘ yellows ’ . . . ?? ” “ doesn’t the sight of petals falling make you feel sad ?? . . . makes me feel kind of sad . life is so fragile . . . ” “ if i pass out here , please make sure i have some lipstick on . ” “ you could give me bellybutton lint & i would still treasure it . ” “ when you laugh , you look dreamy . ” “ i hope you go to jail & that your stupid house is torn down . ” “ you are in need of some serious fashion first - aid . ” “ what sort of sadist would drag me out of bed this early in the morning ?? ” “ i have to drink ten gallons of mint tea every single day . ” “ well , you’re so pretty , it doesn’t matter what atrocious thing you wear . ” “ there are things you want to do & things you have to do . . . but don’t forget to do nothing now & then . ” “ please don’t question my driving or parking skills . you couldn’t even begin to understand the level i’m on . ”

[drownmeinbeauty]

IN EVERY DRAWING A HEARTACHE

Is there another architect who built as prolifically as Paul Rudolph, whose drawings retain an aura of dreamy desire? I wondered, after seeing the Paul Rudolph show at The Met Materialized Space: The Architecture of Paul Rudolph, which focuses on his drawings. It's a fitting tribute to the virtuostic mid-century American modernist.

Rudolph learned his trade in the navy reserve, designing and constructing ships and utility buildings. So each one of his drawings, particularly the sections, is guided by pragmatics of construction. Concrete beams and slabs are shown with appropriate heft, ceiling spaces compressed to a minimum, and every corner programmed. In his plans, the most geometrically platonic of his drawings, columns in grids stand like trees in an orchard. His pencil work has a density and sensuality, like the poured concrete he favored. Materialized Space is a misnomer; this is an architecture of material itself.

At the same time, there is in each drawing a vital sense of projection, of fiction. Even the orthogonal drawings (plans, sections, and elevations) have the feeling of renderings -- as if they're offering a vision of the building rather than a slice through. Inhabitants navigate staggered rooms of a townhouse like bees in a hive. Subways careen between the footings of raked residential skyscrapers. A train floats commuters between towers on a single rail.

Every Rudolph drawing is thrumming with life about to happen, a future tense, without veering into science fiction. It's an extraordinary quality, true of even those drawings of buildings that have already been built.

Paul Rudolph, Art and Architecture Building, Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut. Perspective Rendering of Final Scheme, 1964. © The Estate of Paul Rudolph, The Paul Rudolph Institute for Modern Architecture.

[fr00t-snacc]

“This is going to sound nuts, but I think I’ve been dreaming about you…”

A few people have been drawing ship art of Bee and Fionna, so I decided to contribute to it with today’s prompt! I specifically redrew a piece of art by Natasha Allegri, the character designer of Fionna and the creator of Bee and Puppycat!

Here it is-

I had fun making this art so dreamy looking…they’re dream bisexual girlfailures!

[rosyrosethings]

Prince Harry

Summary: y/n finds out Harry is a prince and that he lied to her.

Part 1

The day of the anticipated royal banquet dawned, cloaking the palace in an air of exhilaration. Y/n, having already established herself as a virtuoso in the art of dessert-making, arrived at the palace's grand kitchen with her mind brimming with recipes and her heart tangled in thoughts of Henry. The time they spent together had been sparse due to her burgeoning career, but each visit he made to her little shop was etched in her memory, kindling a flame she couldn't ignore.

As the kitchen buzzed with activity, staff members flitted about like diligent bees, their conversations a blend of duty and hushed excitement. Among them, Charlotte, a fellow staffer, shared the latest whispers floating through the palace halls with Y/n and Kelly.

"Rumor has it Prince Harry's renounced his notorious dating spree. They say there's a new object of his affection," Charlotte divulged with a conspiratorial wink.

"He was a notorious dater?" Y/n inquired, the question slipping out despite her.

"Oh, the prince was an absolute heartthrob. Charisma in spades and a smile to die for," Charlotte remarked, and Kelly chimed in with a dreamy sigh, "And those dimples...utterly divine."

Their chatter took a dramatic turn as Charlotte leaned in closer, her voice a mere whisper, "But the most riveting tidbit? There's talk of an engagement with Princess Emily."

"A royal wedding!" Kelly squeaked, her eyes sparkling with delight. "Imagine, we'd be in the thick of the preparations!"

Their excitement was infectious, and Y/n couldn't help but chuckle along, though her heart panged with an emotion she couldn't quite place.

As the hours whisked by, the kitchen transformed into a symphony of scents and flavors under Y/n's skilled direction. In the midst of this orchestrated chaos, Prince Harry made his entrance. Known for his genuine gratitude toward the palace staff, he embarked on his routine of personally thanking the kitchen team, believing in the profound power of simple appreciation.

His presence seemed to electrify the air, and a hush fell over the staff as he made his rounds. Y/n, however, was so engrossed in perfecting her lemon meringue tarts that his arrival went unnoticed, her focus unwavering even as her spatula clattered to the ground.

"Y/n, stand up; he's nearly here," Kelly hissed urgently, nudging her.

Scrambling upright, Y/n's head shot up just in time to lock eyes with the man she'd known as 'Henry'. In that suspended sliver of time, revelations dawned, and worlds collided.

"Y/n..." Harry breathed, the word laced with a cocktail of emotions.

Their connection was palpable, a tangible current in the air. Kelly, sensing the depth of the moment, attempted to bridge the sudden chasm. "Your Majesty, Y/n is our lead baker. Her creations are nothing short of culinary poetry."

But Y/n was anchored in place, her voice barely a whisper, "You're Prince Harry?"

The prince's confirming nod was heavy, burdened with unsaid words and uncharted feelings.

Kelly, ever the protocol expert, interjected, "Y/n, remember, it's 'Your Royal Highness' or 'Your Majesty'."

Betrayal, sharp and unyielding, pierced Y/n's heart. Was she just another nameless face in a sea of admirers? A fleeting fancy before royal duty beckoned?

As Harry opened his mouth to explain, a stern voice cut through the thick tension. "Prince Harry, you are required to dress for the occasion immediately!"

"But I need to—" Harry protested, his plea desperate.

"The Queen will not tolerate tardiness, Your Highness. What importance could this baker possibly hold?" the attendant dismissed, a note of disdain in her tone.

Torn between duty and desire, Harry cast a longing look at Y/n before resigning to his royal obligations. As he strode away, Y/n stood amidst the whirlwind of preparations, her heart a tempest of confusion and disbelief.

As the event unfolded in its regal splendor, Y/n immersed herself in her culinary artistry, a silent storm brewing beneath her calm demeanor. The staff around her exchanged knowing glances, intuitively aware of the unspoken tension between her and the prince, yet they respected her privacy.

The time for the dessert presentation arrived, and with a deep breath to steady her nerves, Y/n emerged from behind the kitchen doors. Her smile was poised as she took her place beside the queen, an intimidating presence at the head of the table, with Harry and Emily on either side.

"Esteemed guests, I am Y/n, your head dessert chef for this evening. It is with great honor that I present to you a beloved treat from my hometown — the lemon meringue tart," she announced, her voice steady, betraying none of the tumult within her heart as the waitstaff unveiled the desserts with a flourish.

"Please, indulge," she invited with a courteous bow, her smile unwavering even as the room filled with the sounds of delighted approval.

"These are exquisite, Y/n. You must grace the royal engagement with this delicacy," the queen declared, her reference to Harry and Emily's impending nuptials causing a visible hitch in Harry's demeanor, manifesting as a cough.

The comment, though painful, didn't shatter Y/n's professional facade. "It would be my utmost honor, Your Majesty," she replied, offering a sweet, yet pained smile, all while avoiding Harry's intense gaze seeking hers.

At that moment, Prince William of Arendelle rose with an air of charisma. "Chef Y/n, I am Prince William of Arendelle. Your talents are extraordinary. I must request a private tasting of your creations," he proposed gallantly, taking her hand and pressing a respectful kiss to it, his forwardness sending a ripple of surprise through her.

"Certainly, Your Highness. Please have your aid arrange it with me," she responded, a hint of nervousness in her tone, yet maintaining decorum.

Harry's response was immediate and laced with a regal possessiveness that was hard to miss. "Prince William, I must insist you respect Chef Y/n's professional boundaries," Harry interjected, his tone courteous yet firm, his posture rigid with barely restrained jealousy.

"But Harry, while you've found your future queen, perhaps I'm in pursuit of my own," William retorted playfully, his smile charming yet impish.

Y/n's laughter was soft, a gentle chime amidst the tension. "Your Highness, your words honor me, but I must return to my duties," she excused herself, retreating to the sanctuary of her kitchen.

he vast parking lot sprawled before Y/n like an echoing chasm of memories. Gently, almost reverently, she began to collect her baking utensils. Thinking heavily about Harry, every whispered secret they shared, became a weight, anchoring her heart. 'Henry' had been a figment of simpler times, while the man before her was a prince, his life mapped out with another's. A burgeoning tide of tears clouded her vision, her emotions a tumultuous storm, each gust and tempest amplifying her despair.

"Y/n..." The timbre of his voice, deep and imbued with a yearning she intimately recognized, echoed through the vast emptiness, as haunting as a lone wolf's cry.

She hesitated, then turned, her inner turmoil palpable. The magnetic pull to seek solace in his embrace was undeniable. Yet, the stark reality of their circumstance was an unyielding barrier. "Your Highness," she uttered softly, her acknowledgment wrapped in the delicate veil of respect, her voice barely more than a whisper carried by the gentle night breeze.

"Y/n, please... Let the formality fall away. To you, I wish to be just Harry," he urged, every ounce of his being poured into the plea, his eyes awash with raw emotion, holding the universe of his feelings.

"Yet the heart I gave was to 'Henry', an ordinary man free from regal constraints," she countered, the anguish evident in her quivering voice. "How can I trust, how can I give myself to 'Harry', when our relationship was birthed from deception?"

Drawing himself to his full stature, yet with vulnerability evident in his posture, he said, "I concede, Y/n. I concealed who I truly was. My regret is immeasurable, a shadow I cannot escape," pausing as his chest heaved, "But understand, every cherished memory, every intimate moment under the guise of 'Henry' was genuine, untarnished by royal obligations. I love you with a fervor that transcends titles, as a man envisioning not just a fleeting moment, but an entire lifetime with you."

Emotion clung to every syllable, creating an unspoken bond. "And Emily?" she dared, her voice laced with the bitter taste of perceived betrayal.

"Emily is a predetermined path, a duty I'm entwined with," he replied, his face a tapestry of conflict. "But it's you who reigns over my heart, the beacon guiding me through the darkest nights. I beg, give me a chance to show my love is untethered to my lineage."

As his heartfelt confession resonated, Y/n's defenses began to crumble. She could discern the sincerity embedded deep within his gaze, feel the undeniable truth resonating in the cadence of his voice. Drawn together as if by some ethereal force, the soft luminescence of the moon bathed them, turning her tear-streaked cheeks into shimmering pathways of emotion. With a gentleness that transcended his princely status, Harry tenderly brushed her tears away, his touch as soft as a lover's caress, his eyes holding a world of promises.

"Y/n, might I be blessed with the privilege of sealing our bond with a kiss?" The very air around them seemed to hold its breath, the night itself awaiting her response. A slight, yet affirmative nod was all the confirmation he needed. Their lips met, a tender collision of souls, of destinies intertwined. It was a fleeting moment that felt like eternity, a dance of passion and promise.

Her voice, delicate yet laced with hope, broke their intimate reverie. "Wanna come home with me?"

His response, though filled with longing, bore the weight of duty. "As much as my heart yearns to, tonight, responsibilities bind me. I must set boundaries with William, especially after witnessing your amusement at his wife's playful jests," he jested, a twinkle in his eyes, cradling her face gently, her laughter echoing like a cherished melody in his heart.

"That laughter, my dearest Y/n, is a tune I wish to be serenaded with, every day, every night. Swear it's reserved solely for me?" His tone was playful, yet underneath lay a depth of emotion that was impossible to feign.

A radiant smile played on her lips, mischief sparkling in her eyes. "Are we sensing a hint of the Jealousy, Prince Harry?"

His feigned sulk was a silent confession of his feelings, but her tender kiss swept it away, leaving only the warmth of their connection. "My heart is irrevocably yours, my very own prince," she whispered, the words a sacred vow between them. A thrill shot through him as she uttered "my prince" — words so simple, yet so profound, marking the first time she had claimed him as her own. He was overwhelmed with devotion; for her, he'd move mountains without a second thought.

They reluctantly parted, their bodies separating like reluctant magnets. As he returned to the palace, Harry's heart lingered behind with Y/n. Entering the regal building, he found his father, the King, awaiting his return, an air of expectancy about him.

"The baker girl has caught your fancy?" the King inquired without preamble. Harry, ever honest, could only nod in affirmation. "I love her," he declared, his voice steady with conviction.

The King let out a disbelieving chuckle. "You're enamored with the baker girl?" he echoed, disappointment evident in his demeanor. "This cannot proceed, Harry. We have arrangements with Princess Emily's family. You're to marry her," he asserted, his voice laced with finality.

"But I don't harbor feelings for Emily. My heart belongs to—"

"Your personal affections are inconsequential!" the King interrupted, his patience fraying. "Our kingdom's welfare, our diplomatic relations, they take precedence. You believe I'd sanction a union between the heir to the throne and a commoner? Imagine the scandal, the uproar in the press. And consider the girl! The crown is a heavy burden — it brings with it relentless scrutiny, harsh judgment, even animosity. Do you believe the public will embrace her? Think of the consequences for Y/n," he argued, his words not just an order but a plea laced with concern.

Harry fell silent, the weight of his father's words, the gravity of the situation, and the potential repercussions for Y/n pressing down on him.

"See the reason, Harry. You must end this dalliance! And let this discussion remain between us; the Queen need not know," the King commanded, his tone softening before he turned on his heel and departed, leaving Harry alone with his turmoil.

[starmothpress]

nectar 🐝

made this after a meditation in the free offering from @conniesolera and feeling so aligned this morning 🌟

Also getting ready for a kayaking trip 🌊

how are you getting creative today?

[ouroboros-hideout]

WIP WHENEVER, WHEREVER

(we are meant to be together shakira shakira)

@olath124 tagged me for this, thanks friend!

Still rather low on content or WIPs I can show but it's something

ART

Don't know if I would call it art actually but I am currently making myself some Discord emojis of Aon aka Knife Queen aka Blorbo Girl.

That's the first one I got done. Because smirking is very important 👆 will do 3 or 4 more I guess. Laughing, something sad, angery and what ever inspiration brings along the way.

VP

The Dogtown Noir pics where fun to do but I noticed real quick that I need a lot of focus to get some good shots. And I don't have that most of the time. I heard there is actually a city outside of Dogtown KEK maybe I will go there next and do some photos 💫

WRITING

Putting this last so no one is forced to read the wall of txt. I still have a lot of unfinished ramblings but nothing that would make sense to show. I started to write some small bits for my own amusement and positive vibes based upon a soft OTP promt list (or what ever it was called). It's only stupid conversations and I think it's nothing for AO3, so probably just throw it here whenever I finished one.

Write about your ship getting dressed up in fancy outfits together:

"Oh my god I hate this so much..."

Aon pulled on his black bolero jacket and looked at herself in the mirror next to the large closet in Kurt's apartment on the top floor of the Sapphire with an unimpressed expression.

"You don't like what I've chosen for you?" Kurt asked, still beeing busy in the bathroom.

"No... yes. I mean. No, I don't like all of this." She grimaced a little more and turned around to look at the elegant suit trousers and expensive shoes she would be wearing tonight.

"Fancy clothes, putting up with brainless snobs at glamorous parties. Pretending to care about what they do and who they are. I really don't know why you like that so much."

"You'll have fun, I'm sure of it." Kurt came back to the main room and took his leather harness, which was still lying on the bed, and put it around his shoulders. He chose a more elegant garment than usual for tonight aswell, as Alyona had demanded, but he wasn't going to abandon all of his military habits.

"I'll have fun at the bar. I know that for sure."

She was still tugging at the jacket, as if she was trying to minimize the revealing neckline of the top.

"And you had to pick something so provocative, didn't you? Well, at least it's not a glittery cocktail dress. You could have worn that yourself."

Kurt laughed heartily at the last comment, took a few steps over to her and fastened the last buttons on the collar of his black shirt.

"You look fantastic."

That didn't really convince her.

"Oh, shut the fuck up. I feel like I'm playing dress-up."

Kurt was now standing behind her, looking in the mirror with her, still smiling.

"Well, in a way, we do, don't we? If you want to get close to your prey, you have to wrap yourself in it´s fur."

Aon let out an amused snort. "You're such a poet Kurt, it's almost unbelievable," she replied sarcastically.

"Still, I'm glad you decided to come along. I don't think it will do you any harm to see something other than the workshop." He put his hands on her hips and leaned forward a little. At least he liked the sight of the two of them in the mirror.

"Hmmm, what I wouldn't give to spend all night fixing that Chimera-Junk gathering dust in your warehouse...", she replied with a playfully dreamy tone.

"You enjoyed the evening at the Totentanz. You can't deny that."

"You're seriously comparing your fancy-pants party to the thing at the Totentanz?"

"It was a party, you didn't want to go and you ended up enjoying it."

"Maybe because even the smallest circute in Maelstrom is a more interesting conversation partner than everyone you've invited today."

Kurt leaned a little closer to her.

"If you decide to stay here after all, I want you to come to every party. Not because I like to see you suffer, but because then I would finally have something to look forward to in the evening. Pleasant company and someone I can rely on."

"Don't get too excited. I might already have a plan to ruin everything."

"That doesn't matter. It would definitely still be a night to remember because you were with me."

Her face twisted into a grimace.

"Damn, you're such a suck-up. No wonder you've got all these snobs eating out of your hand."

"But the difference is that I mean my compliments to you seriously."

Kurt couldn't help but laugh again when he noticed Aon blushing and quickly turning away from the mirror so he wouldn't notice.

"Okay, let's get going. The sooner we get there, the sooner I can say I've tried long enough."

She hastily disengaged from his embrace and walked straight towards the door.

He followerd her right away.

"You stay until the end. I'll tell the bartender to keep you 'entertained'."

Think most of the ppl I would tag have already shown their awesome stuff lately so I will skip this time. See you next time!

[zeenmrala]

The Ladies Nienna and Ayane

this beautiful piece was created by @kimageddon, commissioned by @stardustbee for my birthday and it has to be one of the most special and gorgeous pieces i have ever received!!! it was inspired by a fic i wrote for bee about the friendship our OCs have between universes, the second time they meet. nienna (left) is my oc who is also the reader character from my fanfiction by the light of the second moon and ayane (right) is bee's oc from her fic the dance of sun and moon. this piece is part two, part one was a gift from bee last year which you can find here here. i'll post the new fic below just in case any friends are interested. love you, thank you so very much!!!!!!!1

The lady Nienna sits alone in her gardens, on the edge of a shallow pond, beneath the branches of draping swaying trees. It is a fragrant dusk evening on Naboo, and the growing summer breeze licks at her skin, her lower arms exposed from her sweeping green gown. 

She is sketching privately in a little book, a habit from her youth that she was never able to forsake. Her drawings are much more profound than they were when she was a young woman, her skills and precision having improved over the years during her career as a portrait artist and art-critic. What has stayed the same however, is her muse. Her lover from her days as a young adult, and once again now, as a grown woman of thirty-five: the renegade Sith Lord Maul. Her reacquaintance with him did not go as smoothly as their first meeting all those years ago did, with petty squabbles and resentment and unspoken words muddying the waters of their reunion. But in the last year they have comfortably settled into a relaxed yet unusual dynamic. She cannot call it a relationship, no - he is much too damaged and maddened and chaotic for such a thing. However, whatever it is that they have now, it suits them well enough. 

Nienna assesses her work, the sketch is of her lover from their meeting a couple of days ago. He had paid her a surprise visit, handsomely stylish in new robes and a pendant around his neck, an emblem of a rising sun that signifies his underworld criminal venture, Crimson Dawn. She thinks that his new aesthetic suits him now that his frame has grown larger with age, power and wealth. The dark tunic and gold regalia fits the powerful vision of him impeccably. His durasteel legs gleam in the same way that his brushed chromium weapon does, the hilt of the thing bold and dangerous: he carries it constantly at his hip like another cybernetic limb. She hums softly as she looks over her rendition of this strange man that is inexplicably tangled up in her life, feelings of an even stranger love tugging at her heart. She thinks over all that they have been through together, all that they have faced alone. How they have found one another again. 

She notices a change in the air, then. A hazy sweeping density that plunges her into a soft weightlessness. She blinks rapidly, dropping her sketchpad to the plush grass as she stands. It is a unique dreaminess that she has felt before, in a life long ago, but cannot seem to place. She spins around, searching between the trees and exotic flower-beds as she senses that she is being observed. The forest before her morphs, the rich greens and browns of leaves and soil twisting into deep reds and hazy ochres of a rocky landscape. Before she can register the ominous curiousness of her current predicament, a silhouette emerges from the blur, the definition of the figure slowly morphing into full clarity. It is a vivid and feminine shape, tall and striding with purpose. 

A woman that is heavy with child.

She is wearing a black dress with silver detailing at the waist and the dark fabric flows around her exquisitely as she walks, her thin hand resting protectively on her large belly. Her pale shoulders are exposed, but the reddish light of the strange scene warms the tundra of her skin. A choker of gleaming metal adorns her throat, the necklace engraved with the emblem of a raven, bold and solid. She has dark inky hair that is swept neatly from her face, half is up, braided with a twisting delicacy at the back of her head, the rest of it straight and silky, falling shiny and rich down her back. 

Nienna becomes painfully aware of her own appearance, of her hair, which sits wild and bushy and curly around her head, her fingers stained with charcoal, her long dress, though custom-made, artisan and beautiful, has foliage and dirt littering the materials of her skirts from lounging in the grass all afternoon. Why must she always appear moonstruck and crazed, especially when facing strangers in the woods? It is a commonality of her whole life, her wild, earthy aesthetic always coinciding with strange meetings in the forest. She sighs, attempting to maintain her dignity and embrace her own rugged beauty in the face of the regal brilliance of the stranger's own. 

The woman stops when she is a few strides from Nienna, squints her eyes at her, as though trying to place her. Close up, she seems less ravishing and more…frightening. Ethereal wrath burns beneath her expression, the weight of experience roaring in her irises. Those eyes…

"It's you," says Nienna, recognition morphing her expression into awe, astonishment lacing her words. "Ayane. The friend from my dreams in girlhood." She tilts her head, takes in the image of the looming, elegant woman before her. "My, you've changed."

Her friend’s eyes are the same colour as she remembers, but where they were once the blue of open summer skies, they are now the iced rage of a stormy sea. Though she seems more mature and wise, there are no lines of age marking her skin. Those lines are around Nienna’s eyes though, the years of her life beginning to stain her complexion, the youth slowly being leached from her skin. Ayane looks frozen in time, yet vibrant with the wisdom of a lifetime. 

“Nienna,” greets Ayane, a soft smirk pulling at the corner of her lips. “It has been a while.”

“How are you here?” The shorter woman asks bluntly, her confusion overriding her politeness. She reaches forward into the red mist that has followed Ayane into her vergant gardens, wiggles her fingers in it. It's cold.

Ayane purses her lips, looks around her. “Curious, isn’t it?” Her palm circles her pregnant stomach as she wanders. A silence settles around them, both unsure of how to approach this odd reunion. A crater of years rests between them, a vast distance between universes, as well as the inherently perplexing nature of their meeting. Nienna has thirsted for knowledge since she was freed from her home planet, and has scoured the worlds in search of it. She is an intelligent and well read woman, the itch to learn and rid herself of that childish naivety she has always loathed in herself as necessary for her as breathing. She researched her dreams, her strange visions and the odd meeting she had with Ayane as a young woman, and has only discovered one potential connecting factor - The Force. It beguiles her, frightens her. Mystical and maddening, its clutches have haunted her for her entire life. Is it the cause of this meeting now, too?

Nienna watches Ayane closely, following her movement with wide, green eyes. Then the woman stops cold, and a wash of menace sluices down Nienna’s spine.

"What is this?" She asks sharply, danger rippling in her voice. Nienna follows her extended finger, which points to her sketchpad on the ground, its pages open to her newest sketch of Maul.

Nienna frowns, blinking. "My art," she answers defensively, not appreciating the sneering nature of Ayane's tone.

"Why are you drawing him?" There is confusion and accusation in her eyes as she glares at her. The grave shadow in her gaze starts to become literal, the whites of them darkening to black. Her anger burns her irises red, and her lips instinctively pull back, revealing sharp fangs. She all but hisses at her.

Nienna flinches. She is perplexed at her friend’s sudden wildness and grim transformation, at how she recognised her lover in the sketch. "You know him?"

“Know him?” spits Ayane violently, "He is my husband. The father of my children."

Husband? Nienna is dumbfounded, completely taken aback. “Impossible.”

Ayane looks down at her body, swollen with the very opposite of Nienna’s truth. “This babe will be our third.” When she looks back up again, her darkness has dissipated, her anger quelled by the reassurance of their unborn child. Her eyes are the familiar blue Nienna first recognised, her mouth and lips returned to normal. It is as though Nienna imagined it. 

Perhaps she did. 

Third. The word rings in her ears. Three children? How could he possibly reproduce? It is physically unfeasible. A fantasy. Nienna bends to the ground and picks up the book. 

“This sketch of him is an image from three days ago, Ayane. Look closer. At his lower half,” she insists, assuming this all to be some terrible mistake. 

The pregnant woman takes the sketchpad from Ni with gentle fingers. She straightens upright, then brings the drawing closer to her eyes. She looks over the subject of the drawing, making note of such a unique face, a face that definitely belongs to Maul. It is unmistakable, what with his casual expression of contempt, the imposing crown of horns, his handsome nose and jaw: her soulmate's features are as familiar to Ayane as her own body is. She sees the cybernetics of his legs, and her bewilderment grows. Why does he have those? Why is Nienna drawing him? 

“Who is he to you?” she demands coldly.

“I don’t have words for it,” Nienna replies truthfully, unable to make sense of what he is to her. Ayane stays silent for a moment, and Nienna tries to further explain, but the words do not come easily. “He is my liberator, my tormenter…my…” she tapers off. 

Ayane disappears from herself for a moment, her gaze vacant as she looks into the distance, as though she is searching for something. And she is, internally, reaching out to her bond with Maul, trying to pass the bridge that connects their minds in the Force. But there is nothing there. No bridge, no connection. No bond.

“I cannot feel him,” she whispers, fear and awe strangling the reality out of her. “Not here.”

Nienna’s sense returns to her at these words, and she recalls her previous experiences with Ayane. She is not from this world, this galaxy, this universe - that much is clear. Perhaps she and Maul exist together as husband and wife, as parents…somewhere else. A different set of circumstances, a separate path. 

Another Maul.

“Was he not bisected, where you are from?” she asked tentatively, her stomach twisting. Marriage. Children. How would he be capable of such things?

“Yes,” Ayane says sadly, to Nienna’s shock. “He was grievously injured in battle. But he was healed.” Her watery blue eyes meet the earthen green of Nienna’s. Nienna raises her hands to face, turning away from her friend. Healed?

“I don’t understand,” mutters Nienna, her heart pounding. “How does one heal from an injury of that magnitude?” She has never heard of such a thing, not once in her life. How does a man regain his legs, his reproductive organs, when they have been detached from his body? His survival itself was a miracle, and now this?

“We are from different planes,” assumes Ayane calmly. “My dimension is vastly dissimilar to this one.” She pauses, her lips pouting, her hand on her chin, her eyes glowering in thought. “It appears this…connection…that you and I have, Nienna, is somehow attached to our relationship with him.”

Nienna turns back to face her, and her expression is painted with disbelief. "We are connected…by him?"

“It is our commonality, is it not?” She asks, running her eyes over Nienna. “What is your relationship with Maul?” She spits, and she waits for that violent rage to erupt inside of her, the horrific rush of vengeance that rattles her bones when another woman is associated with him. Nienna doesn’t answer, and Ayane’s patience runs thin, unable to prevent herself from adding, "Do you love him?”

The air is sucked from Nienna’s lungs as she nods. “I do,” she admits breathily, in slight fear of Ayane, the image of her strange eyes and sharp teeth so recent in her mind. She braces herself.

But Ayane does nothing, says nothing, because she is taken aback by her absence of rage. Then she suddenly makes sense of it: it’s because the man Nienna loves is not her Maul. She is not connected with him in this realm, which is why she cannot reach him through their bond. It isn’t him, here, he isn’t hers. He is Nienna’s. Nienna has the same realisation, as she registers that she has not felt any resentment or animosity to Ayane since discovering their shared lover. That she has felt no need to lay claim to him at all.

“Oh,” Ayane murmurs, then smiles, the lack of fierce fury a soothing relief. She looks at Nienna, fondness in her eyes. A pause. “Nienna, this is ever so strange.”

This was not what Nienna expected to come from her friend’s lips. Compassion and empathy courses through Ayane, as she considers the Maul in this dimension, his disability and trauma. The toll this must have on her friend.

"I'm sorry," says Ayane softly. "That in this dimension you will not be able to bear him children."

Nienna snorts. "Don't be. I'd never have his children, even if he could give them to me." Ayane steps back, starting, her hands protective over her stomach.

Nienna’s eyes widen. "Forgive me. What I mean is that I never would have children. Not his, not anyone's."

Ayane seems confused by this. 

“I birth enough creation with my art,” Nienna explains. “This world, this galaxy, this universe. It's no place for a child.” She shakes her head. “Not here.”

“What about marriage?” she asks.

“No,” Nienna insists. “Absolutely not.”

“Are you…happy together?” asks the dark-haired woman curiously.

“That is a complicated question. Our…romance,” Nienna answers, “is not at all conventional.”

Ayane giggles, and it is a heartfelt melodic laugh that breaks the tension between them. “I suppose that’s an intrinsic element of loving him.”

Nienna nods, then pushes her hair from her face. Hesitates.

“Can I ask? Your eyes. They changed colour…”

“Ah yes,” Ayane says nonchalantly. “That happens. I’m not exactly human.”

Nienna does not need to know any more, doesn’t want to. She accepts Ayane’s answer, happy to move on. A hard lesson she has learned is that though truth is sweet and enticing to her, sometimes it is the best course of action to resist knowing more than you need to, more than you are entitled to. She has become rather skilled at treading that line.

“Tell me, Nienna,” requests Ayane, extending her pale hand towards her to give her back her artbook, “of your non-conventional relationship with my husband. I am curious.”

Nienna snorts a laugh at the ridiculousness of that statement, and Ayane begins to giggle in tandem with her. Nienna takes the sketchpad back from Ayane, then reaches out and takes her friend’s hand. “I shall enlighten you whilst I take you on a tour of my gardens.”

The two wander in the timeless dreamscape, and Nienna identifies and shows off her multitudes of flora as she weaves her life story into words. She tells her of the Moons, her youth as a surgeon’s daughter, Maul’s sudden imposition on her life and the harrowing changes he inflicted upon it. She leaves out the details of their physical relationship, because though integral to their story, it does not seem to have a place in this conversation. Nienna sensed the depth of Ayane’s jealousy that rages in her blood. It is less painful for them both this way.

The walk of the forest is hazy, littered with odd watery scenery that indicate they do not walk the physical realm of her world. It is perplexing, how they are together, why they are together and what relevancy it has to their relationships with the former Sith Lord. The two recall their time in the woods, all those years ago, how they both awoke with a physical remnant of the dream; their flower crowns. 

“I treasure that gift,” Ayane confesses. “I still have it, to this day.” 

“So do I,” says Nienna. The delicate blue crown made with flowers from Ayane’s world sits under lock and key, alongside her other most valuable and sentimental artefacts. It lies in the pages of her secret sketchpad that she treasured all those years ago.

After a pause, Nienna turns towards Ayane and asks, “What do you suppose is the meaning of our meeting tonight? Do you believe there is any rhyme or reason to these events? You are clearly much more knowledgeable and experienced in these matters than I am.”

Ayane sighs softly and shakes her head. “I have not the slightest idea. But I am glad that, for whatever reason, we were able to be reunited again.”

“Me too.”

The two women have now completed a lap of the entire gardens, and have returned to the spot where they were first reunited. They both perch on the edge of the pond, and Nienna retrieves her pouch of pencils that she placed between the rocks. 

She smiles softly, then places her sketchbook and tools on her lap. She has an idea, and is slightly nervous to ask Ayane about it. Eventually, she takes a deep breath, and flicks through to an empty page and looks at her friend. 

“Ayane, would you mind if I did a quick sketch of you? I am a portrait artist, I’ve spent my life perfecting my technique and collecting the faces of those from across the stars. It would mean an awful lot to me to put this beautiful evening to paper, to be able to draw…you.”

Ayane blinks slowly, her hand still resting on her pregnant belly protectively. She seems unsure, but after pondering it for a moment, she ultimately nods, and a tender smile forms on her lips. “Of course, my friend. I would be honoured.” She looks around herself, and reaches for her hair. “Do you want me to…should I…?”

Ni shakes her head. “No, you look great where you are. You’re perfect, Ayane.” 

And so she begins to sketch her muse, starting with an outline of the vampiress. Nienna’s wrists and fingers glide swiftly across the page, and she works fast but precisely, her expertise apparent in her quick fingers and the concentration painted on her face. 

Ayane feels awkward at first, and doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself. She shifts, and looks at the ground, her body rigid. She looks more and more uncomfortable as the time stretches on.

“Try and…relax,” advises Nienna kindly when she notices Ayane’s discomfort. “Just look at the stars, at the moon. Watch the sky. Think of your family. Think of…him.”

Ayane nods, and exhales softly. She shifts again, and then looks up into the sky, and smiles. “I’ve always loved the stars, the moon.”

Nienna smiles, sketching as she replies. “As do I. It is a joy to be able to walk beneath the light.”

After a while, Ayane inquires softly. “Do you know of Dathomir, Nienna?” 

“I do.” 

“Dathomir is where I reside,” she says, looking around her at the abundance of flora, the vibrant greens and earthy browns. Nienna’s gardens appear to be the very antithesis to Ayane’s home of rock and red mists. “It is rather…different from yours.”

“Stars,” Nienna exclaims, “you live there? How do you stand it?”

“What do you mean?” asks Ayane, somewhat shocked. 

“It’s not the…um…most comfortable of environments?” 

Ayane nods, and smiles knowingly. “I suppose it can seem that way to some. For me, it’s my ancestral home, the residence of my kin. It is where I was born to be.”

“I do not have the same attachment to it. I went once, at the request of…him. It was not the most pleasant of atmospheres, to put it lightly. I haven’t returned since.”

Ayane giggles. “I can only imagine what the humidity did to your hair.”

“Exactly! It was awful. He said I looked like some kind of wild woman.”

Their laughter fades, and then the peaceful silence returns until Ayane breaks it. “Tell me Nienna, have you watched the moons from the Dathomiri mountains?”

Nienna pauses, and exhales. “No, I haven’t. I have yet to accept another of my lover’s invitations to his native home.”

“The next time he requests your presence, oblige him,” Ayane suggests. “Allow him to walk you up to the mountains. Watch the skies at night. It is the most beautiful thing - I can hardly bring myself to describe it. If your Dathomir is the same as mine, that is.”

The artist pauses in her sketching, and looks into the ocean eyes of her friend. “I will, Ayane. Thank you, that is very thoughtful. And I shall think of you when I look upon the moons of Dathomir. I will give the place another try.”

The two women sit beneath the Naboo night sky as Nienna continues to sketch Ayane under the moonlight. The breeze remains gentle and floral, and it brushes against them in a soothing caress, the leaves around them rustling softly. The evening stretches into the timeless dreamscape, and then, it is almost finished.

Nienna completes her sketch, drops her pencil and flexes her fingers and wrists. “Ah,” she sighs in slight pain. “My hands aren’t what they used to be.” She then shuffles over to Ayane and presents her the portrait. “What do you think?”

Ayane sucks in a sharp breath as she appraises the image of herself on the paper. Lady Nienna is highly regarded as being in possession of a rare and unique talent: in laying bare truth. She is able to present to the world, in full clarity, the hearts and desires of her subjects through their eyes and expressions. 

The drawing of Ayane presents a softened reflection of the vampire, as though Nienna has delved deep into her mind and forced forth the girl from her younger years. Hope and loss and confusion gleam in Ayane's eyes, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as though in anticipation - as though that young girl she used to be is poised and ready to run from her life. 

It's raw and candid and real: exquisite. 

"Oh, Nienna…" Ayane says, her voice trembling with emotion. "I've not seen this version of myself for many years." 

Nienna smiles softly, her eyes glazing across her work. "That's the person I first met. The Ayane I know." She meets her gaze. "The Ayane you are, deep down. My friend."

A tight fist of sentiment twists in Ayane's chest. Then, a soft breeze flickers the pages, revealing a self portrait Nienna sketched a few moons ago. 

"This is you," Ayane says. The woman in the sketch has darkness in her eyes, yearning warping the clothes she is dressed in in a strange darkness. Her face, though neutral in expression, screams for purpose and liberation. Haunted. 

"It's who I was. Who I am."

A pause. The dreamscape warps and glitches, and Ayane becomes slightly…transparent.

"It's fading." Ayane looks around herself, hesitance and resistance paints her expression. "Our time is coming to an end."

"Take this." Nienna tears out the self portrait, crushing it into Ayane's palm. "Remember me. I'll remember you."

Ayane's eyes water. "I hope to see you again, one day."

"As do I." Ni swallows, holding her sketchpad to her chest. "Goodbye Ayane."

"Nienna," Ayane says as she begins to fade, reaching her hand towards the shorter woman. "Remember the Moons."

And then she disappears, the crimson dawn of her home, universes apart, evaporates into the dark swamp greens of Nienna's gardens.

Ni takes a breath, the weightless feeling dispersing. She is grounded again. With charcoal stained fingers, she flicks to the page in her book that held the drawing of Ayane. 

It's still there.

-

[akira-fishhh]

Grande passion.

Usually, Kreiburg took the best out of life and enjoyed it in the spring, but not this year. Too many contracts have been signed, and only a fool can get away from the desired bills.

Although age takes its toll.

Frederick is a man with an ideal actor's face with wrinkles already gradually standing out. Not a single layer of makeup can hide the fading youth. However, even so, his power of take ladies breath away with his beauty did not fade away in him.

No matter how much time has passed, the memories of his youth will never leave him: thin-lipped wisdom spoke to him from a worn armchair preaching prudence, quoting the book of cowardice, posing as common sense. Kreiburg never listen. However, he'll never admit to himself that he admires his father's speeches, as well as his magnificent music playing.

The lady was grinning, looming in the doorway of the dusty dressing room and talking pretentiously while Frederick stood in the hallway. When she saw the actor, she began to persistently call him a "genius of pure acting." Oh, well. She's not destined to know the truth and get dirty in the "purity" of acting.

Later, a new nickname was heard. "The merciful patron of art". Frederick drew his eyebrows to the bridge of his nose and, holding a battered cane in his hands, walked cautiously on.

As always, there was chaos on the film set. Makeup artists, actors, cameramen, directors rushed around the set and were flat out like bees in a hive

Frederick is too used to such a work fuss, so none of what is happening causes any reaction.

A sultry wind of passion swept over the lady and stirred the graceful folds of her dress with an apron. That's ridiculous. Wherever the rumors about Frederick slipped, all the ladies only sighed in love, their blood rushed up, and their cheeks blushed. A brush with shadows slid over his eyelids, and another makeup artist carefully arranged his pure snow-white hair.

When his eyes opened again, he saw how the makeup artist's gaze was clouded by a dreamy haze.

Unpleasant personalities with dyed hair and faces with tons of makeup swirled around. Eternal turmoil and nothing more. It's as if they're not filming another episode of the series, but rushing to help everyone get ready for their last journey.

The two actors next to him looked as grotesque as the scenery, as if borrowed from a rural farce. But he! Kreiburg is too confident in himself, because he is able to take the whole frame to a new level just by smiling at the camera.

Makeup artists loved to have small talk with Frederick where they could pour out their heart or instead they could share their happiness with him. As now, the pianist does not mind at all and he is happy to join the conversation

The lady who had neatly styled Kreiburg's hair walked away and examined her work, modestly finishing it all with the final spray of varnish. After giving a couple of instructions on how to deal with such a hairstyle, she began to put things in a bag.

"You're always bothering me with good advice!" the pianist grunted with a slight friendly smile, straightening the sleeves of his cuffs.

The girl who was putting makeup on his face decided to share her own heartbreaking love story, to which Frederick just chuckled.

"You will always be loved and you will be in love with love. Grande passion¹," Frederick cooed before disappearing with the necessary clothes behind a dressing screen.

"What love allegories are you singing, my dear colleague," one of the actors as famous as Frederick strolled through the dressing room with an imposing gait. "Orpheus". The actor's real name is unknown because of his past as a writer, which made curiosity itch under the skin of the former musician.

A statuesque figure in a white jacket appeared in front of Frederick. Brown-haired with perfectly tousled hair, casting sly glances with a special squint, he is a real ladies' man. There was something about him that caused Frederick to have an overly diverse range of emotions: the desire to once again pull away, but at the same time continue caressing his own ears with the sweet speech of this man. Attractively hateful is the best description of Frederick's attitude towards Orpheus

He is perfect in everything from speech to a perfectly ironed jacket that fits exactly over his shoulders. Seam to seam, arrow to arrow, everything in it is marvelous and there is nothing to complain about.

"Eavesdropping is not good," a sharp remark flew out of the mouth of the white-haired man, who finally vanished from prying eyes behind a screen. In his hands was an elegant black suit with red gloves and a white shirt.

The nimble gaze of green eyes flashed behind the monocle, and their owner himself moved to the mirror to appear at full height. Another reminder of his perfect appearance. Wiping off his lip pencil, which had slightly leaked during his time on set, Orpheus snorted something under his breath.

"What a pity that the dressing room is common for all the actors."

The voice went down almost to a whisper at the end of the phrase.

Frederick pulling on red gloves looked at them. They look unacceptable stylish. Such bright accents in clothes are unusual for him, but it looks very lovely.

Coming out of the screen, Kreiburg hastily fastens a silver chain on his belt and fastens a shirt with openwork elements along the button line. The recent styling held firm, not a hair out of place . It was also good that the hair stylist expertly disguised some bald spots in Frederick's hair. After all, against the background of eternal staining and lack of proper care, the hair began to fall out heavily.

"What the…"

Going up to the mirror, the composer shushed the non-clinging brooch and crumpled collar with displeasure. What do the employees of the film set allow themselves? Frederick, as the protagonist of the series, should be in the frame any minute, and now he has to suffer with a wrinkled collar and a tangled chain? It sounds stupid, but in fact it is even more worse.

"I see you have some problems," a sly grin spread across the lips of the novelist, who leaned on the table near the mirror, which is littered with various brushes, bottles and jars, "May I help a dear colleague?"

The chain of the monocle moved slightly in the air and collided with the writer's cheek, and Orpheus slightly shaking his shoulders began to wait for an answer.

"…Please," Frederick contemptuously agreed to a polite phrase, handing his colleague a silver brooch with a scattering of stones in his hands. Due to his haste, he does not manage to attach the accessory properly at all, so Frederick decided to trust Orpheus.

The dexterous hands of the other immediately placed the brooch in the right place and adjusted Frederick's collar with special care. What could be better than being in the hands of a skilled and obviously experienced man who knows exactly how to help?

The whitish eyelashes narrowed, and Frederick's gaze was fixed on the novelist's clothes. He had a special scattering of stones on his tie and on his breast pocket, and a raven mask hung on the back of his belt. After all, it's not for vain that he has the role of the main antagonist of the entire series.

"It seems that you're already in your heyday, but still have problems with clothes," the novelist chuckled softly, finally removing his hands from the clothes of the other. However, the hands didn't plan to move away from Frederick further; they moved to the slender hips of the blonde, slightly squeezing them.

"Being experienced is far from you, isn't it?"

"I would recommend you to be careful what you say, Orpheus."

Kreiburg's anger is a real delight for the novelist, who enjoys every furrowed muscle and prominent wrinkle on the musician's face.

"Experience does not represent any ethical value."

"In your opinion, is experience an absolutely unnecessary thing?"

The writer's breath only gets closer to the composer's face, and his hands slid to Frederick's waist, stroking the musician's protruding ribs through his jacket. And after all, Frederick has not been a teenager for a long time and is not even quite young, but he is still distinguished by his aristocratic thinness.

"It's just a name that people have given for the mistakes they've made," Frederick whispered right into the novelist's lips, before feeling the audacious movement of the other's face towards his own. A very light touch of lips, but so many emotions. Orpheus, as if sensing a certain confusion of the other, only leans forward more strongly, kissing too harshly for the composer.

Hands in blood red gloves wrap around the torso and neck of the other, mercilessly ruin such an ideal novelist's hairstyle. What a pity. However, in a careless way he looks stunning.

Finally pulling away from each other, Orpheus abruptly grabs his colleague by the hand and pulls him behind the dressing screen, hearing the screams of the film crew from the set. The screen creaks on the floor and now they are already closed on all sides, and the novelist's hands are still holding Frederick by the hips.

"We're going to have a little trouble after this," Orpheus whispers softly into Frederick's lips, putting a red–gloved hand to his lips, leaving a weightless kiss before clinging to it with his teeth and taking it off. What a scoundrel.

– Maintenant, il y a un gros problème dans la grande passion entre nous, Orphée².

/ ¹ - Great passion ² - Now there is a big trouble in the great passion between us, Orpheus.