#sand in my toenails

[thoughtsfromlayla]

Lady Luck is Smiling - Chapter Five

.☘︎ ݁˖ Fortes Fortuna Adiuvat - Fortuna Favors the Brave

Summary: When the Fates leave Morpheus' call unanswered, he gains insight into another goddess that may be able to help regain his lost tools. Lady Luck, as you go by now as opposed to Fortuna nor Tyche, is the second youngest of the Four Ladies. Morpheus is determined to learn how and what makes you smile, for your smile will allow luck to be on his side, and with any of it, will he find his tools.

Warnings/Tags: Mild ass groping, thoughts of suicidal ideation

Word count: 3.0k

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Fuuuuuck.

It’s so cold down here. Makes sense, you suppose, if you think about it—so far from the sun.

“I didn’t expect Hell to be so… cold,” Matthew speaks your thoughts, shivering despite being covered in feathers. 

You look down at the black raven, his feathers almost camouflaged against the ash floor of Hell. It’s then when your eyes go to your feet. Where the fuck are your shoes? You point your accusing glare at Morpheus, who is all the more comfortable in his thick jacket and fucking shoes.

Did the twat forget to teleport your shoes, too? Or has he just gotten rusty with sand teleportation with passengers? Some loose ash flies into your nose and you and Matthew do a weird synchronized sneeze. 

“Where do we even go?” Matthew sniffles, sneezing again when he tastes the brimstone in the back of his thin gizzard. 

“We follow the Damned.” Morpheus looks towards a long line of once mortals, only distinguishable by the heavy braziers they carry in a line. 

“They make you bring your own fire to Hell?” Matthew gawks, his wings flapping again and disturbing the powdery floor. His beady eyes blink, noting the way the braziers are strapped to the Damned’s backs, heavy enough to cause them to stumble in step. 

“At least they have a fire to keep warm,” you grumble, shoving your hands into your armpits to keep the tips of them warm. Oh, how you miss your temperature controlled casino right now. 

Each step you take on your bare feet, a small patch of clovers grow in its wake. Though given the toxic environment, the flora barely make it a few seconds before they wither and die and return to the ash from which it grew. 

Matthew, still unused to his wings, waddles beside the two of you. He occasionally hops, sometimes flaps his black wings a few times when your strides prove faster than his tinier feet. 

“Yup, sorry, thanks,” you mutter under your breath as you casually cut in line to enter the gates of Hell. “Lovely, um, brazier fire you got.”

Morpheus seems utterly unperturbed by that action, but you suppose there is no other way to do it. The line seems never ending. The gates of Hell are a mere dot in the distance of the gravel path and when you look behind you, the line extends until the Fog of War eclipses any further views from your eyes. 

You stare down at your feet as the three of you begin your silence march. Your toenails have started to stain black as you note your clovers. Alive. Dead. Alive. Dead. Alive. Dead. And so on and so forth for thousands of steps. 

Matthew is less subtle about his fascination with Hell, though given this is his first time here, you don’t stop him. His head twitches as he looks this way and that, once tripping on an exposed dry tree branch when he wasn’t paying attention. 

“Matthew, go left,” you say as he begins to wander. 

The fucking bird waddles right. 

“I said left,” you say again, this time louder. 

Matthew pauses in the middle of the barren field. “My left or your left.”

“We’re facing the same way, it’s the same fucking left!” 

You pause in your marching, mouth agape, as Matthew holds up his wings in front of him. He stares at his wings for a moment before saying, “shit, yeah, I forgot I don’t have fingers anymore.”

The Damned soul that is behind you bumps into you, making you stumble and you begrudgingly begin to walk again. You catch up to Morpheus in no time, who did not pay attention at all to the fact that: one, he almost lost another raven and two, Matthew tried to make an ‘L’ with his fingers to remember which way is left. 

Matthew caws overhead, bringing your attention back to him. He lands on your shoulder, a spot you’ve figured is one of his favorites now. 

“I think I’d make a pretty good raven,” you quip. You feel the developed bristles on Matthew’s beak on the pads of your fingers as you pet him. 

“You think?” Matthew almost purrs out, his third eye-lid glossing over his eyes in appreciation. 

“Lady Luck would not be a raven.” Morpheus cuts in, barely gazing at the two of you from behind his shoulder. “With how often you talk, I would imagine you as a songbird. Constantly tweeting in my ear.”

“I’m going to ignore that jab and say, you should not get a Twitter.”

“What is a ‘Twitter’…?”

“Where people go to scream and horny people go to die.” You pause for a moment, thinking. Morpheus has missed out on a lot since his entrapment. 

“Kinda like this dreadful place,” Matthew quips and you fight back a bark of laughter.

“Yes, exactly that. Twitter is like Hell.”

A few more thousand steps—you’re really getting in your yearly exercise here—and your little group has arrived at the unpearly gates. The entrance into Hell was lacking, but certainly creates the perfect feeling of dread. Other than a rusty barred gate, the wall that separates here from there was a barrier made of groaning, human flesh. 

Were these Damned souls here because of punishment or limbo? You’re not entirely sure either. The only thing you are sure about is that Lucifer of the Morningstar is a creative genius when it comes to eternal punishment.

“Yup, we’re just… go on through,” you mutter awkwardly to the last few Damned souls of this batch walk through as you, Morpheus, and Matthew step off to the side. 

You let out a small disgusted squeal as a limb of a dismembered arm from the wall tries to grope your ass. 

“Stay away from the wall,” Morpheus says, firmly grabbing you to pull you closer to him. 

“No shit,” you retort back, ass groped, and already on the brink of losing it. 

“So can we just… walk in or…?” Matthew asks hesitantly, watching the Damned mosey on through while Morpheus stood still beyond the gate. 

“A monarch cannot enter another’s realm without the other’s permission,” Morpheus explains simply. “Seeing as Lady Luck and I are both monarchs of our own respective realm and you, Matthew, are an extension of mine, no, we cannot simply pass through.”

Matthew nods—his entire body bobbling with the effort—as he comes to understand more and more about the existence of otherworldly beings (and their dumb rules). “How about we ring this totally non-suspicious doorbell?” 

The raven flaps over to a gong bell, dusty enough that it blends in with the background. He perches on the arch that supports the metal bell before squawking as another perverted hand starts to pet his feathers. 

“Stay away from the wall,” you and Morpheus say this time before Matthew has the genius idea of flying back towards you.

He perches himself back on Morpheus’ shoulders, giving himself the extra height you can’t provide as a measure of additional caution. His nervous wings take him from Morpheus’ shoulders to yours as the Dream King walks towards the gong, accepting the mallet from a more intact soul from the wall. 

Morpheus raises his hand, fisted with the mallet, before striking it firmly against the flat bell. The noise was low, almost enough to hurt your ears if you weren’t beyond mortal. However, it doesn’t save the Damned souls that merge with the wall, their screeching vibrating through your eardrums enough for you to wince. 

“Now what?” Matthew inquires impatiently.

“Shhh…” You quickly pinch his beak close. The bird can’t hear it, but you certainly can—the sound of thunderous footsteps coming ever closer. 

Matthew’s beak drops and you have to pinch them together again to stop him from unabashedly gaping at the demon that slowly emerges from the fog beyond the gate. 

“One at the door… thief, thug, or whore… one at the door…” The demon’s voice you and Morpheus know as Squatterbloat emerges with his imposing and larger-than-life figure. “Room for one more… ‘til the end of creation…”

Thud. Thud. Thud. His footsteps become louder with his mantra. “There’s one at the door…”

“Is he just going to keep saying that?” Matthew whispers close to your ear, hiding in your hair. 

“It’s like, his thing. Just let him have his creepy moment,” you whisper back. “If things go wrong just blame Morpheus, honestly.”

Squatterbloat finally comes up to the gate, his head barely seen past the human-flesh arch so he, as his name suggests, squats down to your level. His pale, blue-gray skin is not much of a contrast of the flesh wall around you. Different weapons stick out of his skin, pus oozing with infection from each cut. 

You and Matthew tilt your head to the right as you take in the demon’s appearance. For Matthew, it is because he’s never seen a demon before. But, for you, it’s because Squatterbloat has changed how he’s looked since the last time you’ve visited. 

“Bloaty, where’s your fancy suit and tie?” You ask before you realize. 

“There’s one at the door, at the gate to damnation…” Squatterbloat ignores you completely, repeating his mantra one last time. “Is it thief, thug, or whore? There’s one at the door… and there’s room for one more, ‘til the end of creation.”

“Greetings, Squatterbloat.” Morpheus spits out his name like it physically left a bad taste on his tongue. “We seek an audience with your sovereign.”

Squatterbloat chuckles, the sound deep and rumbling you can feel it through the soles of your bare feet. Clovers still pop in and die in place, slowly covering you in withering round leaves. “And who are you?”

“I am the King of Dreams, Ruler of the Nightmare realms,” Morpheus responds, purposefully picking a more terrifying title. 

A little secret about demons: they’re all insecure, like shitty ex-boyfriends. From that, they only ever follow those of higher power. If they think you don’t have that power over them, then they will simply take advantage of you. They are the rawest form of all things living—to be conquered or to conquer others. 

“A Ruler with no crown? Perhaps a clown?” Squatterbloat tries instead. The demon turns to you, the arrows that are stuck in his back squelching and bleeding with the motion. “A nymph with rounded ears? Must be a new toy for Squatterbloat.”

The tips of your perfectly normal ears flush red with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. You did use to have pointed ears but over the centuries they’ve started to soften and round until they look almost human-like. 

“You mind your tongue, demon,” you respond instead, schooling your emotions down. “You speak to Lady Luck of the Four Ladies.”

“I know no ladies other than my own.” Squatterbloat hums in thought, dislodging a small paring knife and using it to scratch an itch on his bald head. 

“Yes,” you grit your teeth, too cold for patience. “How is the lovely Lady Persephone?”

“Oh, you also know my lady.” The demon sticks the knife back into his body, the pus seeping down his clammy body.

“I was there at the wedding, you bulbous, bumbling, barbaric buffoon!” You sneer at him. How could he forget! You helped him pick out his reception outfit. Ugh, they’re so forgetful sometimes and also your toes are about to pop off your feet.

“Let us through, lest you want your sovereign to know how you seem to treat honored guests.” Morpheus steps closer to the gate, his voice eerily calm as he continues to threaten Squatterbloat. “Shall I use my powers to haunt your dreams? What of your waking hours, too? Let us through or face my wrath.”

Squatterbloat thinks for a second before his hands disappear inside a cut that runs across his lower abdomen. He takes out a ring of keys, the rusty metal covered in the same sticky pus that seems to emanate from every unnatural orifice on his body. 

When the rusty gate opens, the screeching of its hinges matches that of the pained screaming of the flesh wall. You lean close to Morpheus, complimenting his tactful threatening.

“It was no threat. I despise demons,” Morpheus responds. Okay, damn. 

Your little group, or you suppose it’s Morpheus’ little group, moves across the threshold. You remember how Squaterbloat looks like—it’s hard to forget—but you’re almost knocked off your feet at the smell he produces. 

The ripe tinge of his eternally infected body hits your nostrils and goes straight to the back of your throat where it lingers like bad alcohol. Matthew squawks, sticking his beak further into your hair, trying to chase the smell of hydrangeas that follows you wherever you go. 

For someone who walks so slow, it takes three of your steps to catch up to one of Squatterbloat’s. His longer limbs carry the distance with ease though his body heaves with each step. His breath was no better of a smell than the rest of his body. 

Your eyes cast downward, being mindful of the scattered bones of unknown and lost souls. You toe away a femur and step over a handful of ominous skulls, one even had a full set of gold teeth which is a temptation to snatch. Shiny. 

Matthew asks an unending list of questions that you and Morpheus take turns answering—having previously been guests of this realm. 

“You mentioned Persephone. Did you mean the Persephone?” Matthew asks by your feet. 

“I think you’ll come to learn we’ll always mean “the” of anything.” You let out a chattering chuckle, breath visible in the cold realm. “The devil, the literal place of Hell, the Sandman.”

“Yeah,” Matthew sighs, thinking. “Why was one of my last dreams as a human about me transforming into a worm and owning worm sized automatic rifles?”

That earns a soft chuckle from Morpheus and you can’t help the way your head snaps towards the sound. It’s a deep, rumble of a sound, more of a huff than anything. But it’s so rare for him to show any type of amusement, you find yourself smiling with him. 

“Though I am the King of Dreams, I do not always create each dream for each mortal. My powers simply manifest what the mortal mind comprehends within my realm.” Morpheus explains, a smile pulling on his lips. Worm machine guns… hah!

“When I first found out you were the Sandman, I was expecting you to look like that round, yellow, guy from that animated movie,” Matthew comments. 

“Ohhh, Rise of the Guardians?” You respond, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“Yeah, where Hugh Jackman plays an Australian Easter bunny.”

You chortle a laugh, the sound coming out softer in the vastness of the Suicide Forest that you find yourself in. A hand from the trunk comes out to grab you, but you side-step it. Not this time, Hell!

“He looks more like the villain, doesn’t he?” You continue. “Pitch Black?”

“Are you mocking me?” Morpheus cuts in, his voice awfully close to your ear. 

“Nooo,” you deny quickly, pushing his face away.

Morpheus rebounds quickly and your chattering teeth suddenly stop as you feel the silky fabric of his long coat fall onto your shoulders. Your feet stop, the ash stilling as you look at him, pulling the coat closer to your body. 

Morpheus keeps walking, as if he didn’t just give you his jacket and you’re forced to follow or get lost. This time, you stay behind him and Matthew, however. 

Your nose falls into the popped up lapel and you smell dreamdust and something akin to sea salt. The smell hits you, a slap of nostalgia that makes your stomach drop and your heart race. It reminds you of a younger age, a simpler time. Of an alcove by the mediterranean sea and of… her.

The jacket comes to life, using one of its lapels to wipe away at a tear that you didn’t realize escaped you. “Stop that, don’t make this weird.” You push the lapel away, sniffling back snot and tears. 

Dread fills you from the ground up and you’re almost willing to let the dead clovers swallow you whole. It would be easier this way, to simply stop. The voices in your head, tiny whispers of prayers thrown to you, they would stop, too. The looks mortals throw in your direction, the suspicious glance they give that makes you acutely aware that you are in fact “other.” 

‘It would be easier if you stopped. It’s not like the universe would suddenly stop having Luck. Your physical body is useless to this world anyways,’ a dark voice whispers in your mind. ‘Maybe ending it would be worth it. You’ve held on to this power long enough, yes?’

“Squatterbloat, he’s gone.” Morpheus stops in his tracts. 

The fog in the Suicide Forest grows thicker, almost tangible enough to break with your fingers. Shit. That little tap of dread that spiraled into contemplative thoughts definitely had something to do with it. And it gave that demon the perfect cover to leave the three of you behind in this awful place. 

“Don’t get lost,” Squatterbloat growls softly, reappearing as if he never left, with a cocky smirk on his torn lips. “This way.”

“Shit face,” you grumble at his little powerplay before you follow him. 

Squatterbloat leads the three of you to the base of a mountain, or perhaps a tower. It was too steep and too narrow to be called a mountain, but not formed enough or made of brick like a tower would be. A “mountower,” then. 

“Hell no,” you gasp as you start seeing the winding stairs that lead up. “That’s so many stairs!”

“Start walking,” Squatterbloat commands and you’re inclined to follow—walk or be forgotten in this desolate plane of existence. 

You start counting your steps again. 100,023… 100,024… 100,025. You hate Hell.

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I would literally rather stick my nose in a porcupine's back than walk 100,000 steps without any fucking shoes.

Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next week!

♡ Yours, Layla

•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

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[curlysswirlywirly]

TAN LINES

summer in konoha rarely ever arrives gently, even the wind, when it shows up, doesn’t offer any reprieve. it’s dry and hot and only manages to move the heat sideways. insects click and rattle against the walls, fruit vendors cut their watermelons fast to keep the juices from turning sour on the spot. everywhere, people sweat and complain and tie their hair up without style. even the hokage monument looks tired. no mission scrolls come in past 9 a.m, it’s too hot to kill anything.

ino organized the beach trip because she’d had enough of it. she said she couldn’t stand another minute stuck in landlocked misery. she talked a big game about mental clarity and chakra regulation but everyone knew she just wanted to wear her high-cut one-piece and watch the boys get stupid. she was right to. everyone said yes without question.

you told naruto three days ahead so he wouldn’t claim he forgot. still, the morning of, he’d been kneeling in front of the fan with his head tilted back, trying to cool his neck, hair a little wet from the shower, watching you step into your bikini with startling focus. you didn’t perform it for him and arch or sway or pause mid-tie but he still felt like he was being rewarded for something. so completely focused. the bikini was light blue with tiny white polka dots, your toenails were already painted. you didn’t even need to ask how it looked. he was chewing too slow, swallowing all wrong, blinking the tears out of his eye.

“you can’t wear that outside,” he said, grabbing your wrist.

“too late,” you said, dragging him out by the same arm.

at the beach, everyone split off too fast. lee ran straight toward the rocks. kiba started hollering about the size of the waves. shino laid down a towel and sat quietly in his bucket hat. choji opened a cold bag full of crab meat. ino dragged sakura off toward the cliffs with a cooler. by the time you both arrived, the sand was already hot enough to jump over and everyone had picked spots. naruto flung your towels down near the center and immediately kicked off his sandals to run straight into the water.

you didn’t even notice naruto was gone until you finished pressing your palms against your thighs and realized no one had rubbed sunscreen into your back.

he was crouched near the shoreline with shikamaru, throwing something into the surf and talking with his hands. the sun was already turning his shoulders a darker bronze. you stood up, walked over, and kicked sand into his shin.

“hey. you forgot me.”

he flinched and blinked up. “forgot what?”

you dropped the sunscreen bottle into his lap. “my back.”

he groaned and looked away. “why can’t you just do it?”

“i can’t reach the middle.”

“then do half and fold forward. problem solved.”

you stared at him. “naruto.”

“what? it’s not like—”

“fine. i’ll ask shikamaru.”

“don’t you dare.” he stood up instantly, sunscreen bottle clutched like a mission scroll. “i’m doing it. i’m doing it right now.”

you walked back to your towel, sat with your legs folded sideways, and undid the knot behind your neck. he dropped down beside you with a sigh that was louder than necessary and uncapped the bottle. the lotion hit your lower back first, too cold, as always. he spread it with his full palm, too fast and not even trying to be thorough.

“you’re gonna give me patches,” you muttered.

“i’m doing my best.”

“no you’re not. you’re sulking.”

“i’m not sulking, i just—shut up.” he used both hands now. dragged them up toward your shoulder blades. he made little snorting sounds when his fingers slipped. you stayed still and let him work, biting down your grin. he groans under his breath in a tone that can only be interpreted as impatience. in retaliation, he digs his thumbs into your lower back harder than necessary, his eyes shoot open like he’s surprised when you arch away.

“ow!”

“don’t provoke me.”

you twist around and give him a look. he leans in close.

“i’m taking you into the water after this,” he says. “you don’t get to look like that and stay dry.”

you bite your lip. his fingers rest on your hips, slow.

“don’t try to drown me,” you say.

“depends how mouthy you get.”

after he finished, you didn’t offer him thanks. instead, you turned to face him and pressed your hands to his chest.

“your turn.”

“what?”

“you’re already getting pink.”

“i’m fine.”

“if you burn, you’re sleeping on your stomach for a week. and i’m not massaging anything.”

he squinted at you like he was trying to decide whether or not to argue again. “i’ll do it myself.

he squirts out too much. it drips between his fingers. he starts rubbing it into his cheeks with both palms like he’s washing his face. you wince.

“you’re doing it all wrong,” you say, getting up. “come here.”

“what—why? i got it.”

“you’re missing your ears. and your nose. and that thing you do where you just rub your forehead and call it done isn’t working.”

he doesn’t budge. you grab his chin and tilt his face toward you. his cheeks are hot. his blue eyes are narrowed, faint lines creased around them from squinting at the sun. his whisker marks darken when he’s flustered. he’s flustered now.

you squirt a little into your palm and start with his temples, pushing gently, working inward. your fingers press the lotion into the bridge of his nose and down across his jaw. his stubble’s starting to come in. not much, just enough to scrape your fingertips.

he stares at your mouth while you do it. his hand finds your thigh without thinking.

“you look good,” he says. “the blue. ‘s not fair.”

you ignore that. you drag your nails under his chin, feather-light, spreading the last of the sunscreen across his throat. his adam’s apple jumps. you squeezed more of the bottle into your palm and shoved him onto his back. he made a grunt of protest but didn’t resist.

his skin was hot already. not burned, but it would be if he stayed out like this. you straddled his thighs and started at his collarbones, rubbing the sunscreen in firm, straight motions. his skin was dense and tight from training, lined with faint scars.

“stop looking at me like that.”

“i can’t help it.”

you rolled your eyes and smoothed another layer across his stomach. his abs tensed under your fingers. everyone here had abs, it was almost comical, but naruto’s were the only ones you got to touch this closely. he tried not to react but you could feel him shift under you, breath catching.

“that tickles,” he said.

“you’re such a child.”

you leaned forward to get his shoulders, and your chest pressed into his sternum. he looked like he was holding his breath.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he muttered.

“of course i am.”

you finished up with a slap to his side and rolled off. he lay there for a minute with his eyes shut, pretending to die.

eventually, kiba called him over again, and he bolted upright like he’d just remembered his entire identity. you let him run off this time. you laid back, crossed your ankles, and let the sun hit the same spot he’d just touched.

ino yelled something rude from down the shore. sakura laughed. shikamaru was already asleep under his towel.

you had time. and you’d make him reapply later.

[lagerloutfic]

would like to preface this by saying feet are not my thing, but they certainly seem to be someone else's thing. The evidence is compelling. Thank you to @ctimenefic and @latecomersprivilege for the encouragement.

Alex has had exactly one and a half beers but he’s been in the sun all day. He hasn’t touched alcohol since the summer break so it just may have gone to his head. 

He takes a photo to send to Lily of the pristine beach, the perfect weather, his toes wiggling about on his deck chair. Then with a complete disregard for the well-being of every single social media intern at Williams, posts it to his Instagram stories. Giggles as he writes the caption. 

Alex finishes his beer and looks back at his phone. The reactions are coming in so fast the app crashes on him. He turns off notifications for Instagram and settles back into his chair, sweat cooling pleasantly on his chest in the gentle breeze. With the season he’s had he deserves a little fun. 

The Hot Rookie Slagssss group chat buzzes. 

Lando: how much?

Alex: ???

Lando: for feet pics

Alex: you can’t afford it

Lando: mate

Lando: who u drivin for again?

George: Sorry, Why do you want Alex’s feet pics?

Lando: never said i did

George See above.

Lando: just asking like what u charge

Alex: i don’t

Lando: why not?

George: Why are we having this conversation?

Lando: check Alex’s stories

George: Oh God, Alex!!!!

George: Does no one mind you? Does no one tell you off?

Alex: all the time

Lando: HELLO

Alex: it’s not the amount that’s important. It’s that they are worth something

Lando: to who

George: freakos on the internet

Lando: ???

George: wikifeet.com

Lando: fuck me

Lando: wow

Lando: ew

Lando: this what u in2 Albo?

Alex: no i’m not into it

George: the lady doth protest too much

Lando: well some1 is into it

George: internet freakos

Alex: how are you only hearing about this? This is basic internet shit

Lando: cause im in2 normal parts of girls like boobs and vag and stuff

Alex: remind me again why you’re single

Lando: cunt

Alex grins, signaling for another beer. Knows this needs to be his last one before he heads back to the hotel, getting ready for whatever mental media shit the team has scheduled for the next 24 hours.

Lando: sum of these r disgusting

Lando: i could do better

George: Why would you want to?

Lando: dunno, might as well like give the freakos something nice

Alex: like what

Lando: hang on

Alex is mid-pull on his beer when the photo loads. He chokes on it, spluttering like he’s drowning, beer running down his torso, soaking into his shorts. 

There’s no way to know it’s Lando out of context. Two fairly nice looking feet, toenails neatly trimmed and incredibly tanned. Taken from above by Lando judging from the downward angle. 

His feet are covered in two long stripes of pearly white liquid, starting to ooze between Lando’s toes. Alex knows this because he zooms in with sweaty fingers, lingering over the mole just below Lando’s little toe. 

George: Christ almighty is that…

Lando: it’s suncream

George: uh huh

Lando: fewtrell was off his tits in ibiza and overshot

George: He what now?

Lando: fuck off

Alex must be drunker than he thought. Or perhaps it’s the desert sun. He’s not used to it, makes him feel all out of sorts. He hasn’t eaten much today. Probably the reason for the weird pang in his stomach.

He zooms in again. 

He can almost taste it, the chemical tang of the suncream, gloopy and thick, mixing with Lando’s sweat, pores oozing from last night’s shots. He’s struck by a mad thought of lying down in the sand and feeling the delicate arch of Lando’s foot rub against his cheek, toes wiggling against his nose. 

Lando: reckon i could get some cash 4 that?

Alex: yeah. probs.

George: Danger! Warning! Alert!

Alex shakes himself, presses the back of his hand to his forehead, and feels how clammy he is. Would be just his luck to be coming down with something right before the race. His skin feels very tight, everything tingling ominously, like right before you spew. 

Alex: see but you’ve fucked up

Lando: how

Alex: well you gave it away for free didn’t you?

Lando: yeah

Lando: but that’s how we lure you in. first ones free then you’ll pay triple for more. marketing strat, innit?

Alex: lure who in

Lando: oh now whose the idiot

George: Lando, old boy. I think we found one of those internet sickos. 

Lando: 🦶🦶

[ladyeckland28]

The Feet Of Hannah Tingle

A Comedy horror by Lady Eckland and Ms Darkwood

Pendleton & Sons: Where Souls Go To Staple

The fluorescent lights of Pendleton & Sons Document Solutions hummed a dirge for ambition. Grey cubicles stretched towards a perpetually overcast window, each containing a soul slowly dissolving into the beige monotony. In one such cubicle sat Charlotte Eckland, mouse hovering over a spreadsheet cell containing a number so meaningless it might as well have been ancient Sumerian. Her shoulders slumped, mirroring the wilting pot plant beside her monitor – a leaving gift from Brenda in Accounts two years ago, now clinging to life with grim determination.

To her left, Yin Darkwood was deep-diving into the internet's murky depths. Her screen wasn't filled with pivot tables, but with grainy JPEGs of supposed UFO sightings and forums debating the reptilian nature of the Royal Family. Yin wasn't just bored; she was existentially suspicious. Everything was a potential conspiracy, from the suspiciously uniform shape of digestive biscuits to the way pigeons always seemed to be watching.

Across the aisle, Glennis Riley nervously adjusted his spectacles, polishing the lenses for the third time that hour with a small microfiber cloth he kept in his top pocket. Glennis existed in a state of perpetual low-grade anxiety, amplified by Yin’s constant stream of paranoia. He was attempting to reconcile expense reports, occasionally sighing deeply and running a hand through his thinning hair. His desk was impeccably tidy, in stark contrast to the controlled chaos surrounding Yin.

Their lives were a triptych of drabness: lukewarm tea, printer jams, pointless meetings about synergy, and the crushing weight of another Wednesday (as it was today, April 2nd, 2025) that felt exactly like Tuesday, which felt exactly like Friday. Escape, as always, came through the glowing portals in their pockets and on their desks. YouTube was their preferred anaesthetic.

Charlotte, seeking distraction, typed random words into the search bar. "Soft..." "Cozy..." "Relaxing..." The algorithm, in its infinite and often disturbing wisdom, offered up a thumbnail that caught her eye: perfectly formed, immaculate bare feet resting on a plush velvet cushion. The channel title: Hannah's Sexy Feet.

Intrigued, slightly baffled, Charlotte clicked.

The video opened on the aforementioned feet. They were elegantly shaped, the toenails painted a demure rose pink. A voice, smooth as silk and undeniably feminine, began to speak. "Hello, my little foot fanciers," it purred. "Hannah here, ready to share a little slice of heaven with you."

The camera panned up slightly, showing Hannah Tingle from the shins down, lounging on what looked like an incredibly expensive chaise longue. She wore silk pyjamas. She picked up one foot, cradling it gently. "Feel how soft they are?" she whispered, stroking her own arch. "Like warm velvet. I moisturise them three times a day with my own special blend... organic shea butter, a hint of lavender, and... well, a girl's gotta have some secrets, hasn't she?"

Charlotte felt a strange warmth spread through her chest. It was oddly mesmerising. Hannah continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Imagine these tracing patterns on your skin... gently... teasingly." She flexed her toes. "Or perhaps," she brought her foot closer to the camera, tilting her head just out of shot, "you want to know what they smell like?" A delicate sniff. "Clean linen, a touch of rosewater... and something else. Something... intimate."

Charlotte swallowed, her mouse hand frozen. This was... unexpected. And undeniably doing something to her. Over the next few days, Pendleton & Sons faded further into the background. Charlotte devoured Hannah’s back catalogue. There were videos of Hannah walking barefoot on grass, wiggling her toes in sand, even suggestively crushing ripe berries underfoot. The comments section was a bizarre mix of breathless adoration and outright creepiness, but Charlotte found herself adding her own, anonymised appreciations. 'Amazing!' 'So beautiful!'

She started DMing the channel, expecting no reply. To her shock, 'Hannah' replied almost instantly. The messages started innocently, discussing foot care routines (Charlotte suddenly developed a keen interest), but quickly shifted. Hannah was flirtatious, complimentary, and seemed genuinely interested in Charlotte.

Hannah's Sexy Feet: 'Your comments always make me smile, lovely. You seem to truly appreciate the artistry 😉'

Char_Eck: 'They're just... captivating. You have a way of describing them.'

Hannah's Sexy Feet: 'Perhaps I could describe them to you in person sometime? 😉🦶'

Charlotte’s heart hammered against her ribs. A date? With Hannah Tingle? The foot goddess of YouTube?

"She asked me out," Charlotte breathed, staring at her phone during their designated fifteen-minute afternoon break.

Yin, who had been explaining how contrails were actually nano-particle delivery systems for mind-control agents, paused mid-sentence. "Who asked you out?"

"Hannah. You know, from that YouTube channel?"

Yin’s eyes narrowed. Glennis, who had been meticulously arranging his pens, dropped a ballpoint with a clatter. He bent to retrieve it, his face flushed.

"Hannah Tingle?" Yin hissed, leaning closer. "Charlotte, no! Have you not been listening to anything I've told you?"

"What are you talking about?" Charlotte frowned. "She's lovely. And very... descriptive."

"Descriptive?" Yin scoffed. "Charlotte, she's a prime candidate! Think about it! The perfect features, the weirdly specific obsession, the anonymity – she never shows her face! It's classic infiltration technique!"

"What infiltration?" Charlotte asked, exasperated. "She just really likes her feet!"

"Or," Yin lowered her voice dramatically, "they're not her feet. It's a disguise, Charlotte! There are forums dedicated to it. People think she's part of the Xylar Collective – bio-mimetic scouts sent to assess planetary weaknesses!"

Glennis, having retrieved his pen, nodded nervously, adjusting his tie. "They say they probe... sensitive areas, Yin! For weaknesses! Frightfully invasive, if you ask me!"

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Oh, for goodness sake. It's just a foot fetish channel! It's a bit weird, maybe, but she's not an alien!"

"How do you know?" Yin pressed. "Have you seen her face? Has she mentioned family? Does she ever talk about, I don't know, tax returns?"

"We mostly talk about feet," Charlotte admitted, flushing slightly.

"Exactly!" Yin slammed her hand on the desk, making Glennis jump and clutch his chest. "It's textbook diversion! Focusing on one insignificant detail to distract from the larger deception! Charlotte, promise me you won't go."

"I am going," Charlotte said firmly. "It's just drinks at The Soggy Otter. What's the worst that could happen? She tries to give me a foot massage?" A part of her wouldn't entirely mind that.

Yin looked desperate. "Okay, okay. Go on the date. Fine. But," she leaned in, her eyes gleaming with a terrifyingly practical sort of madness, "after the date... we grab her."

Charlotte stared. "You want to... kidnap her?"

"It's an intervention!" Yin insisted. "A citizen's investigation! We take her back to mine, restrain her – gently, obviously – and we get the truth out of her. For your own safety! And potentially, the safety of the planet!"

Glennis wrung his hands, forgetting his pen momentarily. "Oh dear. Kidnapping? Are you quite sure about the legal ramifications, Yin? It sounds awfully... actionable."

"It's fine, Glennis, it's for the greater good," Yin waved a dismissive hand. "Think of it as a... surprise wellness check. We just need to be sure she's not a Xylarian foot-probe."

Charlotte laughed, despite herself. "You're insane. Absolutely not."

But Yin was persistent. Over the next two days, she bombarded Charlotte with 'evidence': blurry photos allegedly showing strange reflections in Hannah’s toenails, audio analysis 'proving' her voice had subsonic frequencies common in reptilian species, complex diagrams linking foot-related YouTube channels to known alien abduction hotspots. Glennis added worried affirmations, forwarding articles about people who vanished after meeting strangers online, often muttering things like "One really can't be too careful these days."

By the time the date rolled around, Charlotte was still determined to go, but a sliver of doubt, nurtured by Yin’s relentless paranoia and Glennis’s fussy anxiety, had taken root. The kidnapping plan, initially ludicrous, now seemed... almost prudent? In a completely deranged way.

"Fine," Charlotte sighed, the night before the date. "We do it your way. After the date. If she seems even slightly weird... or tries to probe me with her toes... we bundle her into your car. But if she's normal, you owe me fifty quid and you have to stop talking about aliens for a month."

Yin grinned triumphantly. "Deal. Glennis, get the duct tape."

Glennis swallowed hard. "The... heavy-duty parcel tape from Stationery? Will that suffice?"

"It'll have to."

Ankles, Ales, and Abduction

The Soggy Otter was exactly as charming as its name suggested. Sticky tables, the faint aroma of stale beer and regret, and lighting dim enough to hide a multitude of sins, or perhaps, an alien disguise. Charlotte, wearing her best (and only) non-work blouse, nervously scanned the patrons.

Then she saw her. Seated in a corner booth, bathed in the amber glow of a faux-Victorian lamp, was Hannah Tingle. Or at least, the top half of her. And she was stunning. Flowing chestnut hair, high cheekbones, warm eyes, and a smile that could melt glaciers. She looked disarmingly, disappointingly normal. And human.

"Charlotte?" Hannah’s voice was even smoother in person, less breathy than on YouTube, but just as captivating.

"Hannah? Hi." Charlotte slid into the booth, her palms sweating. "You look... different from your videos."

Hannah laughed, a musical sound. "Well, you usually only see me from the shins down. I thought it best to bring the rest of me tonight." She gestured to her feet, tucked demurely under the table in elegant, low-heeled shoes. "Though they're here too, of course. Wouldn't want to disappoint."

Charlotte blushed. "Right. Of course."

The conversation flowed surprisingly easily. Hannah was witty, intelligent, and asked thoughtful questions about Charlotte’s life, managing to make even Pendleton & Sons sound vaguely interesting. She spoke of her 'online content creation' as a form of performance art, exploring themes of sensuality and intimacy in unexpected ways. There was no mention of Xylar Collectives or planetary weaknesses. She even complained about the unseasonably damp April weather in Nantwich.

Charlotte felt a wave of relief wash over her, quickly followed by annoyance at Yin. She was just a woman. A beautiful, charming woman with a foot fetish niche.

"So," Hannah leaned forward slightly, her eyes sparkling, "tell me, Charlotte. What is it about feet that fascinates you?"

Before Charlotte could formulate an answer that didn't sound completely mortifying, Hannah subtly slipped off one shoe beneath the table. Charlotte caught a glimpse of a perfectly pedicured bare foot resting on the worn carpet. Hannah’s toes gave a tiny, almost imperceptible wiggle.

"Is it the vulnerability?" Hannah mused, her voice dropping slightly. "The way they carry us through the world, yet are so often hidden? Or is it just... the shape? The softness?" Her foot brushed lightly against Charlotte’s ankle under the table.

Charlotte froze. It wasn't aggressive, wasn't probe-like, but it was definitely... intentional. And incredibly effective. That familiar warmth spread through her again, stronger this time. Okay, maybe she wasn't entirely normal. But alien?

They talked for another hour. Hannah was captivating. Charlotte found herself laughing, sharing stories, feeling more seen than she had in years. The foot under the table remained a tantalising, static presence against her leg. When Hannah suggested they get some air, Charlotte readily agreed, momentarily forgetting the ludicrous plan she’d half-heartedly signed up for.

Outside, the night air was cool. They stood awkwardly for a moment under a flickering streetlamp.

"I had a really lovely time, Charlotte," Hannah said softly.

"Me too," Charlotte replied, meaning it. All thoughts of conspiracies had evaporated.

Suddenly, a battered Vauxhall Corsa screeched to a halt beside them. The back doors flew open.

"Now!" Yin yelled from the driver's seat, her face grimly determined.

Glennis tumbled out of the passenger side, looking pale and flustered, clutching the roll of parcel tape as if it were a life raft. "Right then! Prepare for... intervention!" he announced, his voice cracking slightly.

"What the-?" Hannah started, turning in confusion.

Charlotte’s mind raced. Oh god, they're actually doing it. Part of her screamed No!, but the seed of doubt Yin had planted, combined with the sheer momentum of the situation (and maybe a tiny, traitorous flicker of curiosity) made her hesitate for a fatal second.

Glennis, despite his nervousness, made a surprisingly decisive, if awkward, move towards Hannah, holding the tape out. "No sudden moves, please!" Yin, abandoning the wheel, darted around and grabbed Hannah’s arms from behind.

"Get her in!" Yin grunted.

Hannah struggled, bewildered. "Charlotte? What is this? Who are these people?"

"It's... an intervention?" Charlotte stammered, feeling utterly ridiculous as she lamely helped Yin push a protesting Hannah towards the open car door. "A wellness check?"

"Get off me!" Hannah yelped, but she was surprisingly easy to manoeuvre. It was almost too easy. Between Yin's surprising strength and Glennis's slightly panicked attempts to assist ("Careful now! Watch the door frame!"), they bundled her into the back seat. Charlotte scrambled in after her. Glennis hurried back into the passenger seat, fumbling with the tape roll.

"Drive, Yin, drive!" Glennis urged, adjusting his skewed glasses as Yin slammed the driver's door shut and peeled away from the kerb, leaving The Soggy Otter and Charlotte’s dignity far behind.

In the back seat, Hannah stared at Charlotte, her eyes wide with shock and betrayal. "Charlotte... why?"

Charlotte couldn't meet her gaze. "My friends... they think you're an alien." It sounded even more idiotic spoken aloud.

Hannah blinked. Then, unexpectedly, she started to laugh. It wasn't a panicked laugh, but a rich, rolling sound that filled the small car. "An alien? Is that what this is about? Because I like feet?"

Yin glanced in the rearview mirror, her expression unreadable. "We'll see who's laughing, 'Hannah Tingle'. We're taking you somewhere secure for questioning."

"Secure?" Glennis muttered nervously, trying to tear off a strip of tape with his teeth. "Yin, your flat security is hardly up to snuff. Remember that draft excluder incident?"

"It'll do, Glennis," Yin snapped. "Just... be ready with that tape."

Glennis looked doubtfully at the struggling YouTuber, then at the roll of stubborn parcel tape in his lap. This was not proceeding with optimal efficiency. Or maybe, Charlotte thought with a sinking feeling, it was going exactly according to Yin's insane plan.

The Unmasking in Flat 3B

Yin’s flat smelled faintly of damp, instant noodles, and paranoia. Conspiracy charts adorned the walls, connected by lengths of red wool. A haphazard pile of books – The Reptilian Elite, Chariots of the Gods?, Is Your Cat a Government Drone? – teetered on a coffee table. It was the perfect place for an interrogation, provided the suspect didn't mind questionable hygiene and the overwhelming sense that the truth was not only out there, but probably hiding behind the sofa cushions.

They’d manhandled Hannah onto a sturdy dining chair Yin had dragged into the centre of the living room. Glennis, after several flustered attempts involving getting tape stuck to his fingers and complaining about the lack of a proper dispenser, had managed to secure Hannah’s wrists and ankles to the chair legs with several wraps of the brown parcel tape. It looked less like restraint and more like the chair had been badly packaged for shipping. Hannah, surprisingly, hadn't fought much after the initial shock, instead watching them with an unnerving mixture of amusement and curiosity.

Charlotte hovered awkwardly by the doorway, feeling like a prize idiot. "Look, Hannah, I am so sorry about this. They're... enthusiastic."

Hannah raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Enthusiastic? Charlotte, they abducted me based on a foot fetish and some internet rumours." She tested her bonds slightly. They held, but didn't look particularly robust.

Yin planted herself in front of the chair, adopting what she clearly thought was an intimidating interrogator stance. It mostly made her look like she needed the loo. "Alright, 'Hannah Tingle', or whatever your designation is. The game's up. We know what you are."

Hannah sighed dramatically. "Do you? Because right now, I feel like a slightly bewildered YouTuber trussed up in a flat that smells like conspiracy theories and despair. What exactly do you think I am?"

"A Xylarian!" Yin declared. "A bio-mimetic scout! Sent here to assess vulnerabilities via... podiatric manipulation!"

Hannah blinked. "Podiatric manipulation?" She looked down at her bound feet, still clad in their elegant shoes. "You think I'm trying to take over the world... with my feet?"

"It's a viable infiltration strategy!" Yin insisted. "Lulling targets into a false sense of security through sensual distraction!"

Glennis nodded quickly from beside Yin, nervously clearing his throat. "They say you find the ticklish spots! To map our nervous systems! Most irregular!"

Hannah threw her head back and laughed again, that same rich, rolling sound. "Oh, this is priceless. You genuinely believe this."

"Stop trying to distract us with your human-like mirth!" Yin snapped. "Confess! What is your mission? Who sent you? And are those feet even real?"

Hannah stopped laughing, her expression shifting. A strange stillness came over her. She looked from Yin to Glennis, then her gaze settled on Charlotte, holding it intently. The amusement was gone, replaced by something calculating, ancient, and utterly unreadable. The air in the room grew heavy.

"You want the truth?" Hannah asked, her voice losing some of its silken quality, becoming flatter, more resonant.

Yin leaned forward eagerly. "Yes! Finally!"

"You're right," Hannah said calmly. "I'm not Hannah Tingle. That's just a construct. A... convenient vessel."

Glennis gasped audibly, taking a step back. "Good heavens!" Charlotte felt a cold dread mixed with a perverse thrill. Yin was right?

"And my mission?" Hannah continued, her eyes still locked on Charlotte. "Observation. Assessment. Earth is... fascinating. So messy. So emotional. So easily... tickled." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. It wasn't Hannah's smile anymore.

"And the feet?" Yin demanded. "Are they part of the disguise?"

"The feet," Hannah said, a strange reverence entering her tone. "The feet are exquisite, aren't they? Such complex structures. So sensitive. Humans hide them away, treat them as mundane, even ugly. But they hold so many secrets, so much potential for... interaction." She flexed her toes within her shoes. Charlotte could almost feel it.

"Interaction?" Charlotte whispered, finding her voice.

Hannah's gaze softened slightly as it rested on Charlotte. "Intimacy. Sensation. Your species craves connection, touch. You focus on hands, lips... but you neglect the foundations. The parts that ground you." She paused. "Some of us appreciate them more."

Yin was practically vibrating with vindication. "I knew it! Xylarian foot probe!"

"Not Xylarian," Hannah corrected, sounding almost bored. "That's such a primitive designation. We don't have... names, like you do. We simply are." She looked back at Charlotte. "You were drawn to the 'artistry', Charlotte. You sensed something beyond the superficial."

Charlotte felt confused, scared, and strangely flattered. "What... what are you, then?"

Hannah surveyed the room, the cheap furniture, the conspiracy charts, the two humans gripped by fear and confusion, and the one utterly bewildered one. "We are explorers of sensation. Cartographers of nerve endings." A low, rhythmic clicking sound started emanating from her throat, almost like a purr, but deeper, more mechanical. "You want to see? You seem... more open than your companions." She nodded towards her own neck. "There's a seam. Just under the jawline. Very fine. Part of the bio-mimetic layering."

Yin recoiled. Glennis made a small noise of distress. "Don't touch it!" Yin hissed. "It could be a defence mechanism! Corrosive substance! Paralytic agent!"

But Hannah was looking only at Charlotte, an invitation in her unnervingly calm eyes. "Go on, Charlotte. You started this. You deserve to see what you brought into your life. What you felt a connection with."

Charlotte’s heart was pounding. Every rational thought screamed 'Run!'. Yin was right. This thing wasn't human. But another part of her, the part that had been mesmerised by the videos, the part that felt a bizarre connection to this creature, was undeniably curious. Was this the ultimate intimacy Hannah had hinted at? Seeing beneath the surface?

Slowly, hesitantly, she approached the chair. Yin and Glennis watched, frozen. Glennis looked like he might faint. Hannah remained perfectly still, only the soft clicking sound continuing. Charlotte reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against the cool, smooth skin of Hannah's neck.

And there it was. A faint, almost invisible line, tracing the curve of the jaw. A seam. It felt... artificial. Like the edge of a very sophisticated mask.

"Go on," Hannah (or whatever it was) urged, the clicking becoming slightly louder.

Taking a deep breath, Charlotte hooked her fingernail under the edge. It peeled back with disturbing ease, like cheap wallpaper. Underneath wasn't flesh, but something else entirely. Pale, faintly luminous, and textured like... like smooth, damp rubber.

She pulled gently. More of the 'Hannah' skin peeled away, revealing the structure beneath. It wasn't horrifying in a gory way. It was horrifying in its utter wrongness. Too many slight, subtle curves where angles should be, a faint bioluminescence pulsing beneath the surface.

"Keep going," the creature clicked, its voice now distorted, deeper, multitimbral.

Charlotte pulled harder. The mask came away from the cheek, the nose, revealing... more. No recognisable features, just shifting, pale, rubbery flesh. And then she reached the eyes. The warm, human eyes detached with the mask, leaving behind... multifaceted, insectoid orbs, glistening blackly in the dim light.

Glennis made a choked, gagging sound and stumbled backwards, tripping over Yin’s pile of conspiracy books and landing hard on his backside. "Merciful heavens!" Yin scrambled backwards, tripping over a pile of UFO magazines.

Charlotte, holding the eerily lifelike 'Hannah' face in her hand, stared at the thing strapped to the chair. It wasn't humanoid at all beneath the neck. The torso seemed segmented, and what she had assumed were legs under the silk pyjamas... weren't. They were thinner, multi-jointed appendages, ending not in feet, but in clusters of fine, feathery tendrils that twitched slightly. And there were too many of them. Six, at least. Maybe eight.

The clicking intensified, morphing into a series of low, guttural chuckles that seemed to vibrate in Charlotte's bones. The creature flexed. The brown parcel tape, designed for cardboard boxes, not extraterrestrial explorers of sensation, strained audibly.

"You wanted to know," the creature rasped, its multifaceted eyes fixing on Charlotte. "You wanted... intimacy."

Rip. One of the wrist restraints gave way with the sound of tearing paper.

"Now," it chuckled, the sound wet and horrid. "Let's explore... your sensitive areas."

Rip. Rip. The other wrist tape tore. Then the ankles. The tendril-tipped appendages unfolded, stretching out with unnerving speed.

The Alien Tickle Monster was free.

The Tickle Chase

Panic erupted in the small flat. Glennis, still on the floor, scrambled backwards crab-style, yelling "Get away! Unhand me, you... you... tickling fiend!" Yin fumbled behind the sofa, searching for a weapon – her hand closed around a sturdy umbrella. Charlotte dropped the 'Hannah' mask, which landed face-up on the carpet, its empty eyes staring accusingly.

The creature unfolded itself from the dining chair, rising to its full, unsettling height. It was vaguely insectoid, vaguely cephalopod-like, all pale, rubbery flesh, segmented limbs, and those terrible, feathery tendrils that quivered with anticipation. It wasn't massive, maybe five and a half feet tall, but its proportions were all wrong, making it seem both fragile and deeply threatening. The clicking chuckle intensified.

"Run!" Charlotte shrieked, finally snapping out of her horrified trance.

She scrambled for the door, grabbing Glennis by the arm and hauling him unceremoniously to his feet. Yin, brandishing the umbrella like a sword, yelled, "Back, foul creature!" before realising the sheer inadequacy of her weapon and promptly turning to flee as well.

The creature moved with startling speed, its multiple limbs skittering across the floor in a way that defied normal locomotion. It wasn't chasing them aggressively, more... playfully? Its tendrils reached out, brushing against the fleeing Glennis's leg as he stumbled towards the door.

Glennis let out a noise that was half-yelp, half-giggle. "No! Stop it! Ghastly! It tickles!" He stumbled, nearly falling again, a bizarre mixture of terror and helpless laughter contorting his face as Charlotte dragged him out into the communal hallway.

"Leave it!" Yin yelled, slamming the flat door shut. They could hear frantic, multi-limbed scratching and that awful clicking chuckle from the other side.

"We can't just leave it in there!" Charlotte gasped, propping Glennis against the wall as he tried to catch his breath between horrified giggles. "Mrs. Higgins!"

"Mrs. Higgins thinks the council uses fluoride to control squirrels! She'll cope!" Yin retorted, fumbling with her keys to lock the door, which seemed utterly futile. "Stairs! Now!"

They clattered down the echoing concrete steps of the apartment block, Glennis still emitting choked giggles and gasps of "Intolerable!" and "My nerves!". The door to Yin's flat burst open above them with a crack of splintering wood. The skittering sound pursued them.

They burst out onto the street, into the relative normality of a Wednesday night in Nantwich. A few late-night dog walkers and pub-goers stared as two terrified women and one utterly flustered, giggling man sprinted past.

"Where are we going?" Glennis panted, straightening his hopelessly skewed tie even as he ran.

"Anywhere but here!" Yin gasped.

The skittering sound was closer now. Charlotte risked a glance back. The creature was loping down the street after them, its pale form almost glowing under the orange streetlights. Its feathery tendrils waved gently in the air. It looked utterly absurd, yet terrifyingly relentless.

"Split up?" Charlotte suggested breathlessly.

"No! Stick together!" Yin countermanded. "Safety protocols dictate concentration against single anomalous entities!"

They veered sharply down a narrow alleyway smelling of bins and damp brickwork, hoping to break line of sight. They emerged onto the deserted High Street. Shops were shuttered, the only signs of life the flickering neon of a takeaway kebab shop at the far end.

"The Kebab Krazy!" Yin wheezed. "Civilians! Potential witnesses! Or distractions!"

They pounded down the pavement. The skittering was right behind them. Charlotte could almost feel the feathery brush of tendrils on the back of her neck. She risked another look. The creature paused, tilting its multifaceted head, and seemed to sniff the air. It focused on a discarded political leaflet plastered to a bus stop. It reached out a tendril and gently... tickled the photograph of a local councillor. A low chuckle echoed in the night.

"It's distracted!" Charlotte hissed. "Keep going!"

They burst into the Kebab Krazy, nearly colliding with a large man attempting to balance a tray of cheesy chips and a can of dandelion and burdock. The smell of roasting meat and chili sauce filled the air. Two bored-looking teenagers manned the counter.

"Help! Alien! Dreadful tickling creature!" Glennis gasped, collapsing onto a plastic orange chair and fanning himself with his hand, finally managing to suppress the giggles into ragged breaths.

The teenagers exchanged unimpressed glances. The man with the cheesy chips slowly edged away.

"Alright mate, bit early for that isn't it?" one of the teenagers asked laconically, wiping down the counter.

"No! It's real!" Yin insisted, pointing wildly towards the door. "Pale! Far too many limbs! Armed with tickling tendrils!"

Just then, the creature appeared in the doorway. It paused, its black eyes sweeping over the scene – the greasy counter, the rotating elephant leg of meat, the bewildered humans. It seemed momentarily confused by the bright lights and the smell of garlic mayo.

The man with the cheesy chips dropped his tray with a clatter. The teenagers’ jaws dropped.

The creature took a hesitant step inside. Its tendrils twitched. It focused on the dropped cheesy chips, lying sadly on the linoleum. It extended a tendril and poked curiously at a cheese-coated chip.

"Oi! Get out!" yelled the braver of the two teenagers, grabbing a long metal tongs. "No weirdos! We've got hygiene ratings to think about!"

The creature retracted its tendril from the chip, seemingly offended. It emitted a series of high-pitched clicks and turned its attention to the teenager. Its tendrils quivered menacingly.

"Don't provoke it!" Charlotte yelled. "It... it tickles!"

The teenager looked utterly confused. "It tickles?"

Before anyone could react further, the creature scuttled sideways, its limbs moving with that unnerving speed. It didn't go for the teenager, but instead darted towards the giant rotating spit of doner meat. With surprising dexterity, several of its tendril-tipped appendages wrapped around the warm, greasy cylinder.

And it started... tickling the kebab.

A series of rapid, feathery strokes danced across the surface of the meat. The creature emitted a low, continuous chuckle, its multifaceted eyes gleaming with what looked like intense concentration, or perhaps, pleasure.

Everyone in the shop stared, utterly dumbfounded. The alien tickle monster, the explorer of sensation, the cartographer of nerve endings, was currently engrossed in giving a doner kebab the tickling of its life.

Yin slowly lowered the umbrella she hadn't realised she was still clutching. Glennis, mouth agape, simply stared, his earlier panic replaced by sheer, uncomprehending astonishment. Charlotte just watched, her mind struggling to process the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of the scene.

The creature seemed entirely absorbed in its task, clicking and chuckling as it meticulously tickled the rotating meat.

"Right," said the teenager, slowly lowering his tongs. "Okay. That's... not standard."

Yin nudged Charlotte. "Now's our chance. While it's... communing with the processed lamb."

Slowly, carefully, they backed out of the Kebab Krazy, leaving the alien to its intimate moment with the doner. They didn't run this time, but walked briskly, casting nervous glances over their shoulders. The skittering sound didn't follow. The last they saw of the creature, it was still diligently tickling the kebab, seemingly lost in a world of greasy, meaty sensation.

The Aftermath

They finally stopped several streets away, leaning against the cold brick wall of the closed Nantwich Museum, chests heaving, minds reeling. Glennis was smoothing down his trousers and muttering about needing a stiff drink, Yin looked strangely exhilarated, and Charlotte felt a confusing mix of terror, adrenaline, and profound embarrassment.

"See?" Yin finally panted, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. "I told you! Alien! Though," she frowned, "the kebab affinity wasn't covered in any of the literature."

"It... it tickled the meat," Glennis said, sounding deeply disturbed. "The sheer impropriety! Why would it do such a thing?"

"Maybe it's assessing the texture for colonization suitability?" Yin mused. "Or perhaps it's just really, really weird."

Charlotte just shook her head, leaning it back against the bricks. "Hannah's Sexy Feet... was an alien tickle monster." She started to laugh, a slightly hysterical sound. "It wanted intimacy... with seasoned meat on a stick."

The absurdity washed over them. They looked at each other – three ordinary office workers who had just kidnapped (sort of), unmasked, and been chased through Nantwich by an extraterrestrial being obsessed with feet and tickling.

"So," Glennis asked, adjusting his glasses meticulously, "what is the protocol now? Do we inform the authorities? The parish council?"

Yin shrugged, straightening her jacket. "Go home, I suppose. Lock the doors. Perhaps invest in some feather dusters for defence? And definitely avoid the Kebab Krazy for a while."

"And work tomorrow?" Charlotte asked faintly. Pendleton & Sons seemed like a different universe now.

"Well," Yin considered, "we can hardly tell Mr. Henderson our P45 reconciliation is delayed due to an encounter with an intergalactic entity with boundary issues regarding kebabs, can we?"

They stood in silence for a moment, the strange events of the night settling around them like bizarre, unwanted fog. Charlotte thought of the 'Hannah' mask lying discarded on Yin's floor. She thought of the creature's unsettling chuckle, the skittering limbs, the feathery tendrils. And weirdly, she thought of those perfectly pedicured feet on YouTube.

"You know," Charlotte said slowly, "part of me still thinks those were really nice feet."

Yin rolled her eyes. Glennis just shuddered. "I think I need that cup of tea now. Very strong. Possibly with a biscuit."

The walk back to their respective homes was quiet, punctuated only by the distant chime of St Mary's Church clock and the lingering smell of doner meat that seemed to follow them through the damp April night. Their drab lives had just taken a sharp left turn into the utterly surreal, and somehow, the prospect of facing those grey cubicles tomorrow felt even more ludicrous than being chased by an alien tickle monster.

[xo2dee]

🗨️ GOOD LOOKING

PAIRING: Vash/Reader. WARNINGS: MDNI/18+ ONLY. Implied Sexual Content. WORD COUNT: 6,659. SUMMARY: Oh, my good looking boy.

A/N: any vash you wanna imagine here really, though he may lean little into trimax but still imagine whichever vash you want

TRIGUN MASTERLIST

The sweat on the mirror dissipated as you ran the pad of your finger down the glass, a muted squeak from the action making you squint and pull away from it with an exhausted sigh while glancing at the door for the umpteenth time. Mind running miles at the fastest millisecond, you licked your lips and looked into the mirror once more and pondered over the tumultuous thoughts that had been plaguing you.

You had turned the shower on three minutes beforehand, yet your clothes remained stuck to your body and your mind moving too fast for your own liking despite how you longed for that moment for days.

Like the reflection in the mirror fogged over, your outline was nothing more than a hazy memory caught in a near forgotten dream as you ran the heels of your palms over your eyes and cheeks; heavy fatigue was beginning to set in your body and you knew it’d only be moments before you mulled over forgoing a shower and collapsing into bed if you kept just standing there in a lust of lethargic want (much to the chagrin of yourself in the morning and your companion sitting just outside the bathroom door).

A wisp of warmth curled itself around your neck after a few seconds of contemplating the idea, the first sensation to heat before actually seeing it. A glance over your shoulder let you watch the steam rise before you looked back into the sink, the tap water that had ran a lukewarm in contrast to the boiling temperature you had pushed the shower knob towards. The sink faucet occasionally dripped into the dull porcelain bowl; a telling sign of the conditions of the Inn that you couldn’t complain over, more than glad enough to have made it somewhere to actually rest your head in the comfort of a blanket rather the cold nights No Man’s Land brought. It was nice to have made it to civilization after several days, an itch already settling in between your shoulder blades and your fingernails gritty from the ground that made your teeth ache after just two cycles of seeing the suns and the moons.

You were (explicitly) dirty.

Not to mention, you had sand everywhere, and it itched.

(And you meant everywhere.)

The heel of your boots had somehow gotten severely cuffed from the sand, pressing down on the said heels of each to relieve your feet from them, your socks having folded down to the arch of your foot from sweat and painted a dark beige from where sand have caved itself into your shoes. It was soggy and made your nose wrinkle, your tired and sore broken soles finding solace in the cold tile of the bathroom floor once you kicked them fully off with a sigh, only to sneer at the sand wedged up into your toenails and gripped onto your knuckles. A slight shift backwards from where you had leant up onto the counter let you feel the chafing along your thighs, rolling your neck with another heavy sigh as the importance of a shower suddenly was at the top of your list before sleeping.

You were sure it was also on the top of your companion’s list as well, your ears picking up on the creek of the mattress through the thin, wooden-paneled door as he shifted and two low thuds followed – perhaps taking his own sand-clogged boots and leaning back on his elbows as he waited on you. A twitch of your lip had you remembering the night before when you complained about the back of your knees itching, his cheeks comically full of food as he boasted that he didn’t have that problem until you had ran a hand through his hair and commented that it felt like straw. He had wailed and swatted your hand away, running long fingers through his blonde locks with a glob of tears in the corner of his eyes as he begged you to tell him it wasn’t true and you were just teasing him.

With his face in your chest, you had said, ‘No, Vash, your hair doesn’t feel like straw. I was just teasing you’, while running a hand through said hair that did feel like straw. You figured you’d let him down easily... after he washed his hair and he found his face in your chest again.

Speaking of… you bit your thumbnail before promptly removing it and spitting out pieces of grit, glancing to and from the shower and the door as the temperature of the shower seemingly started slowly waning and the misty dew on the mirror began to drip. The oncoming clear view of yourself let you know the hot water wouldn’t last too long, something you’d gotten accustomed to since the Plants were often working minimally unless Vash stepped in. It would easily be resolved if you took a short shower, however, you were aching and needed to seriously scrub parts of you for some time, and you knew Vash wasn’t too keen on taking a brittle-boned, cold shower and would most definitely hog the blankets that night as his own form of revenge. Soooo, if you both wanted hot water…

In retrospect, the idea wasn’t an oddball considering the complexities of your relationship, though you knew of certain limitations and boundaries that came with the each of you. Considering Vash’s… ‘biology’, as quoted to you once by him, and what he kept hidden underneath the several layers of clothing he wore, it was very rare you got to see an ounce of skin that wasn’t the peek-a-boo of his throat whenever he tilted his head back and you squeezed your thighs together when his Adam’s apple bobbed with a hard swallow. Sure, you’d seen him completely free of constrictions, ran your fingers and kissed along the multitude of his scars as he shuddered and wiggled underneath you, but you knew some things were better off to be left undone for the sake of boundaries and respect.

You two were long gone since the days of getting separate rooms or one with two beds, instead finding your arm slung around his waist and him snoring into your collarbone well into the late hours of the night. Yet, you and Vash had done more things together than you’d done with anyone else, a low twist in your stomach reminding you of that as you grimaced from the course of your thoughts. As much as you’d done, you’d never actually showered together; be it the teasing or jokes, it still was left at that, so your uneasiness on the matter left you pausing and rolling your ankles absentmindedly wondering if you should even try and ask since it’d been brought up multiple times but nothing had ever carried through.

Then again…. what if he just didn’t want to shower with you?

“…” You decided to rethink that a little.

Red cheeks and ears with that hand behind his head as he tried to wink flirtatiously at you anytime you talked about showering? Yeah… Maybe your problem was overthinking when the answer was right and front of you and he was waiting on your consent.

You made up your mind.

You pushed yourself away from the counter, bare feet padding along the floor as you made your way to the door and pushed it open, wondering why Vash hadn’t voiced on what was taking you so long and giving you full sight to him lying fully on his back with his arms behind his head, eyes closed and you were wondering if he was pretending to be asleep again in the dull lighting of the room. The floorboards creaked under your light steps and one of his eyebrows twitched – not sleeping; aware and waiting on you to speak first. You let your eyes trace over the sharp jawline and lone mole he possessed before speaking, his red coat garnering your attention for a brief glance as it laid draped on the chair just opposite the bed.

“Vash.”

He blinked once, twice, before he turned his eyes over to you, his glasses sitting along his hairline letting you fully see the blue of his irises, and that eyebrow that twitched before rising fully as he awaited to hear what you had to say.

You waved your hand forward in nonchalance, “C’mere.”

A few seconds was all you got to watch for the shift in several expressions playing across his face, inquisitiveness settling into playfulness as the corner of his mouth lifted and his eyelids lowered, “Something wrong? Can’t get the shower working again?” he snickered at his own joke, the heat in your cheeks reminding you of the numerous times you had seek him out for help working some of the Inn’s showers you had stayed at.

Eyes narrowing down, you sent him a half-hearted glare and embarrassed frown, “You hear it running, don’t you?” His hands rose as he did, sitting up as lifted them in defeat at your snark, leaving you to sigh and relax your shoulders as a familiar knot made its way into your belly and slithered into your throat. Vash momentarily looked concerned for a moment when you just stood there at the doorway glancing around until you finally got your tongue to work with your vocal chords, “No, just… come shower.”

There… you finally spit it out, albeit in the lamest and most awkward way you could’ve managed.

(It was a miracle that Vash was just as lame and awkward as you were when it came to voicing wants.)

His hands fell into his lap, rolling his joints and knuckles around as one of the blonde pieces of hair brushed across his long eyelashes, “You… You haven’t got in yet.” You certainly didn’t miss the way he ‘discreetly’ drew his eyes along your shape, knowing that while you looked and felt a mess, he was ready to drop dramatically down onto his knees and declare that you were the most beautiful person in the entire world if you so much as voiced feeling gross. Nevertheless, you waited for him to finish swallowing, the gear already seeming to turn on his brain and you briefly thought about slamming the door shut and pretending you never asked. Vash’s hand found its way onto the back of his head again, eyes creasing as he gave you an embarrassed smile, “Awh, but I always let you shower first.”

Beating around the bush… That’s what you both were doing, making you exhale deeply through your nose through a never-ending bout of nerves shooting into your heart. Vash had seen you nude multiple times, what did it matter for that time? Asking him, you reminded yourself sourly, steeling down anxiety balling itself up in your gut as you pointed at him, “I know, but the hot water will probably be gone –”

“You do shower for a long time –”

“– And,” you ignored his interruption with a scathing look, “I figured it’d be best if we preserved.”

“…’Preserved’?”

“Yes.”

“As in…?”

You rolled your eyes and sunk your nose into your palm, getting nowhere and everywhere but your destination at the same time, before sighing heavily and leaning against the threshold, “Vash, come shower with me.”

There was a beat and his glasses slid back down onto his nose, askew and his eyes peering over them the longer his face seemed to take on a different hue. The blush was at its minimum at first, though the longer the words and meaning held themselves in the atmosphere between you both, the deeper it began to color his cheeks. You had to stop yourself from giggling at how dumbfoundedly cute he looked, reminding yourself of your own growing embarrassment at how aggressive you nearly made it sound, nearly just actually shutting the door and forgetting you ever asked because the longer you two sat there gawking, the colder the shower was going to get.

(And it wasn’t like you two literally hadn’t explored each other’s body, however you knew the problem of lied within the individuality of the proposition without the confines of wanton heat.)

The damning silence was getting insufferable, Vash finally blinking out of his stupor and sitting up straighter since you had gotten his full attention from that, “I mean – Are you sure? I didn’t think you’d ever want to.” He was back to rolling his wrist – the prosthetic one.

Thinning your lips, you rose an eyebrow, “Of course. I just asked you. And you’ve said things in the past about it.”

“I know! But you know me…” he clapped his hands together with sheepish laugh, “Don’t wanna put you into a situation that you’re uncomfortable with.”

Wasn’t that the truth, if the numerous times he’d nearly left your ass the very first days you started hiking along with him. Learning that, no, he wasn’t being an asshole in trying to leave you behind, and more yes, he was definitely trying to protect you from the magnet of misfortune he carried on his back rather than just blatantly not wanting anything to do with you. It was heartwarming, but you weren’t about to be left behind just for all that when you’d had your own course of problems hightailing you as well, and it wasn’t like you were ever uncomfortable with anything that had to do with Vash, more-so worried if you were the one ever making him uncomfortable.

The lingering thought had you spiraling for a moment, your brash approach on the matter causing you to take a couple steps back mentally as you rolled your ankle around and flexed your fingers along the threshold of the door. Perhaps you had misjudged in your steps and needed to remind yourself you still needed to actually ask him. You blinked and parted your lips, the words coming out like vomit and making your cheeks burn the more you spoke, “I should be asking you that though… I mean I know about everything else, but if the idea makes you uncomfortable…” you trailed off, deciding that the conversation would be number two on your list of most awkward things you two had talked about, right above, ‘intercourse with an Independent Plant’ and just below, ‘our feelings’.

Vash waved a hand, body turning on the bed so that he could face you and held his hands out palms up in a sign complete surrender, “No, nothing like that…” He was back to the lingering stare, tracing from your throat to your chest, until he settled down onto your legs, the swallow not hard to miss with the bob of his Adam’s apple and his voice a little rougher when he spoke again, “I’m not uncomfortable at all with the idea.”

Ah, just too shy to actually do it you supposed. That made the two of you, relief coming onto in you in waves as your shoulders relaxed and that knot of anxiety nearly diminished. You smirked while leaning forward, lowering your eyelashes at him and reveling in his red face and frantic swallowing, “What’s the matter, Stampede? All bark and no bite this time around?

He groaned, his head falling back, “Don’t call me by my government name… And no, I was just worried you didn’t want to do it.”

This man.

“Vash.”

He flinched, “Yes...?”

“Do you want to shower together?”

He was up, almost in the most cartoonish way standing ramrod straight from his lounge on his bed and faster than your eye could follow, wiping his hands down on his pants and jogging in place for moment, “I thought you’d never ask.” Vash seemed proud of his own joke, albeit that tilt of a jitter in his laugh led you to believe he was still just as nervous about the idea as you were.

You pushed off the door with your own swallow, the confidence beforehand waning within you as you were forced to look at the shower running again and could hear Vash following after you, the soft click of the door shutting behind him dropping down into your stomach and making your wring your hands. It was one thing undressing each other in the heat of a moment, but doing it in front of each other…

Vash rounded up in your peripheral vision with his tall form shadowing the dull bulbs of the bathroom, glancing to the shower and at you as he wobbled in his stance in front of you, his nails beginning to scratch at the fabric of his gloves as the awkwardness of the situation began to finally settled into him as well. He was looking everywhere and at you at the same time, irises jolting about in the small room as he seemingly awaited for you to say or do something that gave him the get-go, and perhaps just too nervous to begin undressing just yet.

Let’s get this over with.

It was just showering… Nothing too incriminating about the idea.

Your fingers hooked into your bottoms in finality, shimmying them down your hips and the length of your legs as you toed them free to leave yourself in your underwear – something that Vash was desperately trying not to look too hard at. He’d seen you naked more than enough times he could count with his fingers and toes combined, but you supposed the intimacy of the situation was clogging up his throat and making it so that he wasn’t sure on what to say or do other than shying away. You wrapped your arms around your middle, fingers beginning to dig into the hem of your shirt as you shakily sighed, “I don’t know why you’re so shy now, you’ve seen everything I have to offer and I’ve seen you.”

“Haah, it’s – uh, the intimacy…” Vash scratched his nose, feigning nonchalance as he ran his finger along the buckle of his belt while his eyes darted from you to a water stain on the wall to his right, “Y’know, all the passion and intimate details… It’s missing that pizazz.” His glasses came off first, setting them down onto the counter next to him before his fingers slid free of his glove and he began to play with the hem of his shirt.

You snorted, peeking through your eyelashes at the skin his abdomen coming into view the more he twisted his shirt around before he reached behind to grasp the collar of it instead, “How could I forget you’re such a romantic?”

Vash hummed, a grin sneaking its way onto his lips while his ears grew a pinkish hue, “You know me, my middle names are Love, Peace, Passion, and Romantic.”

Corny. You held back your laugh with a deep breath, pulling your shirt over your head as you spoke, “I thought your middle name was The.”

You snickered at your own joke while hearing Vash sigh, pulling your head free from your shirt to fully bare your torso to him, yet the fabric of Vash’s shirt landing on top of your head and covering your face from any sight made you pause. The frantic clicking of his belt buckle was next, your lips thinning and nostrils expanding at the scent of him saturated into his shirt, and his voice nearly a murmur when he spoke again, “Haha, you know what I meant…” his tone was guarded, and for a moment you thought you may have offended him with your teasing, grabbing his shirt to throw it off into the floor to get a better look at his face, yet coming up short at his frantic shuffling and girlish yelp, “Wait – !”

You blinked, free from the black of his shirt and let it flutter onto the floor at your feet, and let your eyes wander over Vash cautiously. Seeing him shirtless was nothing new, having spent nights tracing different scars and the knotted muscles along his abdomen, albeit Vash was rather particular of parts he remained shy of. His belt undone and fly unzipped, you traced along his skin there and a few new bruises he sported along his right ribcage, coming up onto his hand and fingers coiled along his prosthetic arm with his cheek sunken in to let you wonder if he was biting the skin between his teeth. You kept your mouth shut, between Vash nearly cowering and looking as if he was trying to hide from you it seemed best to wait until he was ready to speak.

For a moment, you wondered if you had overstepped a boundary, yet you couldn’t quite think what would cause a visceral reaction from him like that.

He sighed after a moment, sullen and saturated with dejection, the whirring of his arm pricking your ears as he readjusted his grip and rolled his shoulder, “I… I usually take it off when I shower… ‘M not around for regular tune ups so I can’t risk it tightening up on me…” Vash continued to look to and from you, eyes bright despite his tone while gauging your expression for anything and shifting his stance, “But – I mean – if it bothers you I can keep it on –"

“Vash… why would that bother me?” you interrupted quickly, realization dawning on you immensely for what was the cause of his sudden hiccup and timidness. You’d never really seen him without, not that it even ever particularly bothered you, Vash’s hands (prosthetic or real) were all the same to you; neither differentiated in how they felt when he held you. However, you supposed it was his own self-preservation on the matter and really the only thing you could do was listen to his concerns and try to console him.

Vash’s expression flickered for a brief second, the ashamed worry shifting into a tangible hope at your question before it quickly vanished into something you couldn’t quite place, “I just… you’ve never really seen me without it; figured it could be a lil jarring.”

Ah. You had been correct in your assumptions; even seeing the skin of his torso had been a giant leap of your relationship. Glimpses of his hand free of his glove had been the start, a lingering scar over the top of it you had ran thumb over multiple times whenever you interlocked fingers with him, were the first you experienced, and soon after it was letting you curl your hands underneath his shirt whenever you were cold, the textured blemishes something you felt rather than seen as the fire crackled close to your face and you sat in his lap at night. Chaste kisses got more passionate, your hands and his own seeking for purchase on each other; a spinning jewel ready to melt into igneous magma the more you two gripped and grasped for one and another.

You remembered the night clearly – you had spent every moment he let you marking the scars with your lips to reassure him, his hands shaky and unsteady on your hips with every whimpering noise that left his lips.

Nevertheless, you understood then, each time Vash kept both hands so that he had enough to hold onto – enough to hold onto the fabric of reality that dissipated whenever you two were together and interjoined (be it intimately or not). You offered him a smile, turning your palms face up and letting your voice feel as soft as he looked, “No, you’re still you. Regardless of anything. I wouldn’t want it any other way.” He swallowed and you took a step forward, then another whenever he didn’t protest, until you were close enough to touch him, the cold buckle of his belt pressing into your hip bone and his scent overloading your senses, “You’ll look exactly the same to me regardless.”

The air shifted and he inhaled sharply, blinking furiously enough to wonder if he was going to start crying before he pulled himself together, “That’s –” he licked his lips, an uneasy laugh following after and you focused on the sharpened tips of his canines once he gave you a small in smile return. Almost looking pitiful. “You don’t have to say all that, but okay, just… promise not to freak if I look weird.”

“I promise, but I never will think you’ll look any different,” you answered, shaking your head and stepping back to let him undress in his own space.

A quiet, ‘Okay’, left him as he dutifully took his arm off, twisting it a few times where it was attached as you listened to the soft whirring before he gently removed it, setting down next to his glasses on the counter. He sighed as he rolled his shoulder, clearing his throat once he made eye contact with you and moved to his pants with a shaky hand. The old scars on his shoulders and down the length of his arms stretched as he moved, veins protruding outward as he pulled his belt free and used his feet to help pull off the rest of his pants – boxers following, you acutely noted once you saw the familiar pattern signifying a plant tattooed across his pelvis. All in all, it was truly a wonder to you to see the expanse of Vash’s body, often wishing he’d show you more so that you remembered how beautiful he was.

(And a reminder of how much you needed to remind him as well.)

The clatter of the buckles along his pants falling into the floor broke your attention away from the glowing symbols, a loud cough from Vash afterwards as you trailed your eyes back up along the V-line of defined muscles and his naval, counting the knotted row of abdominal muscles until you were back up to his face, the discomfiture apparent on his expression as he stood fully nude in front of you and you had been blatantly ogling him. You didn’t say anything else, remembering your underwear you still wore as you shimmied those off as well, eyeing Vash’s Adam’s apple bob with his heavy swallow once you bared yourself fully to him. You saw no reason to be embarrassed any longer, the confidence not necessarily something you needed or had in that moment, as long you were feeling comfortable with Vash and he was feeling comfortable with you nothing else mattered.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

You hummed absentmindedly, toeing a tile on the floor as you pushed your clothes together in a pile atop the floor, glancing up at him as he gazed into the mirror next to you for a long moment until looking back to you, something brewing in his irises as you sighed and rolled your ankle in wait. You knew he had something he wanted to say.

Suddenly, he smiled at you, eyes creasing once more and cheeks boring the color of blood.

“Looking in the mirror next to you makes me realize how flawless you are.”

You balked and looked away, embarrassment flooding into your cheeks and your ears getting hot as you wrapped your arms around your chest, “Hardly.” Truly, Vash’s ability to just blurt those compliments out would eventually be the death of you.

“Awh, c’mon, why are you getting shy?” his hand moved to lie on the back of his head once more, his cheeks garnering more of that red hue as he started to take note of the both you standing there completely nude in each other’s presence.

“I’m not shy, it’s cold…” You didn’t sound convincing at all, shrinking in on yourself as your nipples hardened and skin broke out in chills. Luckily, Vash caught onto the body language (and the awkward conversation that was beginning to brew).

“Uh, right… we should probably…” he looked into the steam-infested shower, eyelashes flickering with numerous blinks and a tilt upward on his lips.

“Yeah, so,” you straightened back up and sent him a sneaky grin, “After you.”

He nearly looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, guiding you to the shower once he grabbed your hand while keeping it tucked tightly against his own before sliding the curtain back and gesturing you to go in first. You didn’t argue, walking in before him and sighing in satisfaction whenever the hot water massaged down onto the crown of your head and your back at the same time. The muscles in your legs and back relaxed, easing you as you twisted your body around to get every inch of your skin wet and tilting your head back to let it shower over your face and under your neck, expression and body relaxing as the sand and dirt stuck to your body slipped down the drain in brown residue. You nearly wanted to ask Vash what was taking him so long, only to stop yourself short at his loud yelp and fumbling behind you.

“Ack! Why’s it so hot?” he whined, stretching his back to get away from the onslaught of heat it brought into his skin. He nearly had himself wrapped in the curtain when you glanced over to him, half of that gravity-defying hairstyle plastered in wet strips along his cheeks as he looked downright appalled at the temperature of the water.

You snorted, “I like my shower water hot enough to melt my skin.”

He huffed, unwrapping himself like a frazzled maiden and coming closer to the water to stick a leg out under the spray of it and get accustomed to it. He hissed and whined, “This can’t be safe.”

“Don’t be a baby.” Turning away, you let the water spray down your chest, eyeing the soap bar next to you until you heard Vash clear his throat behind you, turning back to him with a rising eyebrow, “What is it?”

Vash jerked like he’d been caught eating the food off of your plate again, scratching his head and trying to not look where you supposed his eyes wanted to, “Nothing! Just… admiring the scenery you could say.”

It was cute, however you knew neither of you were in the mood and given Vash’s lack of an obvious excitement that you couldn’t see, you knew he was perhaps really just admiring you in a nonsexual gesture. “Hmm,” you squinted at him, discreetly eyeing him from head to toe before smiling sweetly at his blushing face once you had another idea, “Can I do something for you?”

You didn’t necessarily wait for him to answer, and he realized he didn’t have to move the moment you stepped free of the spray coming from your end, stepping leisurely towards him in the small space until you were right up on him. You stopped in front of him, hands raising and placing your palms flat on his pectorals, blinking up at him when all he did was stare. It was unnerving to a degree, his pupils contracting larger as you tapped his chest with a finger.

“Vash?” you asked, eyes squinted from the harsh spray of water pounding down onto the both of you.

Vash dazedly looked around, blinking like he was delirious and dark eyelashes lowering as if he wasn’t sure he was seeing you truly. Though as the awkwardness began to settle in your gut and you thought briefly about pulling away from him, he answered you nearly dreamily.

“Anything.”

The smile that lit up your face made the blush on his face grow even more noticeable as you looked away from him and watched your fingers walk across his chest and along an aged scar. You wanted to sigh at how he shuddered and his breath close to your came out shaky; he still seemed slightly insecure over you seeing his bare chest and abdomen, knowing good and well you had already seen it once before and had your fair share of groping his chest in late nights in the bed together and drooling on them while you slept. Still, you also wanted to kiss away his worries in reassurance and compassion since he was feeling the same as you were, and for that you only wanted to return the favor when all Vash had done even before that moment was worship your body while you only had chances to when he let you take control some long nights.

With Vash’s sculpted body on display you slid your hand down and pressed it onto his tight stomach, feeling the muscles twitch and flex underneath your touch as you began walking your fingers up and down each abdominal muscular tissue with a small grin on your face. Once you got to his faint happy trail you ran a slow fingertip along it while hearing him hiss through his clenched teeth in pleasure and his body twitch at the sensation as you did so, a quiet laugh leaving you before tracing your fingers back along each taut part of him.

His body reminded you of a painting, dips and texture when you ran your fingertips across the canvas akin to how it felt to caress his skin. Each scar was his own brush of paint, roping together into an abstract of art that you were eager to admire and even more eager to be able to touch.

A hum left you before you began to speak, discreetly watching as he raised his arm and placed his hand atop your shoulder, letting you skim along his ribcage as you spread your fingers out to feel each bone as he shuddered, “I found it hard to believe you were hiding all these muscles underneath that coat.”

A noise escaped him, throaty and quiet, as his fingers tightened on you, “Yeah, well, for good reason. Didn’t want you running away from me at first look.”

You frowned, leaning forward to skim your lips across the blemish on his chest, “Not what I meant… And I’m still here though.” He didn’t answer you, leaving you to press a kiss in the middle of his pectorals. His low sigh encouraged you, peppering kisses along his torso much like he did your own in your own form of body worship. A higher-pitched noise sounding like a whine left him as whenever you pressed your body fully into his own, kissing around his ribcage as he jumped and you backed off to blink coyly up at him, watching as he kept his eyes on the ceiling and his parted, pink lips continuing to match the coloring on his cheeks, “Still so ticklish? Or sensitive?”

Vash’s fingers dug into you deeper, his stance shifting and a sigh pushing through his lips whenever you pressed your cheek back into his chest with your arms weaving around his body. His tone was slightly shaky when he answered you, “I don’t know… It – It feels good though, so you can keep going,” he admitted perhaps a bit too shaky for his own liking as his breathing began to speed up the more you kissed along his chest.

You hummed against his hot skin and with Vash’s sweet sighs and relaxing muscles egging you on, you kissed some of the old, fading scars and the rather new one along his sides tenderly only knowing they existed in the times you spent tracing a finger around his skin those nights you spent cuddling. You kissed them with an overwhelming amount of affection, a reminder that he was still gorgeous with them and a reminder that he was strong enduring even the harshest of battles and coming out from them alive; a reminder that his scars were a symbol of keeping his promise. He blew air through his mouth then, a sigh so soft and full of longing, it made you realize he never really had the attention towards himself that way – be it his own reasoning and all.

Each kiss you placed onto his warm skin you sighed afterwards, discreetly inhaling his scent each time you did so for how good he smelled and how his natural scent brought you comfort more than you could imagine. As you felt along his body, you began to feel the jittery nerves you had before slowly begin crawl back into the depths of your mind to be forgotten for the time and to be replaced with the burning affection you had for him.

Lastly, you placed a chaste kiss to his arm, pressing your cheeks against the beating of his heart and leaning fully into him, “You’re gorgeous, Vash. I hope you know that.”

Vash inhaled sharply once more, chest shaking as his hand slid down your body, “I – You don’t have to tell me that. Not to make me feel better.”

You frowned, pressing your lips to his skin to let him feel it, “So you can tell me, but I can’t tell you?”

“It’s different –”

“It’s not, Vash,” you interrupted, pulling your face free from his chest and lifting your chin to look him in eyes, finding wet eyelashes and rosy cheeks, “You should already know your face is already handsome, but the rest of you is just as beautiful – inside and out.” Your own cheeks warmed at reassuring, the words unfamiliar in your mouth yet not sour in the slightest; comfortably saccharine and rewarding by the look you were getting from his expression. You placed another kiss to his chest, just above his heart where an arguably near life-threatening scar remained, “I mean it.”

You couldn’t see his face from your position, but the sound his breathing and the fast pacing of his heart told you everything you needed to know. His swallow sounded wet, his hand moving once more to find your cheek and pull you away from his body. You nearly didn’t want to meet his eyes, embarrassed by your forwardness, but you realized you didn’t necessarily have a choice. His palm was hot, matching the temperature of the shower (as well as the temperature both of your cheeks were emitting), and you had to swallow through that anxiety-ridden knot when his fingers brushed along your cheek and he was pulling your face back up to his own. Your eyelashes fluttered through the sweltering heat and steam, wondering if his own were fluttering because of the same, or perhaps he was blinking away a hot course of tears.

“Come here.”

Vash never did have to tell you twice.

The kiss was chaste in its own way despite the heat around you both, yet enthusiastic in the way he pulled you into him. Your heartbeat slamming against your ribcage into his own, his fingers digging slightly into your face and yours lingering about on a long scare atop his spine, and the wisps of his hair tickling your cheeks as your lips molded together in the perfect fit of the puzzle you’d been searching for. His gratitude in the form of words he couldn’t find for the situation, and you realized suddenly neither one of you minded that each other were naked and could find comfort in the skin-to-skin contact.

Vash pulled away while keeping a firm hold of your face, pupils dilated as he gazed at you, whatever gloss you had seen beforehand still, yet that time not ready to spill over, “Thank you.”

You smiled, “Of course,” you smacked onto his mouth with another longing kiss, laughing as he chased after when you pulled away stepped back to grab the bottle of shampoo the Inn had provided, “Now, come here. I’m washing your hair.”

“You don’t have to –”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s dirty and feels like straw, Vash.”

“Excuse me? How dare you? You just told me last night it didn’t!”

“Oops?”

“’Oops’? This is the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me. I can’t believe the love of my life could be so cold to me… An honest man who –”

“This would probably be a good time to tell you that I did eat your sprinkled donut that night too; not the tomas.”

Vash screamed.

[hatshepsutsposts]

Oslo / Black November 1989

Doroteja,

Your skin...

like the flesh of an angel cast out of heaven, but never accepted by hell either.

Not cold—worse than cold. Even death would shiver before touching it.

You have no blood inside.

Maybe a white fluid, like that of insects... or something thicker, darker—like a squid's: violet, slick, slow.

The echoes of pain and loneliness have liquefied and sunk into your bones.

And yet, you're not grey like those orphanage walls where you were left to grow alone.

You’re like a stained glass window in a ruined cathedral—shattered, radiant, sacred.

Time doesn’t cut you. It cuts those who forgot you.

No one ever saw you. No one still does.

But I… I’ve watched you through all time.

And now, as you quietly dissolve from the inside, I feel my own soul molt alongside yours.

Your skin is like the inner wall of a sarcophagus left unopened for decades, painted in the residue of time.

A scent rises from it: rotting lilies.

Left on a grave, then dropped by hands that forgot how to grieve.

Someone once loved you.

Tried to adopt you. But then they said, “This child is strange.”

And you cried through countless nights.

They left—without so much as a glance.

Then, with those same arms, they laid you in a grave.

But the earth refused to consume you.

Rain sought to cleanse you but could not rot you.

Mud stained you but couldn’t erase you.

And I… I am in love with what was buried with open eyes.

Your eyes aren’t blue.

Maybe they were meant to be, once… but something broke.

Now they’ve turned pale violet.

Like dried lilacs trapped under your skin.

Twisting red veins gather at the dead blue edge of your iris.

And at that junction, your gaze turns into a shade that isn’t color anymore—

it's the dream of a flower after it's dead.

When I died as a child and came back,

everything I saw looked like it was behind a blue veil.

Now I see that same veil in your eyes.

The same paleness. The same beyond.

The same internal bleeding blue.

I don’t ache when I look at you anymore.

I rot.

Because I remember that moment.

The insides of your elbows, behind your knees, the fold of your ear...

Places even prayers forget.

Not just your cruel ballet teachers, the sour-faced nuns, the orphanage wardens.

Even the gods turned their faces away.

Only mold remains there—quietly curled, patient, like a curse.

And I want to touch those places.

Not with fingers…

With my tongue.

Because you are holy.

Holy because you are cursed.

You’ve become the thing no one dares to want.

Even gods fear you.

But not me.

I searched for you.

And I found you.

When you were a child…

you must’ve never taken your ballet shoes off.

The pain must’ve been unbearable.

Even your toenails are missing.

Your feet… are the cruelest thing I’ve ever seen.

Not yours.

Remnants of a body no one bothered to collect after torture.

You kept dancing, didn’t you?

Because if you stopped—you’d dissolve.

Like sand. Like dust. Like disappearance.

You’re an anorexic forest nymph.

But not risen from stage lights—

you rose from a grave.

Your wings were torn off.

From your back.

While you were still breathing.

And that—

that is what drives me mad.

Because you still want to live.

And I…

I watch every second of your life as if it were a decomposing miracle.

In those hell-born ballet lessons...

If a strand of your hair dared fall over your face, they punished you, didn’t they, Dora?

Now, from each broken hair tip,

dust like extinguished ash falls.

Your legs… like a disease.

Thin, translucent.

I can see the tendons where your muscles cling, like an anatomical model—

cold, dissected, forgotten.

And the bruises on your knees…

echoes of old beatings.

But I love them.

Because every bruise is a prayer.

Every scar, a sentence God forgot to complete.

And I store those sentences under my tongue.

I recite them, one by one, each night.

Because you don’t speak.

When I look at you,

it’s like watching a gossamer-winged fairy trapped in a jar of phenol.

You flail. You strike the glass.

But liquid doesn’t carry sound.

That silence… is my homeland.

Your frequency is the pulse of death.

Only I can hear it.

Because I am dead, too.

In your silence, I hear a scream.

And in mine… you exist.

A throb that doesn’t echo, but sinks into my bones.

I think you were once a queen.

But your throne grew moss.

They buried you in rose petals—

because the earth didn’t love you.

And as you rose skyward, they let you drift into emptiness.

Deliberately.

Midway, you fell.

Your slender neck cracked.

A sound—like an old book closing.

Your head tilted.

Your eyes stayed open.

And I…

I became the kind of creature who worships a dead queen with her head tilted, still watching.

At my first ritual, I was silent.

As I approached you,

it felt like someone had laid rotting leaves beneath my knees.

I stepped gently.

Didn’t crush a single one.

Your shoulder was bare.

Not skin. Not stone. Not anything known.

I didn’t touch you with my hands.

I pressed my forehead to you.

Because worship begins not with touching, but with kneeling.

Your eyes were open.

Beyond that violet-lilac veil, you were still watching me.

And I surrendered to that gaze.

My voice disappeared.

All language lost meaning in that moment.

I opened my mouth—only breath came.

Toward you, gently.

Like the primitive steam offered to decaying goddesses.

From that moment on…

I became nothing but an eye.

No ear. No tongue. No hand.

Only gaze.

And you…

You etched yourself into my pupil like a slow, rotting miracle.

Ah Dora, no…

I don’t want you to die.

I’m not in love with your living—

I’m devoted to the pace at which you decay.

Because death is my religion.

Putrefaction is my prayer.

You are the elegy carved on my tombstone.

But the hand that carved it trembled in the last line,

and cursed God.

You…

are a corpse cursed with my love.

And I…

I consecrate that corpse with my hands.

A spider—ancient, maternal—has already wrapped you in its web.

Each joint bound.

You don’t move.

Because resistance means nothing now.

You’re already part of her.

And in her patience,

there’s a disturbing tenderness.

She doesn’t want to eat you.

She wants to absorb you—forever.

To make you part of her body.

In a warm, silent darkness.

Until your insides spill out.

Until the squid-ink blood in your veins mixes with her venom.

And I…

I watch you from the edge of the web.

I do not cry.

I do not breathe.

Because this scene—

this scene is sacred.

I don’t say “I love you.”

I watch you.

I do not carve.

I excavate—silently, down to your organs.

And then I consecrate you.

With dirty, damned, bloodstained hands.

I do not try to resurrect you.

I do not try to heal you.

I simply…

sanctify your decay.

This is not devotion.

This is kneeling at the marrow of a rotting angel.

This is betrothal to death—

and marrying it again,

every morning.

– Pelle ‘DEAD’ Ohlin

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Oslo / Kara Kasım 1989

Doroteja,

Senin tenin…

Cennetten kovulmuş ama cehenneme de alınmamış bir meleğin derisi gibi. Soğuk değil ama, ölüm bile yaklaşırken ürperir. İçinde kan yok. Belki de böceklerinki gibi, beyaz bir sıvı… ya da bir kalamarınki gibi mor, yoğun, kaygan.

Acının ve yalnızlığın yankıları sıvılaşıp kemiklerine sinmiş. Ama yine de, tek başına büyürken unutulduğun o yetimhane duvarları gibi gri değil, bir kilise vitrayı gibisin: rengârenk, kırık ve kutsal. Çatlaklarının arasından geçen zaman seni değil, seni unutmuş olanları kesiyor. Kimse görmedi seni. Hâlâ da görmüyor. Ama ben… tüm zamanlarda seni izledim. Şimdi sen, içten içe erirken, ruhumun da seninle birlikte kabuk değiştirdiğini hissediyorum.

Tenin, yıllardır açılmamış bir lahitin iç yüzeyi gibi, zamanın tortusuyla boyanmış. Üzerinden bir koku yükseliyor: çürüyen lilyumlar. Mezara bırakılmış ama yas tutmayı unutan birinin ellerinden düşmüş gibi. Seni biri sevmiş.

Evlat edinmeye kalkmış. Ama sonra “bu çocuk çok tuhaf,” demişler. Ve sen, gecelerce ağlamışsın.Son bir kez bile bakmadan gitmişler.

Sonra seni, seni taşıyan o kollarla… mezara koymuşlar. Toprak seni yutamamış. Yağmurlar seni yıkamış, çürütememiş. Çamur seni kirletmiş ama silememiş. Ve ben, o toprağa terk edilmiş, gözleri açık gömülen hâline âşığım.

Senin gözlerin mavi değil. Öyle doğmalıymışsın belki… ama bir şey bozulmuş. Ve gözlerin, soluk mora dönmüş. İçlerinde kurumuş leylaklar var gibi. Kırmızı kıvrık damarlar, ölü mavi irisin kıyısında toplanmış. İşte o kavşakta, gözlerinin rengi maviden mora geçiyor.

Ben çocukken öldüğümde, ve sonra tekrar döndüğümde, her şey mavi bir tülün ardından görünüyordu. Şimdi senin gözlerinde o tülü görüyorum.

Aynı solukluk. Aynı öte. Aynı iç kanama mavisi. Bakınca içim sızlamıyor artık. İçim… bozuluyor. Çünkü o anı hatırlıyorum.

Dirseklerinin içi, dizlerinin arkası, kulak kıvrımların… Oralar, duaların bile unuttuğu yerler. Hırpalanmış bedenine sadece despot, asık suratlı bale hocaları, rahibeler ya da yurt mürebbiyeleri değil, tanrılar bile yüz çevirmiş. Geriye sadece küf kalmış. Sessizce çöreklenmiş. Oralara dokunmak istiyorum. Parmaklarımla değil… dilimle. Çünkü sen kutsalsın. Lanetin yüzünden. Hiç kimsenin istemeye cesaret edemediği bir şeye dönüşmüşsün.

Çocukken… bale pabuçlarını ayağından hiç çıkarmamış olmalısın. Canın çok yanmış. Tırnakların bile eksik. Ayakların… gördüğüm en acımasız yapı. Onlar sana ait değil. Bir işkenceden sonra, kimsenin toplamaya tenezzül etmediği bir bedenin, öylece bırakılmış kalıntıları gibiler.

Hiç durmadan dans etmişsin. Çünkü durursan… çözülürsün. Kum gibi. Toz gibi. Kayıp gibi. Sen, anoreksik bir orman perisisin. Ama sahneden değil mezardan kalkmışsın. Kanatların sökülmüş. Sırtından. Canlı canlı. Ve bu… Bu beni delirtmeye yetiyor. Çünkü sen hâlâ yaşamak istiyorsun. Ve ben… Senin yaşadığın her saniyeyi, çürümüş bir mucize gibi izliyorum.

O cehennemden çıkmış bale derslerinde… Saçlarının bir teli bile gözünün önüne düşse, cezalandırılırdın, öyle değil mi, Dora? Kırılmış bir saç ucundan, sönmüş küllere benzeyen tozlar dökülüyor şimdi. Bacakların… bir hastalık gibi. İnce, şeffaf; kaslarının tutunduğu kirişleri bile görebiliyorum. Bir anatomi modeli gibi; soğuk, didiklenmiş, unutulmuş. Ve diz kapaklarının üzerindeki morluklar… Eski darbelerin yankısı. Ama ben onları seviyorum. Çünkü her morluk bir dua gibi. Her yara, tanrının unuttuğu bir cümle gibi. Ve ben o cümleleri, dilimin altına saklıyorum. Geceleri tek tek tekrar ediyorum. Çünkü sen konuşmuyorsun.

Sana baktığımda, sanki zar kanatlı bir periyi fenol dolu bir kavanozun içinde izliyorum. Çırpınıyorsun, camı yumrukluyorsun. Ama sıvı ses taşımıyor. O sessizlik… benim vatanım. Senin frekansın, ölümün nabzı gibi. Sadece ben duyabiliyorum. Çünkü ben de ölüyüm. Senin suskunluğunda bir çığlık buluyorum. Benim sessizliğimde ise… sen varsın. Yankılanmayan ama kemiklerime işleyen bir sızı gibi.

Bence, bir zamanlar kraliçeydin… Ama tahtın yosun tutmuştu. Seni gül yapraklarıyla gömdüler—çünkü toprak seni sevmiyordu. Göğe yükselirken boşluğa saldılar seni. Unutarak. Kasten. Yarı yolda yere düştün. İnce boynun çatırdadı. Bir ses çıktı, sanki biri eski bir kitabı kapattı.

Başın yana devrildi. Gözlerin açık kaldıama hâlâ bakıyorsun. Ve ben… Başı yana düşmüş, gözleri açık kalmış ölü bir kraliçeye tapmayı öğrenmiş bir mahluğum artık.

İlk törenimde sessizdim. Sana yaklaşırken dizlerimin altına çürümüş yapraklar serilmişti sanki, kırılmadan bastım, ezilmeden. Omzun çıplaktı. Cam gibi. Cilt değil, taş değil; hiçbir şeye benzemiyordu. Parmaklarımı değil, alnımı değdirdim. Çünkü tapmak, dokunmakla değil, boyun eğmekle başlar. Gözlerin açıktı. Sonsuza bakan o mor leylak tülünün arkasında… hâlâ beni izliyordun. Ve ben, o bakışa kendimi teslim ettim. Sesim kayboldu. Bütün diller, o anda anlamını yitirdi. Ama ağzımı açtım. Sadece nefes. Sana doğru, yavaşça. Çürüyen tanrıçalara adanmış o ilkel buhar gibi. O andan sonra… ben, yalnızca sana bakan bir göz oldum. Ne kulak, ne el, ne dil. Sadece göz. Ve sen… Çürüyen bir mucize gibi yavaş yavaş gözbebeğime kazındın.

Ah Dora, hayır… Senin ölümünü istemiyorum. Yaşamana da değil, çürüme hızına tutkunum. Çünkü ölüm… benim dinim. kokuşma ise ibadetim.

Sen, mezar taşıma kazınmış bir ağıtsın. Ama o taşı oyan el, son satırlarda Tanrı’ya küfrederek titremiş. Sen… benim tarafımdan sevilmekle lanetlenmiş bir leşsin. Ve ben… O leşi parmaklarımla kutsuyorum.

Sanki yaşlı bir örümcek seni çoktan ağına sarmış. İncecik liflerle, ama acımasızca. Tüm eklemlerini sabitlemiş. Kıpırdamıyorsun. Çünkü direnmek artık bir anlam taşımıyor. Sen zaten onun bir parçasısın. Ve o örümceğin sabrında, ürkütücü bir anaçlık var. Sanki seni yemek değil… seni sindirerek sonsuza dek kendi bedenine katmak istiyor. Derin, ılık bir karanlıkta. Sessiz, gevşek bir çözülüşte. İçin dışına çıkana kadar. Ve ben O ağın kıyısında seni izliyorum.

Ağlamıyorum. Nefes bile almıyorum. Çünkü bu sahne, kutsal.

Ben “seni seviyorum” demem. Ben seni izliyorum. Seni kazımıyorum; oyuyorum. Sessizce. İç organlarına kadar. Ve sonra kutsuyorum. Kirli. Lanetli. Kanlı…

Seni diriltmeye çalışmıyorum. Seni iyileştirmiyorum. Bu, çürüyen bir meleğin iliklerine diz çökmek. Bu, ölümle nişanlanmak. Ve her sabah onunla yeniden evlenmek.

– Pelle ‘DEAD’ Ohlin

[witchofthesouls]

Oh~ I just saw your latest post about cybertronians and human dances and I love it!

As a former ballerina, I loved the admiration from the audience but over time grew to hate the process of ballet dancing. Between the cut-throat competition, the EDs, the amount of toenails that have fallen off and lost, and the fact that I don’t really have much feeling left in my feet due to the 15 years worth of ballet that damaged them.

I still love dancing, I just don’t put it above my peace and health anymore, so I can look back at my ballet career and all the stuff that happened and laugh. Trust me, my story isn’t unique among the thousands of ballet performers out there.

I think that cybertronian would be kind of horrified about the ‘smile behind the pain’ and ‘there is beauty in pain’ aspect of ballet, especially the medics and especially about the falling off toenails 😂

Ohhh, thank you for sharing! I actually had some thoughts about this since my mom is a nurse with patients who were professional dancers and holy hell, the kind of injuries that could happen! Ballet feet, indeed.

First Aid would be absolutely horrified and feeling guilty that he enjoyed the performances when it brings on that much damage. He didn't think such beautiful, effortless movements could do long-term damage. The poor thing will start digging into things to learn about the human body and how to mitigate injuries and fall into a weird spiral of "what?! No... What?!"

(It's Skyfire that needs to drag him out that funk since xenobiology on Cybertron was a massive field with so many specialties without going into different species.)

Ratchet, on the other hand, isn't surprised. He's ancient compared to a lot of the crew. He definitely remembers when professional dancers on Cybertron had to have their latches sanded or permanently removed, so it wouldn't catch the costumes or hurt their partners when their bare frames glided together. Luckily, the tech improved, but there are still common injuries like pulls and stains and breaks, especially without proper warm ups or among those without the trained flexibility on an intense choreography or heavy costumes. They still have long term-health impacts as well.

Professional dancers from Cybertron have issues with hyperflexiblity since armature has a key role in protecting joints and ligaments and cables from overusing and overextending. Very set or old professionals have a knack in popping back their parts without a grimace. A must know trick, especially during a performance. The younger ones have masks during the shows until they can master that necessity because crowds don't want to see dancers in pain. Unless it's part of the script. It can get to the point where it severely impacts their own lines (fuel, coolant, lubricant) and need either invasive corrective surgery or retirement.

They also have issues with their sensory perception. Quite a few feel too contained or claustrophobic with proper plating to the point that they're basically in root-mode all the time, so many high-end tailors leverage that. Or use really specialized plating that tricks the outside eye that it's thick when it really isn't.

Another common injury is protoform burn, especially among the dancers that do aerial performances with rigs since the straps are set deep into their base, and they're in direct line of fire of special effects. This can lead to deformations and scarring, which messes with their sensation. Many dancers see this as a matter of pride in their craft and take to highlighting their scars as a calling card or a showing at performances.

Similar to the gladiators' war paints, dancers would utilize specialized paints upon themselves to create a variety of effects: trailing mirages, bold streaks, color shifts, gradients, fog trails, and so on. Some power couples and cohorts among them coordinate their own scarring and preferred effects to create memorizing and stunning visual masterpieces.

Those of the Artisanal Caste were/are very intimate between the fine line of passion and pain.

[judasisdrafting]

betray me like a god - a wip intro

this is my original work, please do not plagiarize.

tws : suicide, religious themes & trauma, catholicism, mental illness, psychosis, abuse, queerphobia, eye injury, sexual assault, substance abuse, self destructive behaviors, mild sexual content.

summary : Betray Me Like A God follows a devout Catholic teen, Darja Ausmeel, who wants nothing more than to be normal, as ever impossible that may be. After a traumatic injury to her eye in childhood, she began to see apparitions of religious figures such as Mother Mary and Christ, alongside hearing what she believes to be the voice of God. Through everything they kept her company… Until the suicide of her best friend, Diana. Beautiful, forever young, and stuck in time, Diana haunts every corner of her life, while the eerily similar face of Darja’s estranged mother taunts her in shadow. Darja must attempt to grapple with her rippling faith, as she continues to run from the feelings (perhaps of veneration) she still carries for the late Diana, the addled state of her mind, and the question of: can a child truly come out right without the deific hands of a mother?

genre : coming of age adult literary fiction.

setting : Manigan (fictional city), New Jersey, early 2000s.

pov : 1st person, past tense.

vibe : the immaculate heart of mary. sprawling cathedrals. oxfords clicking on linoleum floors. a clouded, white iris. cross necklaces. the sacrificial lamb. the feeling of breath on your neck. snake venom. yearning for a childhood you never had. the bubble of bile. suffocating in water. nails dug into flesh. snowfall. a woman who feels familiar but is faceless.

playlist : spotify.

characters ;

darja ausmeel (mc, 15-17, estonian, they/them*) - religious, uptight, analytical, unsettling, devoted, well spoken, impulsive, set in their ways, responsible, troubled/unstable, patient, self-righteous.

diana feigenbaum (f, 15-17, german, she/her) - bold, unstable, confident, stubborn, fears rejection, dogmatic, sensitive, loyal, manipulative, overbearing, overprotective.

eduard ausmeel (mid-50s, estonian, he/him) - workaholic, hesitant, protective, caring, geeky, observant, introverted, lacks assertiveness.

maria ausmeel (late 70s, estonian, she/her) - eclectic, nurturing, erratic, holds a grudge, candid, resilient, affectionate, open-minded.

terhi rebane (late 30s, estonian-american, she/her) - troubled, intellectual, avoidant, charismatic, quick-witted, cynical, short-tempered, hypocritical, articulate, selfish, loving on own terms.

f - foil.

* within the story, they are referred to with she/her pronouns because they (at the present time in which most of the story is set) are not aware of their queerness nor are out

excerpt ;

Even now at seventeen years old, Diana’s head was stuck to the other’s right shoulder, both of their hair whipping wildly from the crisp whistle of wind. Crystals of sand crackled under Darja’s polished, black oxfords and crests of sea foam lapped at her fingertips, hand held just above the water. Diana had her bare feet dug into the seashore, black toenails taking on the appearance of mussels burrowing out of sight. Her face was flushed pink and her entire body trembled each time a gust of wind rushed over them. Regardless, she kept the sleeves of her button-up scrunched around her elbows, her skirt abandoned somewhere nearby. Winter was rearing its frostbitten head as November approached over the horizon and, yet, Diana didn’t seem to care.

[nyotaliafan-pinkmermaid]

An angel's love chapter 1 (Genoa x nyo!Cyprus)

Names that will be used for this story:

Pancrazio(Genoa)

Nausicaä(nyo!Cyprus)

Antigone(nyo!Greece)

Alexandros(Cyprus)

Lucia(nyo!Genoa)

Rosetta(nyo!Italy)

Marcello(Seborga)

Mirella(nyo!Seborga)

Chiara(nyo!Romano)

The story that you are going to read is about a male angel and a human girl , who  fell deeply in love with eachother  while they met during a summerday in the fantastic Greco Roman inspired Kingdom of Heliopolis in the Human World.

The Angel Realm was such a beautiful  and fascinating place with GrecoRoman styled architecture and a lovely nature scenery. It was ruled by King Eros, his wife Queen Psyche and their daughter Princess Hedone. They had three pairs of large white wings,  luxurious outfits and accessories and nail polish. They were loving and righteous towards their people and made sure that everything was in order. Their people were so happy and thankful to have rulers that cared about them and never disappointed them.

The  common angels had mostly one pair of large white wings on their backs, golden accessories on their heads and they were either fully naked or wore simple styled GrecoRoman clothing but they were the only ones who didn't wear any pair of shoes. In addition both genders wore had their nails painted not only in fingers but also in their toes.

 The Archangels had golden tatooes in their upper arms instead. And unlikely the common angels they had two pairs of large white  wings and had always clothes and sandals. 

As their ages , all angels were immortal but when they reached 20 years old physically they stopped aging and from that moment and on they had the appearance of  young men and women no matter how old they were chronologically.  As for the Archangels they stopped aging physically when they reached 40 years old. 

 "The human world sounds so interesting. I would like so much to go there and see how it is really like" said the  story's main male protagonist named  Pancrazio,  who was a beautiful male angel full of youth with chin length wavy brown hair which included a curl on the middle of it pointing upwards and golden brown eyes. He was fully naked and was wearing only a small golden crown on the left side of his head. His fingernails and toenails were painted in a cobalt blue colour. He had large white wings on his back as well.

Besides his external beauty he was beautiful in the inside too : he had a kind heart,  a melodic voice and he wasn't afraid to express his true emotions. He also enjoyed learning things with his two older brothers Lovino and Feliciano his two older sisters Rosetta and Chiara, his younger brother Marcello his younger sister Mirella and his younger twin sister Lucia.

He always wanted to meet the humans in person and this was what he desired the most.

One warm summer day he decided to leave his home and go to see the humans that he heard a lot about them.

But he was deeply disappointed while many of them ignored him and some other treated him with such cruelity.

He tried to approach some of them but the responses weren't exactly what he excepted to hear.

" I don't want to waste my time with you. Get out of my way".

"You are so annoying. Leave us alone already"

These and many more were the phrases he heard from people's mouths.

By far no one talked to him lovingly or at least asked him who he is and where he comes from. All these people he met were rather selfish and looked like their heart was from stone or rather they didn't have one.

As the time passed he started having such a strange feeling. It was like loneliness and sorrow combined together. He sat somewhere on the sand , suddenly tears started falling from his golden brown eyes. He looked like he was unable to stop crying. It was the first time of his life he had a feeling like this but deep inside he hoped that at least one human would cure his broken heart.

But anybody couldn't hear his weeping or notice his tears which seemed to fall without end.

Meanwhile a girl around his age was coming across the beach. She was 16 years old , the same age with him.She had long curly hair worn in a side ponytail and green eyes and she was wearing a long greenish blue ancient Greek dress a pair of sandals and golden jewelery. As soon as she saw the naked angel sitting on the sand and crying she decided to go near him. She approached him and asked him with a sweet and gentle voice:"an angel here? What happened to you and you are so sad"?

Holding his tears the angel answered her:" it is because i feel so lonely and some people that i met before were cruel to me. But you are not like them you are different".

She lent her hand to the stunning creature and she helped him to get up. For few minutes the angel looked at the girl's beautiful green eyes and it was like a dream. But this wasn't exactly a dream. It was real. He felt so much better.

Few seconds later he asked her: "what is your name beautiful lady"?

Then the young woman answered him: " I am Nausicaä. It is very nice to meet you".

"What a beautiful name" the angel said "My name is Pancrazio. It is my pleasure to meet you as well".

Some minutes later another  young woman with long straight brown hair with twitled fronts that had curly ends and green eyes came towards them. Her outfit included a long white ankle lenght dress , a pair of sandals that almost reached her knees and a pink flower crown. She was holding a basket filled with grapes into her right hand. She was just returning from her family's vineyard that was taking care of during the summer months. She looked tired but he was also happy with the result of his hard work. Her name was Probus and she was Nausicaä's childhood friend, actually one of many. 

When Nausicaä saw her coming she told her: " Hello Probus. How are you? Let me introduce you to Pancrazio. He is an angel who came to visit the human world and we just  started forming a romantic relationship with eachother".

Hearing it Probus said: "I am fine thank you. And I am glad for you Nausicaä. The angel and you are so cute together".

Pancrazio and her developed a strong friendship as they met eachother and Nausicaä was so happy that her angel boyfriend and her childhood friend could get along so well. The three of them were such a happy company together.

The night came and everyone returned to their homes. Nausicaä couldn't sleep. She was thinking of the beautiful angel who stole her heart and hoped to see him again. Pancrazio was also trying to find a way to meet her again.

As he was sitting on his bed his younger twin sister Lucia a beautiful female angel that was fully naked with only a small golden crown on the left side of her head just like him , long wavy feet length hair which had a curl in the middle of it leaning upwards golden brown eyes ,  blush pink nail polish on both fingernails and toenails and a pair of large white wings on her back as well came into his room and asked him sweetly: " my dear twin brother what is happening to you and you have melancholy? Tell me and I will help you".

Pancrazio answered her: " I am so happy that you are always here for me my dear twin sister . Today I met a stunning human girl and we started developing a romantic relationship . I want to see her again even if it will be the last time that I will be with her".

Lucia heard it and responded to him with a smile on her face and hugging him tenderly: "don't worry about this. I am sure that you will see her many times again".

He took courage by listening to his twin sister telling this to him and he decided to go to the earth the next day to see his beloved Nausicaä again and spend time with her.

To be continued...

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Wips on Wedsdays

He kiddos, it's actually my Wednesday so imma post a few wips. tagging @thequeenofthewinter @archangelsunited @kookaburra1701 @rhiannon1199 @viss-and-pinegar @saltymaplesyrup @rainpebble3 @throughtrialbyfire @rosette-dragonborn @mareenavee @snippetsrus @snowy-weather No pressure, this is all just for funs <3

We got art and a smidgen of writing:

Starting with a close-up of the tat details in the render I'm working on. This redo that isn't purely a redo is coming along well. Just gotta add three more tattoos and alllllllll of his scars. Full art and a writing snippet under the cut.

IDK I think it's going well so far ;) and a snippet from Sleepers Awake chapter 7

Teldryn hated tombs. He hated tombs, the undead, the fucking bleached ash that covered the floor after centuries of recycling the same old fucking urns! He hated the way the tombs would wind like a maze. These halls had turned him around to the point of utter confusion! Teldryn hated having to enter the halls of the Dunmeri dead. It creeped him out, to put it bluntly. He had complained about this assignment, of course. It was the last thing he expected when Cosades sent him to go meet with a Blades informant who studied over at the Balmora Mages Guild. The old sugar-tooth had been vague about what this might entail. Just telling him that the notes he got from his last mission weren’t fucking enough and he had to go bother some mage about a fucking myth! The Nerevarine, how fucking ridiculous! The expectation with these missions seemed to be something along the lines of ‘a favour for a favour’ and the mage he’d been sent to, an orc named Sham gra-Muzgob was asking one hell of a fucking favour! She was after the skull of some poor sod named Llevule Andrano. That meant he had to break into the Andrano Ancestral Tomb out on the Bitter Coast. Shit was pretty much a one-way ticket to an execution if he was caught. When he’d mentioned that, the woman merely replied- “Then don’t upset the natives when you do it.” Cosades had said this would be a ‘silly little errand’. How the fuck is desecrating the remains of a member of a fucking hugely influential family in House Redoran a silly little errand? Then there was the justification gra-Muzgob gave him for all of this shit. Something about his people’s death practices being primitive, superstitious nonsense. Teldryn had held his tongue as best as he could. The last thing he wanted was to be thrown in fucking Fort Moonmoth again. The shit they did there…he was glad they’d only pulled out his toenails. Teldryn sucked in a deep breath, trying his best to calm his nerves as he stepped into what he hoped was the chamber that this skull was being kept in. “Look for the one with the ritual markings,” he murmured under his breath as he pulled down the old, silk scarf he’d taken from Suran. A keepsake he allowed himself amongst the things of his that his mother managed to save after his grandfather had thrown most of his belongings into the fire. Llaro had really tried to erase his existence entirely. He wanted to shake the hand of the guy who killed the miserable old cunt! Teldryn tapped his fingers on the rough chitin of his pauldron as her scanned the small, sand-coloured room. Carved into the earth thousands of years ago, the clay walls were smooth and rounded around the edges. His eyes fell on what looked like a small altar at the lip of a pool of ashes. An enchanted chitin dagger and a skull with something carved into its forehead, Daedric runes by the looks of it. Red pigment coloured the thin grooves in the bone. It made him shudder as he knelt down by the altar and stared into Llevule Andrano’s hollow eye sockets. He wondered if he should say something before he went and just took the thing. He knew that there was some sermon that one would recite when they visited the dead. Something that eased the ancestor’s spirit of some shit like that. He had never actually listened to what was said in those sermons. Never listened to the shit spoken by the temple priests either. Honestly, he found it boring, preferring instead to disappear into his own head whenever they started to rattle on. Shit was way more entertaining…until his mind became the enemy of course. He longed for that simplicity. Shit was folly. Teldryn wracked his brain for something appropriate to say. Sure, he might not have cared much for the Tribunal’s teachings as a kid but fuck if he wasn’t bitterly fucking aware of how wrong this all seemed. Teldryn sighed as he took the skull into his shaking hands, opting to mutter a simple “Sorry,” to the spirit before he pulled his scarf from around his neck and wrapped the skull in it before he carefully placed it into his pack.

[aparticularbandit]

Sandcastles in the Sand

Summary: Junko takees Mikan to the beach!

For DR WLWeek 2024: Prompt One: Your OTP.

Rating: T.

AO3

“What are you doing?”

“Um!”  Mikan looks up to see her girlfriend the Ultimate Fashionista standing over her, one hand shielding her stormy blue eyes from the glare of the sun.  “I….”  She glances down to her hands and the molded mismatch of sandy shapes between them.  Sand coats her fingers, stuck beneath her shorn nails, but she doesn’t mind.  She’d needed those bits of nail to dig grooves along her creation.  “Making a sandcastle.”

“Don’t you want to swim?  The ocean’s right there.”  Junko thrusts a hand out and gestures wildly towards it.

Mikan can’t see the motion, can only see the shadows Junko’s movements cast against the sand, since she’s avoiding looking at her, knowing that she’ll only see disappointment or annoyance on her girlfriend’s the Fashionista’s face.  “I…I can’t,” she forces out, face flushing a brilliant red.

“Huh?”  Junko bends down lower and cocks her head to one side.  “What did you say?  You gotta speak up, or I won’t—”

“I can’t swim!” Mikan squeaks out, shrill as steam bursting through a tea kettle’s spout.  Her hands clench into fists and instinctively come up in front of her chest as she hunches forward, prepared for a smack on the back of her head.  “I-I-I’m s-s-sorry!”

Mikan waits for Junko to say something, but she doesn’t say anything.  What’s worse is that she doesn’t do anything either, like she’s frozen by what Mikan’s said.  Sweat trickles down Mikan’s back.  “I-I-I’m sorry!” she repeats in that same squeaking tone.  “I know you…you planned this great…this great—”  (Date.)  “—outing, and I!  I didn’t want to!  Didn’t want to s-s-say anything!  You were so…so e-e-excited, a-a-and I didn’t…didn’t want to—”

Junko plops down in the sand next to her, bare legs splayed out on either side, her toes just touching Mikan’s, manicured toenails bright red against the golden beige of the sand.  “So we’re making sandcastles, then.  You wanna make one big castle, or can we, like, make an entire village?”

Mikan blinks twice and looks up hesitantly to meet Junko’s eyes.  “Wha-wha-huh?”

“If we make an entire village, then we can pretend to be dragons or giants or something and smash through all of them later!”  Junko’s eyes light up, and a huge grin splashes across her face.

“Um!”  Mikan’s fingers begin to tap together, and she drops her gaze, unable to keep looking at the light in Junko’s eyes.  “Y-y-you’re not…you’re not mad at me?”

Junko shakes her head so quick that her twintails slap back and forth on her face.  “Nope!”  Then she reaches over and takes Mikan’s hand in hers, interlacing their fingers before giving her a gentle squeeze.  “I love making sandcastles.  It’s my favorite thing to do at the beach!”  She leans forward, so close that Mikan can feel her breath hot on her face.  “How did you know?”

“I-I-I—”

She’s playing with her.  Probably.  No one asks their girlfriend friend someone out to spend a day at the beach and then expects to just sit in the sand all day making sandcastles.  They ask them to the beach to go play in the ocean!  (And, if it’s a large enough group, to play sand volleyball.)  Sure, there’s a lot more to do at the beach than swimming in the ocean – sandcastles, of course, and sunbathing and people watching (which Mikan has done frequently on beach trips, when everyone else goes swimming – or because no one else really wants her around) and collecting seashells, but….

Mikan turns away from Junko, takes her hand away from her girlfriend’s the Fashionista’s, and clasps her hands together in her lap.  “You really…really don’t mind?”  She presses her lips together again.  “Th-th-that I don’t….”  Her voice trails off, and her gaze falls again.

“I mean, not going to lie, it kind of sucks because it’s fucking hot out here, and the ocean’s the best fucking way to cool off.”  Junko grabs her ankles and leans back, tilting her head to look up at the bright blue sky.  “But.”  She glances over to Mikan and grins, one of her canines just poking out over her lips.  “I still get to see you in a swimsuit,” she says, reaching over and running a finger up Mikan’s waist, “so I can forgive your little…indiscretion.”

As Junko brushes her finger ice cold along Mikan’s skin, Mikan flinches.  “S-s-sorry,” she whispers, gaze lifting just enough to take in Junko and what she’s wearing.  Junko’s swimsuit leaves little to the imagination, nothing more than strings in most places, perfectly fitting of the Ultimate Fashionista.  They should take pictures of her like this (they probably already have); they should make sand sculptures in her honor and place them in museums so that future generations can—

“Mikan,” Junko murmurs, reaching up and gently lifting Mikan’s chin, “my eyes are up here.”

“S-s-sorry—”  Mikan barely squeaks the word out, until she notices that Junko has lifted her gaze so that it falls on her lips, not on her eyes.  She swallows.  “J-J-Junko-sama…?”

“Hm?” Junko purrs.

Mikan’s gaze flits up to meet her girlfriend’s eyes and then back down.  She licks her lips.  “M-m-may…may I…?”

“Always.”  But as Mikan leans towards her, Junko holds up a finger and places it on her lips, brow furrowing.  “But if you ask if you should take your clothes off while we’re in public, we’re gonna have a problem, because that’s kind of nasty.  I love a good fucking sicko, but—”

Mikan kisses her fingertip.

“—not in public.”  Junko leans forward and brushes her nose against Mikan’s.  “Okay?”

Mikan kisses her and hums as she feels Junko smile against her lips.  This is the best part of being together – being able to do things like this.  She nearly pouts when Junko pulls away from her, although that expression disappears in her fear that Junko will be displeased with her.

“Sandcastles,” Junko murmurs against her lips.  “We were going to make sandcastles.”  She taps the top of the building Mikan was crafting when we found her.  “And we’re going to put a little you and a little me right here at the top of the biggest one.”

“I-I-I thought you said we were going to…going to destroy them—”

“Well, sure.”  Junko flashes her a grin.  “World’s not big enough for two of me, even if one of them’s in miniature!”  She brushes a kiss against Mikan’s cheek before whispering in her ear, “You’d probably love multiple of me, though, huh?  Two of me to pay you such good attention—”

“N-n-no!” Mikan says in a near panic, eyes wide as she draws back from Junko.  “I j-j-just…I just want you, Junko-sama!  Just you.”  Her gaze drops.  “There can’t…there can’t ever be another you.”

Junko runs her fingers through Mikan��s hair and brushes it back behind one ear.  “Sure there can,” she murmurs, “but it’s nice to hear you say that.”  Then she grins again and digs her fists into the sand.  “Let’s build!  I’m sure you won’t believe this, but I’m fantastic at building sandcastles!”

(She’s fantastic at destroying them, too, but Mikan doesn’t learn that until later, when they’re dancing barefoot in the sand, just before Junko drags her to the open waves to rinse off their feet.)

[missamyrisa2]

How would you tickle a silly boy who loves being heavily verbally teased the whole time and is veeeeery very ticklish between the toes? Absolute death spot but loves it

Maybe it's not what you have in mind but a cute boy with ticklish toes susceptible to teases? It's summerrrrr~ and you neeeed to be buried in the sand yes you doooo~ because with your adorable little toes sticking out I can just relax and flip my hair aside and tease and cooooo at your wiggly helplessness ~ particularly as anyone who walks by gets to enjoy our little fun. Mmhmmhmmmm just inspecting these toesies and soles with my fingers gliding up each wrinkle and my thumbs rubbing under them toes~

Ooh yes scrunch and crunch your toes darling, I'm sure you'll break freeee but if you can't I'm afraid we'll just seeee how many feathers I can set up between each toe. Coochie cooo giggle boy, here's the first one, going between your big toe and index toe. Yesss, glide that feather innnn and now the next oneee mhmmm tickle tickle. Ticklish toes. Good thing we're here with an unlimited supply of feathers huh? All these feathers? Tickle tickle? Right between the next toes and oooh the little toes get a liiiitle feather! Now don't moooove don't you dare drop one of those feathersss! I'll just tickle you more~

I'll tickle you more yes I will. You're a cute sassy teasyyy boy walking around with those toes. Who said you could have them ticklish cute toes huh? You know what I do with teasyyy boys like youuu? I make you sing ~ I make you squirm and I make you screeeam! Nowww your other fooot is gonna get something special mmhmm. No offense to the right, but the left foot is my faviee probably because I'm a lefty. And oooh did you notice my braid? My loooong blondish braid. I'm kind of a dirty blonde but don't call me dirtyyyy and it gets sooo golden in the summer and the best part of a braid is the little tip~!

You seee you twine the hair like rope and at the end, right past this fuzzyyy tie, is the braid tip. And oooh! Look what happens when I dip it in water. Now I can twistttt it up like soooo and ahhh yesss a perfect built in tickle toooool. A softtt feathery spike I can draw over allll your wrinkly solesss. Does that tickle? does it tickle tickle my darling boyyy? Coochie cooooo cutie pie, laugh it uppp because we're not stoooopping. Ooh I think people are getting jealous that I get to tickle you ~ I've got you alll to myself mhmmm tickle mama has you boy and she's not letting you gooo noooo~

And now we take this braid and weave it throughhhh your toes. Over ~ under ~ over ~ and you guessed itttt, under! Ahh yes my soft hair betweeeen the toess and now I can use the tip to stroke and poke and play with your cute toes. And that fine tip is sooo perfect to get that rare tickle spot right at the edge of your toenails. Mmhmm no one expects that spottt but I knowww about it! Ticklish toes! Ticklish toenails! Silly boy. You just can't not laugh can ya? Can ya? You're a messsss darling ~!

Alright, let's make you sing. Let's see what you can do for this crowd. We'll take the braid out, take out the feathers and now it's thumbs. Allll thumbs for you babydoll, rubbing endlessly under your toessss ~ the breeze and little bits of sand reallly get you that tickly texture huh? Nope nope nope not stopppinggg nott stoppping ~ I'm your tickle bully now and we're not quitting until ticklemama is satisfied. Coochie coochie coooo!! Over and over we goooo you can scrunch and wiggle alllll youuuu like I'll just tickle you more! I'll tickle you moreeee! Ha ha ha ha~ you're buried and I'm not you silly boyyyy you're getting tickled and I'm notttt ~ how does that feeeel? Making such squeaky silly sounds alll from a little girly tickling on your toesssss~

You just wait until I tunnel to that tummyyyyy and get your face toooo ~ we'll seee exactly how giggly of a silly boy you are~!

[swiftlyfallingforthemoon]

Diogenes absurdism versus Kafka depression who wins

In true autistic Virgo fashion, I took this question way too seriously. No surprises here. My first instinct was to say “Diogenes, duh” but I had no explanation. Just pure gut feeling. And that just can’t be. So, of course, I had to do some research. Truth is, prior to today I did not know a whole lot about Kafka. I know way too much now. I may relate to him a bit too much. I don’t enjoy this new knowledge. I did also kind of overthink the phrasing of your question. A lot.

My imagined scenario is this: Diogenes and Kafka in the same room in a heated debate. Who wins? Who throws the first punch? Who ends up crying?

A socialist and an anarchist walk into a bar. There’s a joke somewhere in here.

After hours in the Wikipedia rabbit-hole, and four pages of chaotic notes, given everything I now (unfortunately?) know?

Kafka stares into the absurdity of life and collapses under it. He spirals. He intellectualizes. He writes a 20-page letter to his dad and then begs his friend to burn it. (His whole life’s work just screams ‘daddy issues’) He’s constantly asking, “What does it mean?” and also “Is it my fault?” (He probably comes to the result that, yes it is­—even if it’s probably not) He’s brilliant, but deeply, chronically unwell. Depression, social anxiety, imposter syndrome, and an interest in sadomasochism and torture that I can’t for the life of me figure out whether it’s a sexual thing of if he just believes he deserves torture. Back to the daddy issues. You know what? Now that I’m writing it down… it’s both.

Diogenes sees the same absurdity and just goes, “Lmao ok,” strips naked, and takes a nap in a barrel. He doesn’t wrestle with meaning—he spits on the entire concept. He’s shameless, unbothered, and powered entirely by lentils and spite. You can’t win an argument with someone who refuses to acknowledge the argument even exists. ‘Oh, the weight of social norms and capitalistic structures are crushing you? You should try masturbating in public more often.’

Kafka brings nuance. Diogenes brings chaos. Kafka explains the tragedy of alienation. Diogenes pees on your shoes and calls it performance art. One is drowning in the system. The other is doing cannonballs in it. Kafka thinks he is never enough. Diogenes thinks that want itself brings misery. In Kafka’s case, he definitely has a point.

Neither would throw a punch. Diogenes would eat a raw onion, never dropping eye contact with Kafka. Kafka would apologize for taking up too much space in the room that’s slowly filling with the stench of a man who lives in a barrel.

Kafka would die of second-hand embarrassment while Diogenes survives by eating his own toenails (or Kafka’s corpse—I just learned he was pro cannibalism?) and declaring himself the greatest philosopher of all time.

Kafka cries. I spiral. Diogenes walks out unphased to roll around naked in hot sand, insulting a king on his way there. Everyone goes home confused. 

So yeah. Diogenes wins. Duh. 

[adore-laur]

SUMMERBOY

— a summery southpaw flashback🍦

——

JUNE, 1987

Cocoa Beach was where Harry first laid eyes on the prettiest girl he had ever seen. 

On a sunny day by the ocean, he admired her through the flimsy mesh of the volleyball net during a recreational game of girls versus boys. Her painted toenails stood before the serving line that had been drawn by gliding a piece of driftwood through the scorching sand. She wore a clementine-colored bikini while her golden hair fell over the straps in majestic waves. She was so ethereal, with the sun shining down on her and accentuating the natural beauty she lavishly possessed. 

She managed an effortless topspin serve, the smack of her palm against the leather ball in perfect time with the start of a song about emotions in motion coming from a nearby boombox. 

As for Harry, his emotions were thoroughly in motion. 

A dollface like hers was rare. With tan, satiny skin, dark brown eyes, and plump lips of absolute perfection, her features caused his stomach to erupt with summertime butterflies. Thankfully, the sunglasses he had on hid his blatant ogling. He didn't even know her name or where she was from, but he had a strangely intense feeling that told him he was meant to find out. 

Thwack! 

Without warning, the volleyball hit Harry square in the forehead. His sunglasses flew off as his ass fell backward onto the sand. His vision blackened around the edges while his brain experienced a high-magnitude earthquake. 

"I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" 

His ears rang, yet he could barely make out a soft voice laced with concern. Some of his friends crowded around him, yet one person nudged their way through, like how the sun gloriously peeked past the clouds that morning. 

Oh, it was the girl he'd been admiring. How terribly embarrassing. 

"Y-yeah," Harry stuttered. He rubbed his pounding temples and blinked fast to clear his blurry sight. "All good. You have a powerful serve." 

Doe-like eyes stared at him apprehensively. "Do you feel dizzy? Should I call an ambulance? Is the sun too bright for you?"

"No," he replied, laughing. "I'm sure I'll just have a bruise. No need to worry." 

She crouched and moved her dainty pointer finger back and forth in front of his face. He followed it, mesmerized. After repeating the motion a few times, she said, "Okay, your eyes seem to be focused." 

He bit back a smirk. "I'm glad they are." 

"What's your name?" she asked, ignoring his charm.

"Harry Styles." He gave her his best dimpled smile. "What's yours?" 

Gently touching the bump forming on his forehead, she continued, "And how old are you?" 

"Nineteen." He would have been lying if he had said his skin wasn't on fire, with heat blooming everywhere. "What's your name?" he repeated.

She pursed her pretty lips in thought. "What day is it today?" 

Harry quickly realized she wasn't trying to get to know him—she was conducting a memory loss test. "Uh... Sunday," he answered defeatedly, his ego deflating a little. A lot, actually. 

"Well done." She dusted off her sandy legs and stood up. "I don't think you have a concussion. Just some slight swelling." 

"Thank you, nurse." 

She narrowed her eyes and sassily put a hand on her hip. "However, you need to stay hydrated. Here, let me grab my orange juice." 

"Your orange—" His dream girl was off and running under the volleyball net before he could speak any further. Wiping sweat from his hairline, Harry waited patiently while grooving along to the rock music playing from a group of teenagers' boombox farther down the beach strip.

When she returned, his body delightfully shuddered at how her skin seemed to glow under the summer sky. Thrusting forward a clear bottle of orange juice, she said, "My name is Sawyer Clemente, by the way." 

Sawyer. Such a unique name for someone who felt so familiar to him. He wouldn't have minded if those two syllables rolled off his tongue for eternity. 

"Thank you, Sawyer," he chirped, taking the ice-cold bottle from her. He held it up to his parched mouth, but right before he took a swig, he asked, "Pulp or no pulp?" 

"No pulp," she said, tapping her acrylic nails against her arm. "I'm not a psychopath." 

His head lulled back as he smiled lazily. "Whoa, am I hallucinating? I think you're perfect for me." 

She snorted, unimpressed, yet a pink flush colored her cheeks. "Are you seriously flirting with me?" 

"Dunno. Do you want me to be?”

"Not really. I have a boyfriend." 

Harry swore under his breath. "Is he nice to you?" 

"Yes, he is." Sawyer glanced around and furrowed her eyebrows when she spotted her friends abandoning the game and congregating near the water. "Well, I'm going to get ice cream now. I’m truly sorry about hitting your head." 

He should have been thanking her since he didn't know if he would have been able to find the courage to talk to her otherwise. Typically, he could walk up to anyone and strike up a conversation, but something about her made him the good kind of anxious.

"Are you up for a game of 1v1 volleyball?" Harry asked abruptly, hoping he could suggest a way to spend more time with her without sounding like a desperate loser. 

"No, thank you," she said politely. "Boys play unfairly. Plus, it's hot out, and I need something to cool me down." 

She was off again, like some unreachable enigma he couldn't quite grasp. Her steps were delicate, and her wavy hair bounced with each one. Harry forgot where he was for a second while getting lost in her movements. She was captivatingly magnetic, and it would be a downright shame if he never saw her again.

Blinking out of his trance, he watched her head over to an unoccupied beach umbrella close to the shore with a melting ice cream cone in her hand. Would it be annoying if he walked over there? Possibly. Was he going to do it anyway? Absolutely. 

Harry got up, taking a few seconds to restore his balance, then jogged over while rubbing his forehead to ensure there wasn't a huge bump. That would have been the pinnacle of embarrassment. 

Once he was next to Sawyer, she looked at him unamusedly. "This better be worth it, summerboy." 

He was the one blushing now. "Hello. Hi. Vanilla, right?" 

"It's Sawyer."

Harry swallowed, internally panicking, and scratched the back of his neck. "I meant your ice cream flavor." 

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. How were they able to do that when they were so dark? "Yeah, I know," she said casually. "I was just joking." 

"Oh. Oh, my bad." 

Scrunching her nose, she giggled quietly. "You're funny. I've never met a boy like you." 

"What's a boy like me?" he asked.

"Someone I could be friends with. You backed off when I said I had a boyfriend. That was nice of you." Sawyer licked her ice cream and shrugged nonchalantly. "It's rare for Florida boys to take the hint."

"You'd want to be friends with me?" 

"If you want," she mumbled around a bite of her wafer cone. 

"'Kay. Sick." Harry nudged her elbow with his own. "Let's be friends." 

"Are you in the mood for a friendly game of chicken fight in the water?" 

"Duh. If I win, though, you have to go out to eat with me. Friends need to get to know each other, don't they?"

Sawyer smiled and threw her hair in a ponytail. "Deal." 

——

[wendievergreen]

Hraetnug

I've been reading @maniculum's bestiaryposting to my siblings for a while and now that we've caught up I could not resist the urge to participate! I literally made a tumblr just to post this, maybe I will also use it for other things :O

I'm 99% certain I know what the original animal is, and it was really fun trying to make my beast look as unlike it as possible! I used elements of the dromedary camel (feet, hump, general head shape), leatherback sea turtle (shell, lays eggs in sand), and the Egyptian goose (wings, beak, general coloring). There are seven eggs and stars because the Pleiades are called the seven sisters and they're rainbow because June is pride month. The toenails are pink because why not!

I didn't finish a full drawing last week, but I have some sketches of the Rabyeang I might post if anyone wants to see them :)

EDIT 6/16/24 just realized I spelled the name wrong😭 fixing now

[ramblestimesthree]

5/3/25

Pop psychology has ruined my life! It’s barred its teeth, called me strings of letters that don’t make sense, none of it makes sense. It’s yanked my hair out, one by one, until there’s knots of it in my hands like tiny ropes meant to pull you in from the shore. I hate pop psychology, hate how it’s mislabeled people, is ruining their lives one by one, knot by knot, letter by letter. I have grieved my sense of self too many times, have reversed my memory, gone with those flashing blue lights and video in which I try to find answers. Any answer, any letter, to make sense of this dirty isolation I’ve been participating in. Because that is the root of all evil, those navy blue dawns, that is where I’ve dipped my toes into add have had them burn off. Watching people unravel, watching them be manipulated into false premises and false memories, dreams that were placed there, an invasion of the mind. Place those thoughts in me, give me a reason to think this is anything but the truth because maybe then I’ll feel some relief and that’s all you want for me too. Is this a break up letter? Is this another letter on the chart, another word to be misused? I can’t trust any of it anymore, don’t trust my own toes to not crash into the couch so now I have a black and blue toenail on the edge of falling off completely. Can’t trust my own mind, no longer because I have a bad memory but because too much of it isn’t mine and now I have to grab a shovel and dig deeper to remember the mundane truth of it all. Perfectionism, impulsivity, intrusivity, these aren’t symptoms anymore but rather simply a part of who I am. A part of what I can change. It’s not because I was raped or molested or beat or abused or hurt, it’s because life challenges my ability to achieve and my brain just moves too fast to keep up with. Keep up with me! Move your fingers faster so all the words are thrown out to the wind, the only one who hears.

I showed you my world, showed you all those things, those challenges, that keep me up at night, just to find out that the jaded mountains and ruby skies are of your creation, not from my own two hands. How much is it me and how much is it you, dear therapist. Dear therapist, do you know that I feel fucked over again? Another diplomat, another trusted soul that pleaded the best and gave the worst. I don’t even care if this reaches you because I feel so betrayed and angry, those fabulous emotions I’ve been bribed to feel. Pushed to feel when all I wanted is to be anything but an angry person. I don’t want to grow bitter with age. Yet here we are. Maybe I’m just listening to the wrong voice again, maybe t’s time to call it all quits, but maybe there’s a grain of salt mixed in with all the pepper. Maybe there’s a rock in the sand. Pop psychology has ruined me, ruined this whole generation who identify with it to the point their charts are their autobiographies. Can’t you see there’s more? To me, to you, to the generation lost in the screens between mind and body. To those attention-seeking souls, hoping to find uniqueness in a waiting room. To those insane, to those faking it, to those who love and thrive in the chaos because mommy and daddy occasionally didn’t get along so they decided razor blades were the answer. Because mommy and daddy couldn’t afford swim classes so taking their own life was the only option.

This is bold. This is crazy. But I’m so tired of it all. I don’t belong here. Maybe none of us do. Maybe all we need is a long hug and a cup of hot chocolate on a windy day.