#specimen mounting press

[hsmleindia]

Mounting Press Machine (metallographic specimen mounting press)

Our automatic metallographic specimen mounting press, equipped with in-out water cooling system. These products are expertly developed using top-quality materials & contemporary techniques in accordance with the set norms of the industry. It is suitable for heat mounting thermo hardening & thermoplastic materials. After the parameters such as heating temperature, heat preserving time and applied force etc. are set up, put the mounting material into the machine, close the cover and press the start button, then the machine will finish the job automatically. The operator can change 4 specification patterns according to the difficult specimens. It can make 2 specimens at one time.

[wellenklavier]

auughh i want to do too many things theres not enough hours in the day or dollars in my bank account

[tarjapearce]

Yeah you started a need with the mermaid and dragon. Can we pleaaaaaassseeee get more about like their first time and the pregnancy? I mean must be difficult for a water being to carry a fire being. Guess poor little sirenita was often pretty sick during her pregnancy and needed very cool water to avoid dying from fever their little baby dragon caused her.

🥹🥹 Poor sirenita. A little nsfw under the cut, fluff ❤️

--------------

Despite your need of running and move the way he did with his legs, you still were getting used to baby steps. He'd take your hands and guide you forward, wobbly step after wobbly step soon turned into more firm and steady ones. Until you were prancing around him, giggling and laughinat the fact that you could walk and that finally, you could spend more than a couple of minutes on his lap, caressing and kissing eachother.

-----

Of course he would make the most out of the potion the witch had concocted for him, pretty, supple thighs were always the ones that straddled his hips. And this time the caresses went a bit more physical. He shedded his armor and clothes. Horns protuding from his head that collided against yours.

"I want you" you had mumbled and it was enough for him to peel your stolen cloths away. He savoured every inch of your body with his eyes.

With a fiery breath, he lit up the fire nearby the nest you had for a bed. He had created a hay bed, for your comfort. that was covered with a thick duvet. He was about to take you there when you stopped him and shook your head, you wanted him here. In the spot where you both met.

He'd laid you down gently, careful to not break you, mouth planting kisses in the tender and shivering skin of your neck. His hands caressed your most prominent erogenous zones. Breasts, neck, lower belly and finally, your slit. A little plush of hair on the top, decoring your pubic mount.

His fingers parted your folds gently, and rubbed tiny, slow and lazy circles on your pearly nub. The sounds you made were delicious. He would be your first. Your hips jumped his fingers, trying to earn more friction. It was something stinctive.

He'd kiss and nip at your breast, to then flick his thumb faster, earning more sweet cries, until you came undone. It was a powerful sensation, your senses roared alive, skin crawled and he drowned your sweet coos with his mouth. A clawed hand held you firmly as he slowly pressed in between your folds.

You hiccuped and sobbed at the intrusion. He groaned at your tightness, but remained buried there, feeling the soft twitchs of your insides. He cradled you in his arms, whispering sweet encouraging words.

"You're taking it so well, Princesa." He'd spoke in between soft pants. As much as he'd want to let lose and ravage you, he wanted for you to enjoy, to feel his love filling you up over and over until you were a babbling mess on his arms every night.

------

The nauseous wave that hit you the first time was overwhelming. You had rushed from bed and spilled all the contents behind a rock. Your stomach felt burning, no matter how many times you went for a swim, the feeling didn't go away.

Concern was plastered all over his sharp face as he watched you, curled in the hay bed, holding your lower belly and whimpering out of discomfort.

He'd bring you water. Not salty water, but fresh spring cold water. It made the uncomfortableness to subside temporarily We're you sick? How he could help you? Would he be actually able to help you?

You'd retch away from him whenever he brought you wild berries, or cooked a vegatable stew for you. The only things your stomach actually tolerated were fish and other sea food, either raw or cooked, you'd eat yours and his in one go.

It dawned on him, his fiery temple froze upon the realization. You were pregnant.

How such thing was even possible, he didn't know. He knew many things but the possibilities of mating and creating a new specimen, hybrid between two magical creatures, was something he, even in his thousands of years alive, had ever heard of.

But there you were, plump, scarfing down your food, soon to be swollen with his child.

He was concerned.

What if the creature inside you was actually hurting you? Would you survive giving birth to it? Would he lose you? The last thought made his chest to heave. He summoned the witch.

Jessica. She passed as another villager at one of the distant towns. Only she knew about Miguel's existence. and now, his hideout.

The small cave looked cozy, homey almost. An attempt to make it a bit more of your own happy little world. Her eyes settled on you, pity crossing her gorgeous features.

"I understand your pain, dear." She had mumbled as you cried, feeling suffocated.

"Sometimes is too much. Too hot. I c-can't" She wiped your eyes and put the tears into a small container."

"I want her pain to go away." Miguel grumbled and Jessica shook her head.

"It is not that simple. She is a water being, Miguel. And you are fire itself. It's fascinating. But dangerous. She is weakened."

"What do you need?"

"Your blood and her bile. It would take some days to prepare a potion to soothe her sickness, but It'll help her to be more comfortable. This is new to her body."

One of the main reasons Miguel trusted Jessica, was her honor and honesty . She never lied and always explained what to do. But mostly of all, she had already been a mother.

"I will be back within two days. In the meantime, keep her away from everything that revolts her stomach. She needs to keep her strength and bathe her in that pond."

"It's dangerous to go out."

"Unless you actually know how to create a small pond for her within this fortress, I'd suggest you to take her at dawn. Since she is now part human, her body is in dire need of water. Sweet sort of water." , She picked up the samples and disappeared into thin air.

--------

He'd feed you the spiced potion Jessica had gotten him, every time you felt in the brink of breaking. But eventually the most dangerous first three months had passed. You'd still scarfed his food down, something he'd find endearing. And of course that wouldn't stop you from mating, Your scent had changed to him into something more addicting.

The urge to protect you only strengthened, He'd rub small circles on your aching muscles. His temperature felt incredibly delicious to soothe the pain that remained in your lower spine. He didn't know how heavy it was for you, but seeing you support on the walls and waddling over to him, only made his heart to bloom with a feeling he thought long forgotten.

A child like wonder took over him. What would the baby be like? A bit of both for sure.

The day came, and against Jessica's laughing at his distress, she helped you to give birth. A human looking child. A girl. Black and silky curls perched on her tiny head, skin matched his. her nose was definitely yours. You cried as you held her, adoration in your eyes.

She was yours and you both were his.

[nilsavatar]

DAY 9 - ACCIDENTAL STIMULATION

Parings: Rotxo x Fem!human

Genre/Warnings: NSFW/MDNI +18, no use of Y/N, SMUT, accidental stimulation, rubbing, fingering, sexual tension, olfactophilia (Rotxo turns on by smelling arousal) praising (baby boy/pretty boy/good boy), Aubree (reader) is slightly older, cursing, edging, sub-Rotxo, size difference. All characters are AGED-UP.

Summary: the research for an octopus-like species turns into a totally different search.

@acts-of-pastel you mentioned you wished for a Rotxo x human. I hope I have met your expectations☺️

Word Count: 3k

Masterlist - Request a fic

The ilu were funny. Prankster, playful creatures, and very affectionate, even with the few humans in Metkayina territory. They reminded her of dolphins in the way they behaved. In fact, just like dolphins, they had established a bond of friendship with the people of the reef.

However, Aubree had overlooked one crucial detail: the sticky skin.

The Ph.D. student had stood on the back of a Pandora animal before, but they had always been land creatures. So, her small size was inconsequential as long as she could grip tightly. The problem with the ilu lay precisely in that. No matter how much strength she put into her legs, she promptly slipped off the back of the mount. Did she press a little with her right knee? That’s when the left would lose its grip and her weight would unbalance until she fell into the water. Ditto if she did the opposite. Squeezing simultaneously with both was out of the question; she didn’t have long enough legs.

The only solution was to ride with an expert, and fortunately for her, Rotxo had been generous enough to offer to carry her himself. She could not have taken Ao’nung’s constant shenanigans. The woman was here to work, not to be ridiculed.

So here they were, on the beach, the salty smell of the ocean filling the air. Rotxo, already astride his ilu, gently extended a hand to her, while Aubree stared skeptically at the animal, wondering which way to mount.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated to her for the millionth time, his kind lips not losing their friendly smile for a second.

That boy was far too good and patient. An angel. The exact opposite of his best friend, she thought and wondered how on earth those two got along. She, in his place, would have gladly pulled off that annoying smirk with which he strutted around.

Really unbearable.

However, her thoughts were not consumed by her bitterness towards the future olo'eyktan. She had a mission: to take a sample of sagittaria ink.

Skuka, the local name for these 1.2 m nautilus-like creatures, had traits similar to terrestrial mollusks, octopuses, squids, and grinders. An incredibly unique species among the aquatic creatures cataloged on Pandora, but one about which very little was yet known because of its shy nature and the ease with which it camouflaged itself among corals and reef bottoms. Despite its bright purple hue, the skilled cephalopod expertly altered its color.

The similarities between Earth and Pandora were nearly overwhelming, despite their existence in separate systems. The universe was not meant to host life. To find it in its vastness, to receive confirmation that we were not the only ones, was a rarity; an exception that confirmed the rule. Yet, encountering the identical elements duplicated, albeit in a chaotic manner and frequently in colossal proportions to meet the tastes of a feeble human within an alternate ecosystem? It was awe-inspiring, a virtual impossibility.

Pandora's name had become synonymous with achieving the unachievable.

Sagittaria proved incredibly elusive, resulting in a scarcity of publications about it; near to zero. All that was known was the extraordinary special ability to oxygenate not only seawater, but also freshwater. However, just recently, Aubree had set eyes on it for the first time, on an unfortunate specimen caught by reef fishermen, inevitably ending up on the communal dinner menu. While cleaning, the woman noticed a black pouch that they saved to use as a condiment.

The animal’s defensive ink. 

This gave her an idea. If she could analyze the fluid secreted by a live specimen, they could find the answers they were looking for about this curious creature. By chance, the fisherman who had caught the previous octopus was none other than Rotxo, leading her to approach the young diver.

“We gotta go skuka hunting if you're still up for it. We don't have forever,” he said with a slight insistence, dirtying his voice. Her hesitation was making him lose his patience. And the man’s patience was infinite.

Aubree checked one last time that her scuba gear was working and, with a heavy sigh, approached Rotxo, who wasted no further time in lifting her by weight, putting her in the saddle, and anchoring her to his chest with one hand so large that it practically covered her entire abdomen; his thumb pressing on her sternum, placing it right in the middle of her breasts.

Rotxo’s nose curled, tasting a strange note in the air. His mind drew a blank, yet the familiarity was indescribable. It had the sweetness of a ripe fruit, with a touch of spiciness that intoxicated him and caused him to search for the source. He probed carefully. In Aubree's perspective, he appeared to be investigating the absence of predators, unaware of the information her body was betraying.

The completely accidental and unexpected gesture sent a bolt of electricity coursing through her entire body. Like a lightning splitting a tree in two. A thunderbolt that had started where his index finger had pressed on her left nipple (right at the level of her heart, now threatening to explode in her chest) and had ended in the deepest part of her belly. Here an immense heat had sprung up, she was sure had reached her cheeks as well. She never believed that the day would come when she would give thanks for wearing the full mask of the eco-pack over her face. Suddenly, she no longer felt the visceral chill of the ocean penetrate her bones. How could she when all her senses were exclusively focused on the huge man behind her?

When a stronger breath of wind hit them, a whiff of that smell hit him again, along with a scent he knew well.

The scientist’s sugar shampoo.

He had been groping her boob until that moment and, like an idiot, had not even acknowledged it.

With a sudden realization, his orbits split apart, revealing the shock on his face. What he had perceived were her subtle pheromones, barely discernable to most, but not to him. Aubree was ... aroused? For him? Right now, out of all the times. Why? Wasn’t it abominable for human to feel attraction to an alien? Perhaps she was into big stuff.

Great Mother, Rotxo, what the hell are you thinking?

It was a misunderstanding. It had to be. It didn’t make sense. And finally he noticed. Recorded the soft roundness under his palm and that he had held the whole way.

It will surely be embarrassment. He judged the trail of pheromones, not finding the courage to believe there really was more to it.

Not to upset her further, Rotxo slid his hand further to her side and pushed back a little, but this only caused the woman to slip back by the force of gravity, landing precisely on his lower abdomen.

Holding back from moaning was impossible; the parting line in Aubree’s bottom fit his growing erection wonderfully.

The woman was about to apologise by pushing further forward on the ilu’s back when a tight, burning grip on her side silenced her.

“Do not move.” The depth of his voice made her head spin, as if she were about to faint, a soft ringing filling her ears. She wasn’t sure of her voice when shakily she called out to him. 

“Do not talk. Just—,” he exhaled a heavy breath, his voice equally uncertain, “Just do nothing.”

With both palms, he smeared the human on himself — the action already tremendous for his willpower, as all her weight pressed deliciously against his lower abdomen —, then lowered his face to her head, until he buried his nose in her hair. He sniffed her like a cat examines a salmon mousse. Ravenous.

But that wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He needed more.

With trembling fingers, the diver found the zip of her wetsuit and tugged it as far as he could. She shivered, her back suddenly exposed to the cold, but she did not have time to register it, for her body was already in the grip of another kind of shiver. More intense and visceral, which went hand in hand with the hot puffs that escaped from the Na’vi’s nostrils as he explored her bare epidermis. As he did so, he glued her even more tightly to himself and her beautiful ass hit him again, now irrefutably erect, and Aubree missed a beat. Her head grew lighter and lighter, her body more and more uncontrollable. Rotxo’s moans went hand in hand with the dance of her hips.

Rotxo made her feel the outline of his canines on one shoulder, while his hand slid along the outline of her intimacy until he found her swollen clit. Sensitive and erect. She let out a whine. She felt him smile as he rubbed the thick, tight fabric, giving her a pleasant but insufficient friction.

Unsatisfied, Aubree levered the animal’s back to give herself a harder push backwards that made him blow something incomprehensible. His hand crept inside her wetsuit, happily surprised to discover her completely unclothed underneath as he pinched at her nipple, glancing up to catch the moan leaving her plump lips. 

So that’s what she liked. Sweet, filthy little thing.

Satisfied, her back immediately arched and his hands planted themselves on the one remaining on her pelvis. He smiled around her, thrilled to be right. She pushed her ass against him and he groaned, his cock stiffening more than it already was. Fuck, at this rate, he would probably cum through the loincloth, untouched, but he restrained himself. 

“Rotxo,” you mewled. A shiver snaked down his spine at the sound and couldn’t hold back another groan that made the girl look up at him with a racing heart. “Feels good,” she bit into her lip, thighs pressed together.

After more lapses, tugging at her nipple and a playful bite at her shoulder, he approached her face. His gaze fell on her lips, a little reddened and covered with her own saliva. Swollen, eager. 

Fucking mask. 

The other hand quickly found its way to her womanhood, leaning into her as he let her guide him.

He passed her clitoris, teased her fleshy folds and insinuated a fingertip towards the deepest part of her pussy, finding it already magnificently wet and wide. He wore the sensitive ring that tightened around his finger, as if it eagerly sought to trap him, causing a sigh louder than the rest. An unequivocal invitation that he was damned if he was going to refuse it. He pushed the first phalanx lazily to stretch her walls, helping them adjust to a size she had never experienced before. Then he reached for the knuckle and finally found himself sucked in whole. Each millimetre covered corresponded to a higher-pitched cry until Aubree became a whimpering mess.

He couldn’t help wondering how she would act when it was his cock’s turn to sink into her. She would be unconsciously transfixed on him. A dark laugh echoed in his windpipe at the mere thought.

“Put another one in.”

It took him a couple of seconds to register that she had spoken. “What?”

“Put a-another finger.”

“Do it, baby boy.”

“Syulang (flower), I don’t want to hurt you.” He actually wanted to, to be honest. If he hadn’t risked dismembering her, he would have shed his tewng (loincloth) and her diving suit long ago, and slammed her on his cock. But he had to constrain himself, prepare her properly. She was just a little human. Beautiful and fragile, like a crystal.

Shit, that pet name was all he needed to make his knees go soft. He could do nothing but succumb. With no little effort, a second finger took its place next to the first. The burning that pervaded her was almost unbearable, intense, yet addicting. Her mouth was dry because of time she remained wide open in a scream of both pain and pleasure. Small tears formed at the corners of her eyes.

“Right there!” The sweetness of her voice stimulated his excitement even more because every time she made a sound, a fresh wave of her perfume blanketed him. It was exhilarating.

He couldn’t help but let himself get a little cocky, smirking to himself, running his tongue over his lower lip. The obscene sounds coming from her cunt should have mortified her, but nothing of the sort came to mind as she felt her release coming up and teasing the surface. 

She tried to hide her loud moans by biting her lip until it bled, but watching his hand disappeared into her scuba wetsuit, his fingers pumped into her and his thumb twirled over her sweet clit made her head spin. Doing it in the middle of the ocean made the action even more naughty, wild. He was driving her crazy. She couldn’t recall ever being touched so sublimely. 

Sooner than she had expected, Aubree’s thighs trembled from the aftershock, trying to come down from the climax. She lay back on his chest and gasped, trying to catch her breath.  She stared at the sunny sky for a moment, her mind baffled by what had just happened. 

When she finally composed herself, she rose again to stare at him. Her eyes flashed with mischief. She licked her lower lip with excruciating slowness before biting it, giggling. “My turn.” She was still smiling, little smile lines at the corners of her lips and eyes, when she anchored herself to the saddle for support and began to languidly rub her ass against his covered shaft.

His cock was so big and heavy, she could feel it even through the fabric. Hard and throbbing. He let out a broken moan, staring at her with hooded eyes. Even without a skin-to-skin touch, it was absolutely incredible; the material gave that extra friction that made him fall into a spiral, and for a moment he considered not taking off his tewng at all.

As she approached the point where Rotxo needed her most, she moved her hands to support her pelvis. She imagined having him inside her. Ripping into her spongy walls in a deliciously painful way, before fucking her stupid. He was so big that she would surely cum several times in a row.

“Please don't stop.” 

Who would’ve guessed he was the begging type? Aubree smiled devilishly, giving herself a more mighty momentum, only for him to throw his head back.

“Relax, pretty boy.” He was struggling to hold it together. Just having her ass on him was enough. He couldn’t even imagine what her mouth would feel like. Him hitting the back of her throat, filling it with so many streams of seed, making her swallow every single drop of it. Fuck, and your pussy. Just at the idea, pre-cum dripped to patch the cloth.

She stooped a little more to change the angle. His aquamarine eyes were fixed on hers and a hand rested on her back to steady her. Or perhaps to keep him grounded. He groaned. She gasped in surprise when Rotxo grabbed her butt, keeping her there.

His dick pulsated. The veins were more evident than before. He was close. “Be a good boy and cum for me.”

“N-no,” he said, eyebrows coming together and lips parting. He looked away from her only to kiss her back, nibbling at the soft skin. 

“I know you need to cum.”

“I’ll do anything you want, but please, not like this. I can’t...” his fingers dug into the flesh of her bottom, moaning louder now.

“Don’t worry, pretty boy. Just let it go.”

His hips stuttered as he stifled a moan, no longer knowing where to put his hands. She rubbed herself against him faster and he gasped, moaning hopelessly, almost choking on his own saliva.

His long, prolonged wailing was because he had shot his sperm entirely into his tewng, like an inexperienced kid. His cock throbbed and twitched as he continued to empty himself, his thighs quivering. He used an arm to cover part of his face as he emitted low whines.

“Don’t make that face. I’ll pull another one out of you.” Her playful smile made him hard again. She was so... so alluring. Charming and seductive. He hadn’t planned to fall into her hands, but there he was. Ensnared by her mesmerizing stare, he couldn't break free. He was left speechless, grappling for something to say. Every fiber of his being yearned for her, an insatiable hunger that could not be denied.

She moved up, leaning forward to stretch a hand between his legs to reach his aching erection, taking its heavy length in her frail hand. He let out a shuddering breath, blinking as he felt her tease the tip of his cock. 

“Strip.” Fuck, he was about to lose it again. 

Her name sounded heavenly coming from his beautiful lips, his eyes already begging her to keep doing what she was doing.

But suddenly Aubree’s gaze changed. Her head snapped to one side toward the seabed, too deep for her to really see it. Yet something had caught her attention.

A purple blur moved sinuously but funny against the current.

The woman’s eyes glittered as she trudged back into her wetsuit.“Rotxo, a sagittaria!”

“What?”

“A skuka!” she sat back down, her back to him, ready to chase after the cephalopod. "Come on, now," she said, her tone laced with impatience.

“But, but…” He was so stunned that he couldn't find his words.

She threw him a wink. We'll finish this up later on. You'll get a sweet reward if you fetch that skuka for me.”

He couldn’t believe that between him and an octopus, Aubree would choose the octopus. A fucking octopus!

But with the tantalizing prospect of being profusely thanked later, he swallowed his huff and commanded the ilu to set off in pursuit of the mollusc. Already anticipating his prize.

Special thanks to @pandoraslxna for the prompt!

[wulvercazz]

More Than Curiosity🌙

previous ShadowAU~ it's all smut from here on tbh, very dubcon-y so mind the tagss💕

cw// terato, entomology/insect killing/mounting mentions, groping

"I know you're there..." Liquid darkness slithers across the floor at his words, indignant... almost relieved. Ichigo isn't entirely sure this isn't another attempt at a nightmare, he's had enough life-like enough dreams to doubt, and yet he wouldn't be surprised if he was, really, fully awake. He has enough proof and experience to know there's something not of this world under his bed. Something he learned not to tell psychiatrists about, if he wants to keep his broken sanity intact. It better be real, his mind provides, when a near three meter high creature takes shape from the pool of shadows at the foot of his bed. Its velvety, fluid, state, taking a more solid, skin-like, look to it the further it incorporates into reality. The thing growls in his face, a guttural, echoing sound reverberating all along its body before it rings through his bones. Ichigo realizes, with a crooked grin, that he feels a similar facination about it as he does when he watches his invertebrate specimens die inside a jar. It twists and moves somewhat unnaturally, a dying carcass returning to a lively shape... It attempts to speak- and all Ichigo can think about is the crude way his dick jolts awake when it opens its mouth full of shadowy teeth. Shadows dripping off its face in inky droplets, only to mix into the darkness of the room like it was water. He wants to take in as much as he can, lest he be dreaming for real; with wide, burning, tired, eyes, he examines every inch of him. He can't remember the last time he ever felt real arousal for anyone, or anything. Girls with issues such as his would often try to throw themselves at him, the creepy aura off him called in those who had fathers they wanted to disappoint in this particular way, he supposed; but, real or fake interest, it was never enough to get him quite like this. Fat and heavy against the soft worn fabric of his underwear; so hard he could faint, and so eager to touch that his fingertips tingled, electrified. If it could speak, Ichigo cut those guttural words short with his curious hands; reaching over to feel the silky black hair and the darkened skin, breathing in deeper when the single touch reverted the things face back to a plain face plate with a pair of confused blue eyes. Hah, so it's not really one to be touched, he supposes. Whatever it is, it's used to hiding so well no one ever knows it's there at all... Dark pride swells in his core just thinking about being the only one, or one of few, to see such an exquisite creature, to touch it's surprisingly soft hair and warm skin... to breath in its ashy scent, and gaze down it's glowing pale eyes. His heart beats so fast he's not sure he won't lose consciousness for real, his breathing fast and ragged as his fingers became a grabby fist and a flat palm; hungrily tracing all it's soot black skin like he owned it. Pulling it's body in close to better look into its eyes press himself to the warmth of its shadowy bits still without shape. "Whatever the fuck you are..." he mutters, losely hoping it will understand, "I'm gonna fuck the hell out of you."

[honey-minded-hivemind]

hi again I hope you can do a yendere mer parents Scott and jean [ animated series ] [ Scott and jean are sirens, beautiful but deadly ] x baby reader and how would they react when they baby gets kidnapped by big game hunters who want to sell reader as a pet,but the hunters become the hunted.

Ohoho, that's good- Let's try it-

• The waters were deceptively calm. The water lapped at the boat, salty and green, while they sky was cloudy and tranquil. Birds cawed lightly overhead, fish swam by in shining schools, the wind smelled of salt and tangy ocean water, not a hint of rain... Yet there was a darkness on the boat, something sinister...

• Held within its bowels was a tank... and in the tank was a small siren pup, not even old enough to leave the nest. Its scales shone brightly, and its small hands were pressed to its face, trying to quiet its cries. And watching from the shadows, smiling cruelly and laughing, were the ones who put them there...

• The two were game hunters, humans who hunted the biggest, baddest, largest animals, and kept them as pets or stuffed them and kept them as trophies. Yet these ones were even worse, as they were poachers as well. They'd caught Reader while their parents were gone, infiltrating their nest and capturing them. Their hands had been rough, their nets biting and tight, their knives sharp and cold- It left Reader a trembling, crying shell, calling out for their parents and pod... And the two hunters were gleeful over having such a rare specimen. They had plans to sell the small siren to the highest bidder, be it a human who wanted a pet or one who wanted a taxidermied siren...

• Yet in the deceptive deep, Reader's parents hadn't forgotten them... No. They had found their nest ransacked, their pup gone, and the ugly scent of human in the wreck... And the two, snarling and crying, started the hunt. They swam for miles, going as fast as they could, not stopping for anything as they tracked their pup. The waters became colder and colder, going from pleasant to lukewarm to freezing. It didn't deter them, though. Their pup needed them, their baby was alone and possibly hurt, and they wouldn't rest until they were in their arms and their assailants dead and rotting...

• Approaching a large, floating vessel, they could smell the scent of siren blood on it, along with the sickly oil and metal that coated it. They could hear the humans above, gloating to each other of their catch, the finest specimen, a siren... They discusses how to keep it alive, or if they preferred, how to stuff and mount it... They didn't notice the two angry, murderous parents listening below, plotting their demise.

• A soft song started, longing and inviting, calling for anyone who could hear it to follow it. It wailed, loud and long, begging them to go to it, to embrace it, to fall in. And the two humans did just that, falling into the freezing waters, and right into the path of the siren pup's parents... It didn't take but a moment for the two to realize their fate, who had caught them- But it only took a moment to cut through their throats, to tear their limbs apart, to drag them under and down and to let them sink to their watery tomb... Their song became more joyous after that, promising safety and love and asking where their young one was, coaxing them to respond. And respond they did...

• Scott was the first to get onto the ship, changing from a siren to human, then helping to pull his mate up, the powerful Jean... They could hear the soft cries of their pup, their baby, echoing in the dark hull, and they ran as fast as they could down into the darkness. The ship stank of blood and death, bones and pelts and stuffed, dead creatures lining the rooms and halls. It didn't take them long to figure out what those humans had planned for their little one... Yet they smiled, all teeth, knowing those two were dead and gone, and that their little one would be safe in their arms soon. It warmed their hearts, making them chirp out for their pup.

• A scared, hopeful chirp came from a locked room, asking parents-mom-dad-help-here? Scott broke the locks, wrenching the metal in two, while Jean knocked the door down, sending dust into the air. The room was dark, only lit up by the lights of the tank... And sitting in the tank, scratched and bruised, was Reader... Jean was swiftly pulling them out, checking them for injuries, while Scotf was kissing their head and stroking their tail, cooing softly. Both parents kept it up, trying to look over Reader and trying to calm them, assuring then they were there now, they were safe, those nasty humans were gone...

• Once they made sure their pup was well enough to travel, they left the dark, stinking ship, sinking it and letting the ocean hide any evidence a pup or the humans who captured them... Swimming in the chilled brine, the two parents sang to each other and to their child, happy and loving and promising nothing would take them ever again. When their baby started to yawn, tired and exhausted, Scott held them while Jean lulled them under, sending them into peaceful dreams, and ensuring they wouldn't wake for the next several hours...

• The two swam for miles, going back home, calling out to their pod and telling them they were moving, to better, safer waters, and that their little one was safe. Their response was loud, joyful cries, the other sirens singing of warmer waters and plentiful food and bloody vengeance, their scales flashing in the darkness and their eyes bright and watchful... And the humans who heard the song shuddered, knowing it was a night of sirens, a night of blood, and any who crossed them would meet their doom at the hands of the Moon's children...

[figurativepieceoftrash]

Avid supporter of avoiding your wips.

Not sure if you have something you specifically want to write but Fiend!Aki has been rotting in my own drafts with no where to go

There were so many ways I could've interpreted this prompt and I'm almost 100% certain I did it wrong but here's an Asa/War spin on the Aki and Gun Devil situation, for, y'know, funsies

Sorry it took so long, I ended up procrastinating on this just like I do my wips, so y'know, obviously this exercise worked out super well :P

Here you go regardless <33

---

Aki doesn’t remember much about the incident.

The sound of gunshots. Scattered screams. A stinging, smokey smell thick in the air, as dense and inescapable as the aftermath of Obon. Cold metal smattered across his taste buds, rife with the selfsame rust-touched exigency as blood.

He’d been dreaming, or so Denji relates from the bedside of a maximum security hospital room. A dream he’s certain he could recall, if he wished to. He doesn’t.

Makima had called him lucky, as she’d studied him with those hypnotic, unblinking eyes. Unharmed, save a few noncommittally lingering scars. 

She’d dragged a slow, lazy finger across the red band of his upper arm, and his heart had raced thrice as swiftly in his chest. Said something about them having to reattach it in the ER, about Denji having done quite the number.

Aki hadn’t heard a thing. He’d been far too busy staring into those eyes. They’d lit something in the back of his brain, a sharp, nagging spark of recognition, persistent and enduring. It was only then he’d thought to ask after the Angel Devil, only then that he’d been certain the two were conversing, when it’d happened.

The spark in the barrel. The moment of ignition. The suckerpunch recoil.

Makima had just smiled. Pressed a smooth, gentle fingertip to Aki’s lips. Somehow, after that, the question didn't matter. It still doesn’t.

“You’re a very unique specimen, Aki,” Makima had noted, head cocked and eyes alight with dark curiosity, “can you tell me why the Gun Devil has taken such a keen interest in you?”

He’d tried not to flinch at the name. He’s still upset that he’d failed. “No. Just that I wish it hadn’t.”

The corners of her mouth had twitched at that. Such a minute movement, so human, but Aki had found an impression of intentionality in it, somehow. The careful, premeditated performance of organic vulnerability.

“You’d rather it left you to die?”

He’d thought of Power, then. Of Denji. No. 

The death count still rolling across the wall-mounted hospital television, the footage of a gun barrel protruding from his forehead, his brother, his parents, his commitment. Yes.

What he says is “maybe.”

She’d laughed at that, high and clear as a bell, and Aki isn’t even angry for it. He can’t be. It’s Makima.

“I’m glad,” she’d said, “that you’re mine.”

Aki couldn’t agree more. He just wishes the back of his brain would too. It’s still sounding off even now, muted as it is. Still doesn’t like the look of Makima, of her eyes.

Still thinks of Angel, even when Aki finds he can’t.

“This sucks.” Power’s complaints had been predictably ineloquent. “The apartment is trashed so I can’t see Meowy, this hospital is super boring, and Denji doesn’t even have enough cash to buy me stuff from the vending machine. I’m hunggggryyyyy!”

She wasn’t trying to be insensitive, Aki knew. If things had been difficult for her after their run in with the Darkness Devil, they were even more difficult now that she’d seen one of the few enduring constants in her life behave unpredictably. Dangerously. Lethally.

He’d almost killed Denji. Several times he’d almost killed Denji. So he’d offered her an arm.

“Here. Only take a little. If you bite too hard I’ll knee you in the stomach.”

She’d been quick to accept the offer and even quicker to disregard the warning, needle-sharp teeth breaking over his skin and digging straight into sensitive nerves. He’d forced himself to take his eyes off the river of stray blood that slid down his bicep. It resurfaced too many memories. Memories of gunshots and screams, smoke and metal.

“Yuck!” The exclamation had taken him completely by surprise. Doubly so when Power had withdrawn to spit the contents of her mouth down the front of his hospital gown. “Fiend blood can be so gross. This stuff tastes like steel.”

“Thanks,” he’d muttered darkly, thoughts turning over the heart of her complaint as he’d risen to visit the bathroom. 

Fiend blood. 

It was the first time anyone had said it aloud, in those terms. He's fine with amalgam. With anomaly. Even threat is alright, considering that it is, for all intents and purposes, accurate.

And the fact that it, like its equally vague, shapeless peers, places distance between Aki and the thing he's become. A thin wall of uncertainty to shield the was from the is. The familiar from the unthinkable.

Aki always thought he hated false comforts. Now, he's beginning to suspect he'd just never been introduced to a truth worthy of delusion.

It visits him sometimes, the Gun Devil, always in the dead of night and always terribly, gut-wrenchingly accusatory. Vaguely translucent, it positions itself in the corner of his room and stays there. Mute. Gleaming. Inhumanely still.

Power and Denji can't see it, of course, which means that one way or another, it resides in Aki’s head. This should be comforting, according to Makima, the fact that the Gun Devil is contained, and better, under control of the Japanese government.

There's no real control to this though, Aki thinks, the strange pseudo-peace between himself and the time bomb ticking within the fragile confines of his skull. Just the illusion of it.

He doesn't recall anything leading up to the inciting incident. Doesn't know how he died or what allowed the devil to take control. Why it lost it, following his concussion. When it might try its luck again.

This is why Aki has been forced to reside in the Commission’s headquarters, subject to intrusive levels of surveillance and constant physical surveys. Partial host autonomy isn't unheard of, in the case of fiends, but it is exceedingly rare, especially regarding beings of the Gun Devil's caliber.

Aki imagines he can't be as singular as Denji, but then again, Denji isn't quite so unpredictable. The Gun Devil can't be sated by the promise of simple pleasure, can't be reasoned with, or even communicated with, to Aki’s most meticulous observation.

It's as thoughtless as it is brutal, the epitome of action without thought. Maybe this is because it's technically incomplete, or maybe it's because the concept it represents is ultimately more tool than perpetrator. Aki can't say.

Can't force himself to care, either.

He glares at the thing when it shows its presence, hurling the occasional obscenity in the case that he's certain of his own seclusion. Nothing impacts it though, not really. It just stares, and stares, and stares.

Makima’s visits are sporadic at first, cursory and seemingly meaningless, but they grow with time, both in consistency and purpose. Oddly enough, most of her inquiries don't relate to Aki’s condition. They relate to Denji.

“Is he progressing socially with the staff?”

“How attached would you say he is to his new accommodations?”

“Is he happy?”

Aki doesn't question Makima's seeming obsession–in all honesty, he suspects he couldn't if he wanted to. He just nods along or shakes his head as required, answering swiftly and candidly as he's able.

Giving Makima the things she wants is second nature, simpler and more automatic than breathing. He never thinks to question it, if he even thinks at all.

The Gun Devil appears sometimes, just after she leaves the room. These are the only occasions in which it seems to display agency, or at the very least, some degree of behavioral variation. Because then, it doesn't stare at Aki. It stares at the door.

It stares after Makima.

“Does the Chainsaw Devil ever do that?” He can't help but ask over a tray of bland hospital food. Power and Denji already swiped up everything with flavor. “Manifest visually?”

“Like, can I see him? Nah.” Denji frowns, the expression oddly melancholic. “Wish I could, though.”

And Aki is just as lost as ever.

The doctors tell him his vitals are normal. That his brainwaves are consistent. Obviously his head isn't a gun.

“You can't transform at will?” One asks, eyebrow raised. “That's unusual, based on what we've observed.”

Aki just shrugs. What about his situation isn't?

He gets the impression that the commission is dissatisfied with his lack of control over the Gun Devil, presumably because it means they can't effectively employ it.

“We've lost more than we've gained here,” one surveyor whispers to another when they think he's asleep, though he isn't quite lucid enough to catch the rest of it. He does think on though, at least until Makima returns and his mind, once again, goes numb.

Things are consistent, for a good while. Predictable. Almost comfortable, if he ignores his midnight visitor. Power finds a hobby in harassing the hallway guards. Aki learns the weekly rotation schedule of his doctors. Denji is relaxed again. Contented, just like Makima seems to desire.

And Aki, too, is happy. Until one night, without warning or prior fanfare, something changes.

It's dark outside, far past one in the morning, and silent for it. Nothing distracts Aki from his mute, late night musings aside from Power and Denji’s soft, even breathing and the familiar background whirr of facility electronics.

And then, something speaks.

“You should run.”

Aki jolts up, ramrod straight, in bed, stirring, but not waking, Denji and Power with the motion. The voice is foreign, deep and grating like rebar dragging across concrete, and it sets every nerve in his body immediately on edge.

His gaze lands, immediately, on the figure in the corner of the room. His body with a full pistol for a head. The thing is stone-still. Expressionless, insofar as a gun can be.

But somehow, he's absolutely certain he heard it talk.

He wraps a protective arm around each form at his side, trying to ignore the persistent shaking that's overtaken his hands. “Are you threatening me?”

It cocks its head to the side, as if in contemplation. Waits for a moment. Makes an odd noise somewhere between a click and a whirr.

“She's coming. You should run.”

Aki blinks, perturbed. “She?”

“She.” It nods, slow and self-assured. “You won't like what happens after.”

“I– what the Hell is that supposed to mean?”

As if in explanation, the thing raises a hand, ring and pinky finger pressed to the palm, and points purposefully at first Power, then Denji, performing short, jolting upwards motions towards each. A firing fingergun.

Aki's blood runs icecold.

“You're going to make me hurt them again, aren't you?”

“No.” It somehow has the gall to sound offended. “She is.”

“She? Who the fuck is she? I don't–”

“Control.” It says the word with such fearful, adorant gravity. As if it's speaking of a superior. As if it's speaking of a god. “She approaches.” Then, in a sharp, purposeful whisper, a bullet from a barrel, it utters the word again. “Run.”

Aki doesn't trust the thing. Not even moderately. But hearing this thing, this vast, limitless, horrible, inhuman thing, express terror, of all emotions, is enough to light a fire under his ass. To force adrenaline through his veins. To break him from his odd, trancelike haze.

He shakes Power with one hand and Denji with the other.

“How dare you wake the great, indomitable Power while she's resting, you absolute–”

“Hey, what the hell, man? I was dreamin’ about tits–”

“Shut up.” And like dogs at a whistle, they do. “We're going out for a run. Get your shoes, we can't take anything else.”

There must be something in his tone, because neither protest. Just nod with varying degrees of enthusiasm and run to the mat at the doorside to retrieve their sneakers.

The halls are labyrinthine, and Aki doesn't know them well. Navigating them is a guessing game in broad daylight; after dark, it's an impossibility.

But Power seems to know where she's going, either by smell or by sound, and when she decides to lead the way through the Commission facility's winding corridors, Aki makes the bold decision to follow her lead.

Usually the place never sleeps, constantly outfitted and operated by federal pencil-pushers and devil-hunters alike, but tonight, it's completely and utterly empty. Even the guards outside of Aki’s room are absent.

“Somethin's off,” Denji voices Aki’s concerns between hastened breaths, “like, really off. This place feels… weird.”

It would be impossible to disagree. The difference may be strange and implacable, aside from the lack of personal, but it does.

“How'd you know?”

Aki tried to shrug. Tries not to look at the thing keeping pace besides him. It may look calm, but he knows that the truth is anything but. Fear is radiating off it in waves, fear and a cold, overpowering desire for liberation.

“Just did.”

The thing at his side offers updates, as they run.

“She knows you've left the room.”

“She follows, close behind.”

“It is likely she will catch you.”

They aren't particularly helpful.

Not until, the trio turn a corner, exit suddenly in sight, to hear a fourth tactile presence enter the hallway.

“She's here.”

And she is. The approaching clack of heeled footfalls confirms it. The sense of oppressive calm that washes over Aki, a blanket. The familiar voice that wraps around the walls to reach his ears.

“Stop running.”

And he does. How couldn't he? It's Makima.

Denji stops too, turning on his heel with a massive, world-spanning grin, but Power doesn't. She keeps running until she hits the doors, only turning to cast a terrified scowl over her shoulder.

“Not safe!” She growls, animalistic, “keep running! Keep running!”

“It's just Makima.” Denji sounds so sure of himself. And he should. All is right in the world. All is calm. Makima will fix things. She always does.

And then, she's in sight, cheerful and unblinking, and Aki can't help but grin in turn.

“Come here,” she orders him, arms outstretched. And the order is for him, he knows, he can feel it. “Not you,” she adds, likely to Denji, “just him, for now.”

So instead, Denji speaks. “Makima, something weird’s going on, the place is totally empty and–”

“Shhh.” Soft and gentle, that's how the sound escapes her lips. Like silk Like a sigh.

“You walk to your death.” The Gun Devil, again. Only this time, its words mean nothing. Absolutely nothing at all. “You readily embrace it. Do not be so foolish.”

As Aki draws near, her arms wrap around him like a cradle, head resting against her shoulder. The low, warning roar grinding through his mind fades to nonexistence. 

“It wasn't supposed to happen like this,” she breathes in the crux of his neck, “so suddenly. You were meant to die then, you know. Now, I don't think I'll let you die at all. That might be more effective, hm? At least as a failsafe.”

Aki nods. Of course Makima is right. She always is.

“Makima?” Denji doesn't sound scared. Not yet. Just confused. “What's going on? Is this–”

“Denji?”

“Y-yeah?”

“Shut up.”

They're odd words, coming from Makima’s lips. Odd, and callous, and just upsetting enough that the Gun Devil's words are able to find an opening, one last time.

“Run.”

Aki would like to say he tries. But he doesn't.

“Transform.”

And then, Aki's world goes black.

[kingfyre]

– katabasis | p.js

There’s an incomparable beauty to it – death wearing the skin of life.

Jisung sees it too.

PAIRING. park jisung x gender neutral!reader

GENRE. urban fantasy, taxidermist!reader, rich buyer!jisung, monster hunter!donghyuck

WORD COUNT. 4.3k

WARNINGS. cryptids and monsters, folklore, mentions of corpses, implied murder

TAGLIST. @moonlightjeno, @haikchoo-main, @adorablele  

NOTES. read the warnings if you get confused

He’s here again.

The tall man with the pearl necklace who never actually purchases anything, to your dismay, and instead spends his time looking, only looking, at the same mounts over and over again before rushing away when you get close. You often catch him nodding and whispering to himself. Studying them, perhaps? Looking for imperfections that aren’t there.

You have half a mind to shove the mounted specimen into his hands and dare him to find a single fault. You pride yourself on being the best at what you do. And so you find yourself walking up behind him, silent steps on porcelain floor. “Hello!”

The man startles, broken out of his stupor, turning around with wide eyes and furrowed eyebrows. A timid smile fast replaces the look on his face, and he greets you in a hushed voice, "Hello."

"May I help you with something?"

"Oh, I'm just… looking around," the man says. He shakes out his hair and glances at the mounts, eyes flitting over them one by one. The smell of dried, pressed marigolds wafts through the air – a sweet floral scent with a bitter edge.

"Are you looking for anything specific?"

"I – I wanted to start collecting,” he says after a while, glancing at you before his gaze wanders away once more. “I'm afraid I haven't really thought past that…"

"Well, that's alright. Easily remedied," you nod, offering a smile you hope seems understanding. "Do you know what it is you’d like to start collecting?”

The man stands and stares at you with a blank look. Moments pass without the sound of the man’s voice and so you suggest, “Birds? Insects?”

You laugh at the face the man makes at your last suggestion. “A clear no for the insects, then.”

“Uh, well – I’d like a mount for my living room,” the man tries for a smile – bashful, sweet –, taking his hands out of his pocket. He clasps his hands together and tilts his head up to the ceiling, looking lost in thought before he catches himself and continues, “Something classy? Majestic? Something to make it less … empty.”

“I certainly have plenty that fit these conditions,” you smile, finding something oddly endearing in the way the man behaves himself.

You beckon for him to follow and begin walking toward the collection of your larger mounts, leaving the man to trail after. Though much unlike your usual clients, there have been few like him who have come to your shop without knowing what it is they want – typically the ones who walk out empty-handed. It’s not something that bothers you, but you’re determined to end this one differently.

The man stays silent as you begin to provide advice on the variety of mounts that would best suit his needs and expectations.

“And these… are sourced ethically?”

You blink, baring teeth in a wide smile. “Of course! I have different sources for all the specimens I work on.” You turn around, gesturing to all the different mounts and figures displayed around you. “Hunters, of course. Veterinarians, Animal Control, and the local Pet Store often donate as well – strays, pets that have passed away, and animals who cannot be re-released."

The man nods, mouth shaped in an ‘O’ as he listens to your usual spiel to clients who come concerned, asking the very same. ‘Ethical Taxidermy’ is a label you find as humorous as it is ill-defined, slapped on difficult work to make more appealing. It’s not something you’re innocent nor repentant of when it comes to the business you truly want to run.

"Better off here, wouldn’t you agree?” you tilt your head. “Better off taken care of, preserved to look as they had when alive, rather than thrown in the garbage or cremated.”

“Given a second life,” the man murmurs, looking straight back at you, unafraid to meet your eye.

A smile graces your lips, pleased. “That’s right.”

Silence ensues – strange, but not entirely uncomfortable. When the man averts his gaze, turning his attention back to the array of mounts he’s seen time and time before, you take the opportunity presented to you. You rake your eyes over raven hair and olive skin, a Greek nose, and full lips, rosy and dampened by a quick flash of tongue. Eye the patterned scarf, silk and expensive, draped over long limbs dressed in a brown sweater and a pink button-down, and the white pearls adorning his ears and hanging from his neck. It’s something out of a magazine – the way the man dresses.

“It’s an incredible collection you have,” the man remarks. He looks back at you with a curious gaze. “What has been your most extraordinary project to date?”

It’s not a difficult question to answer.

“An ongoing one at the moment,” you say, thinking fondly of the mount that waits for you behind closed doors. “A long, repetitive, arduous procedure that I continue to better my abilities with.”

The room stays quiet. You do not say more and the man strangely does not ask. You look back into dark brown eyes and smile, strangely aware of the beat of your heart.

Moments pass after moment until the silence is broken. “Which would you recommend?” he asks. “Out of all the mounts?”

“Generally, I would recommend starting small if you don’t know where to begin. Work your way up to bigger mounts. But if you have no personal preference and merely want something big – something that takes up a considerable amount of space in your living room without crowding it – I suppose it all depends on how large your living room is then.”

“Quite big,” the man says, nodding to himself. “Very big.”

“Then a bull moose, perhaps,” you say. You lead the man to where the mount stands; the proud being it is, and rightfully so. You’ve strived to keep it all in this portrayal – the confidence in its gait, the strength in its physicality, the pride in its abilities. “A majestic piece. Powerful. An incredible way to lessen the emptiness of a large room.”

You wait – wait until you’re rewarded with the words you want to hear.

“I’ll take it.”

You smile. “Perfect.” You’ve done this hundreds of times before – but this feels different. This man will be back, hasn’t even left yet, and you already find yourself looking forward to it all the same.

“I’ll need you to fill this out,” you tell him, when you’ve relocated to the counter and you’re handing him the formalities. “Your name, date of birth, the address you’d like me to deliver it to, and your signature, please.”

It’s a process as swift as it is quiet.

The bell rings when the man leaves your studio and you glance at the paper in your hands.

Park Jisung.

Jisung returns not even two weeks later and purchases another mount – a towering menace of a beauty that you had slaved on after Kun had brought it in nearly a year ago. One of the oldest mounts still left in your store, you’re almost sad to see it go. Almost.

You had seen him before he came in – watched him bumble in his patterned scarf, pearl necklace strung neatly on his neck, pausing right before he pulled the door open. The bell had rung and you smiled from your desk, bright and wide.

“Here for another?”

Jisung had nodded, a sheepish smile on his lips, and it was all too easy for you to lead him to your biggest mounts.

Jisung naturally gravitates to your bigger mounts, looking for more to make his space less empty he says. Make it comfortable, make it occupied.

It’s all Jisung will consider seriously, all he’ll consider with the intention of actually taking it off your hands. Naturally, you disagree; reasons with him that smaller specimens can have a mighty presence too, when displayed correctly.

(Jisung takes home a box that visit, a golden hamster inside that you find Jisung bears a resemblance to. You find out later on that Jisung keeps it in his bedroom and is elated.)

It becomes a routine. You see the passing months in pieces, but standing front and center of your mind is this: Jisung returning with his bottomless pockets of money and simply buying another creature, another mount – whatever he likes like it’s nothing to him. Thousands spent, tens of thousands spent, all on finished works, but he comes back, intervals never longer than a dozen days.

“These can’t all be for your living room,” you remark one day, watching as Jisung signs away thousands of dollars yet again.

“It’s not,” Jisung says easily, not even bothering to look up. “I’ve emptied out a room for them.”

You stare until Jisung meets your eyes and you laugh, suddenly breathless. You tell Jisung to show you a picture the next time he comes back, but Jisung merely shakes his head.

“You should see it in person,” Jisung says. “It’s better in person.”

Your heart thuds, and you smile, “I’ll wait for your invitation.”

Change comes in a quiet voice, thinly veiled curiosity asked in a voice that’s grown so familiar you don't register it at first.

It's a simple question – but it changes everything, that much is clear.

“How do I commission a specific creature?”

“Usually, you’d have to pick a hunter first,” you say. “Commission the kill and then instruct them to bring the corpse to me.”

“Oh.”

You glance at him, wandering back and forth, unable to stand still, from mount to mount like he hasn’t seen these a dozen times by now. “Which would you like?” you ask, tilting your head. You place your pen down and lean back into your chair. “I have friends who can hunt it for you.”

Jisung looks back at you. There's a moment of prolonged silence and you observe the way Jisung lowers his gaze to the ground and blinks – the way his eyes glaze over like he’s gone somewhere else entirely. He walks back to the counter slowly, meets your eyes slowly. It takes a while for Jisung to communicate what he wants. “I want something so special I believe only you would be able to provide.”

“Flattering,” you say, eyebrow raised and a smile pulling at your lips. “I won’t do it for free despite that.”

Jisung doesn’t hesitate with his answer. “I’ll pay whatever amount you’d like.”

“What is it then?”

Jisung blinks – opens his mouth, then shuts it. “Cryptids,” he says. “I’d like to commission a cryptid mount.”

It’s hard to ignore the spark that crackles inside your stomach after Jisung utters his request. The ceiling lights feel a little stronger, white and bright and casting shadows on Jisung’s face. Angular lines on the essence of youth.

“And if I told you I don’t do them?”

Jisung’s face stays carefully blank. “Then I would ask you to forget I ever asked.”

You laugh. Shaking your head, you comb a hand through your hair as you stand from your seat. “Cryptid mounting isn’t illegal here, Jisung. Looked down upon, sure. But it’s never really done by the people who matter, is it?”

It's endearing to you – the way Jisung ducks his head, skirting the statement he could've easily known through some research, skirting the question he already knows the answer to. You don’t wait for an answer Jisung won't provide. You turn around; Jisung follows.

The cryptid room is bigger though less filled, with a higher ceiling to accommodate for the towering heights the creatures have. You look back at Jisung who looks around, eyes brimming with the sort of wonder you would argue one could only see in a child.

“Not your first time seeing one?”

“No,” Jisung shakes his head. “No, my parents kept one on display in our living room as I grew up.”

“I see,” you say. “What was it, exactly?”

“A Baku.”

“Dream-eaters,” you note. Common then, rarer now, after all the hunting history and folklore have put it through. You’ve never mounted a Baku before. “Did it work?”

Jisung makes a face, pressing his hands to his cheeks, eyes still trained on the exhibit, jumping from creature to creature. His voice comes out distracted. “Hm? Not really.”

“Is that what established the curiosity?”

“I suppose so.”

The answer comes in a voice bordering absentminded, so you leave it at that, letting him pace the room and explore the options he's been presented.

“I’ll take this one,” Jisung points to a Wendigo you’d mounted months before you ever approached Jisung, abandoned by its original buyer after seeing the sheer size of it. “Along with the commission.”

You smile, thinking of the present that came alongside it.

"A what?"

"A Katshituashku," you drawl into your phone, dragging every syllable out. Donghyuck is seated, in what you would guess is the little gas station at the corner of Main and Seventh, toying with the straw in his drink. You see Jaemin in the background and consider sending him a wave before he disappears from the frame entirely.

"No, shut up, I heard you the first time," Donghyuck says, a scowl pulling at his lips. He looks up from his drink, “A Katshituashku?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that’s –” Donghyuck pauses. The interest on his face is evident; taking down a Katshituashku would make for great publicity, near invincible as it is, only wounded through the soles of its feet. You already know the answer before Donghyuck says it. “Where?”

“How would I know? That’s your job.”

Donghyuck rolls his eyes and sets his drink aside. “Sorry I assumed the buyer knew where what he wanted was?”

You sigh, “He mentioned Maine?”

“How much?”

“For free.”

Donghyuck reaches out and grabs his phone from whatever it’s leaning on, shoving his face closer to the camera. He narrows his eyes, “I’m hanging up.”

“Have you ever known me to be a cheapskate?” you huff. “Do it quickly and you can name whatever price you want, yes?”

Donghyuck lights up, well aware that you would give him whatever amount he asks for – if kept reasonable. He grins and salutes you through his screen, “Whatever you say goes, boss man.”

You text Jisung as soon as it arrives.

The body was delivered today. You can come see it, if you’re free.

Jisung shows up in record time.

You don't know why you ask, but the words come easy, like it's been sitting on your tongue for years, waiting to be said at that exact moment. "Would you like to watch?"

Jisung stills, looking at you with wide eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"Would you like to watch me work on your commission?" you cock your head to the side. "You can come whenever you’d like to. If you have nothing else to do, that is."

“I’d love to!” he beams, clasping his hands together akin to a prayer. “To stay and watch, please.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a job? Matters to attend to?”

“Not one that expects me too much.”

"A strange job. Or the ideal one. If you're earning enough to be buying as many mounts as you are." You purse your lips. “Stay where I can see you. Peripheral or central vision. I don’t like people wandering around my workshop without my knowledge.”

Shifting from one foot to the other, Jisung tugs at the ends of his clothes, nodding at every word that comes out of your mouth.

“Most importantly – do not distract me,” you warn him, wagging your finger at the taller man. “Else it is your commission quality on the line.”

The smile on Jisung's face is brighter and warmer than any bonfire you’ve ever set.

Jisung proves capable of following your simple rule the first few weeks, only asking his burning questions once you’ve put down your tools and seated yourself beside him for a break.

“Isn’t it limiting?”

“What is?”

“Not opening during business hours. Being open six hours a day, only three days a week limits your market reach.”

You shrug. It’s always worked for you. More time to dedicate to the crafting process, more to maximize productivity. “I reach the people I want to reach. Friends, friends of friends.” People who can afford it. People who can and have no problem ignoring the illegal aspects that could come with the practice, you leave unsaid.

“You’re one of the only ones who come to visit my lonely little store, anyway. Most customers don’t personally come to the shop,” you continue. “They call, they email, they make the order and put in a deposit. Then I ship the mount when I’m finished.”

Jisung keeps quiet. Stays in his place, in the corner of your eye, and absentmindedly traces the wood grain of the table. His eyes never seem to leave you. Not until you look back.

“I’m not in it for the money,” you say, after a long stretch of silence. God knows you have enough.

“I know,” Jisung says, a small smile on his face. “Otherwise you’d be charging me for this commission a whole lot more.”

Jisung leaves and you finally get to work on what you’ve been looking forward to all week.

A present from Donghyuck. A burden lifted from Donghyuck.

You open another door to Mark’s smiling face and take in the cool air that greets your face. You sigh – deep, anticipatory. Content.

Mark is smiling at you, and so you smile back, wide and full, eager to keep Mark at his best.

“I almost thought you were on display.” 

You look up from what you’re doing and stare at Jisung, sitting straight and proper from where he observes. “What did you say?”

“I almost thought it was you on display,” Jisung leans forward onto the table in front of him, “So focused. Unmoving. Beautiful.”

“You should be,” Jisung murmurs, nodding to himself, and you watch the way his eyes rake over your face, the way he stares and so unabashedly meets your eyes with an indecipherable intensity. Something close to wonder. Something close to desire.

“Jisung-ah,” you say and imagine yourself standing from your seat. Walking over to Jisung and bending him over the table he’s leaning on. Jisung would let you. You know that much.

“Yes?”

“Be quiet.”

When Jisung leaves, You stay in your workshop and stare at the closed door leading to the cold room. Stare until your breath deepens and your heart rate rises.

I almost thought it was you on display.

You find that you don’t dislike the thought of it at all.

You could be. In another world. Created by the very few hands you trust. You would be a beautiful mount – Jisung’s mount – situated in his living room, his study, his bedroom. Wherever Jisung would want to place you.

Like Mark.

The first and only time Jisung breaks your rule is at your own instruction.

It comes with a cost.

“Jisung-ah?”

No answer.

You sigh, pressing your lips into a frustrated frown. “Jisung, I need those tools now.”

How long does it take to retrieve a honing steel and a simple sanding stick? Still, you receive no answer. You shudder, feeling the brush of cool air on your skin. Did Jisung open a window?

“Jisung-ah, what in the world are you doing –”

Then, you look back and see the door to the wrong room open, feeling your heart drop from your chest. The drag of your chair echoes loudly through the room, scraping against porcelain tiles. You reach for the shaving knife on the next table and wrap your fingers around it with a vicelike grip, taking tentative steps toward the opened room.

Mark has always been the most dominating presence in a room. It extends to death, still the center of attention, situated in your cold room. Jisung is transfixed.

Something ugly blooms inside your chest, a bitter flower full of thorns.

“So this is why Mark hyung’s body hasn’t been found,” Jisung says when you step into the room. “Everyone assumes he’s just been eaten by something. Flesh stripped to the bone.”

Jisung takes a step closer, and you watch as he tilts his head and begins circling the mount with a blank look on his face.

You grip the tool at hand a little tighter, and imagine what Jisung would look like – head bashed in, flesh and bone drenched in red, a face once so handsome unrecognizable to the human eye. A shame, really.

Or perhaps you’ve earned a new addition to your growing collection.

“He looks so,” Jisung pauses, lips pressing together in a tight line. “Preserved.”

“You captured his smile so well—” Jisung laughs softly and you do not know what to make of it. It’s not what you’ve expected, not what you’ve daydreamed or dreaded during those few sleepless nights.

You don’t know what you expected.

“This is embalming, isn’t it?” Jisung asks. The smile on his face is still the same – as good and as pure as you’ve ever seen on his lips. “How long does it take you? How often? Do you do it by yourself?”

“Get out.”

Jisung reaches for you, a kind, excited look in his eye that must betray what you imagine he must truly be feeling. “Y/N, it’s –”

“Get the fuck out of my store before I change my mind, Jisung,” you snap.

Jisung pulls his hands back and looks at you, taking a step back. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he looks at you – a graveyard in his mouth, filled with all the words you won’t let him say.

It’s a terrible decision that hits you full force in the stomach once Jisung disappears from sight.

Jisung doesn’t come back the next day. Or the next week. Or the week after that.

The shop feels emptier, colder. Mark’s family do not come barging in, looking for their son’s dead body, still whole and preserved, like you had intended to keep.

You continue working on the commission during the day and scream your frustration into your room during the night.

Jisung returns twenty-three days later, an hour before closing times.

You see him before he comes in, in his brown sweater and pearl earrings, pulling at the door with the certainty that he’d grown into all those months ago.

It’s too easy, inviting him back into your workshop. Too easy, falling back into old habits.

“How did you get his body?”

You evade the question and throw one of your own. “You knew him?”

“Our families are friends.”

“And were you?”

“I looked up to him,” Jisung shrugs. “I wanted to be a hunter like him – and his whole family before him, I suppose – when I was younger.”

“But?”

“My parents forbade it.”

You hum as you prepare the mold, carving muscles and veins into place one after the other. You’re making good time – further along than you had expected to be at this point. “Well, it’s a good thing they did. You’d likely fall on your weapon before even spotting the cryptid.”

“I wouldn’t fall on my weapon at all!” Jisung makes an offended sound, plump lips pursed into a pout before you send him a look that reminds him of his volume. He slouches, curling into himself before murmuring, “I’d just need training. I could’ve been a hunter if I’d gotten some.”

"Maybe." You could see it. Bloodstains on hunter's clothes, dried mud on leather boots, lethality at hand. You glance at Jisung, pressing your lips together. “You could’ve.”

“We might’ve met earlier if I had become one,” Jisung muses.

"You could still be one," you say. "Then I'd have you hunt for me."

“Was Mark your first?”

A face flashes before your eyes – striking features complemented by delicateness; sharp eyes and full lips with a captivating draw. The first. The failure. The reason why you started.

So significant then, now a muddled memory you struggle to hold on to by a loose thread. A corpse in the ground that you’ll forever regret.

You try to smile. Was Mark your first? Of course not. First victory? First triumph? Perhaps, you could say that. It’s not perfection yet, but it’s the closest you’ve gotten by far. But to get to even this level of mediocrity, you needed practice, you needed failure – as all great artists do. “What do you think?”

“No.”

“There you go.”

Moments after moments pass. You don’t need to look up from your work to know that Jisung is staring. He always is. You don’t ever want him to look away.

“Could I see him again?”

You close your eyes, pausing your work and hovering your file over the foam. “Jisung –”

“Please,” comes the plea, “Just for a moment.”

Jisung has a way of slipping through defenses, a way of pushing through the rifts with glittering eyes and quiet pleas.

Or perhaps you simply let him.

Walking inside the cold room with an audience to something you’d never meant to have on display just yet is disconcerting.

Not as it had weeks before. But unsettling nevertheless. 

It's not ready. Not perfect. Not worth presenting to someone you want to show nothing less than magnificence to.

But Jisung seems to think otherwise.

"Have I mentioned how much I love your work?" Jisung turns back to face you and smiles widely. There’s something in his eyes that washes a wave of warmth all over your body. It's admiration. Devotion.

Slowly, sweetly, you smile back and tilt your head. “No, I don’t think you have.”

Black loafers click against porcelain tiles as Jisung walks towards you, closer and closer, until you see nothing but kind eyes and full lips. The air smells like marigolds and you draw in a deep breath.

“Y/N,” Jisung says.

Mark’s watching as you reach up, cold fingertips on warm skin, cupping Jisung’s cheek. Jisung sighs, deep, content, and presses closer, closing his eyes.

“Y/N,” he says again.

Inhale. Exhale. A breath of warm air against your lips.

Jisung will make the journey with you.

The journey to perfection.

[anamateurnaturalist]

Trillium grandiforum

I'm doing an independent study for school where I'm collecting plants, identifying them and creating mounted herbarium specimens. I love doing any kind of identifying but plants are my favorite and I've wanted to do herbarium specimens since I first learned of them. There's no question what species this lovely showy trillium is, but I keyed it out anyway as practice. I definitely recommend to anyone learning to use dichotomous keys to key the organisms that you know, that's how learn where you are likely to make mistakes when you are keying out an unknown species.

That aside aside; I couldn't resist taking a sneak peek at this one, I think it turned out rather well given that it's a rather complex flower and it was one of the first I pressed.

[hecatemoon87]

Nature Documentary: Tom Hardy Characters

Leo Demidov

Ah, and here we see a rare Russian lion pondering the existence of evil. He is a beautiful beast, is he not?

He is known to stalk his prey for miles, and once engaged in the hunt, he is relentless.

This male might appear distant and elusive. However, when it comes to mating, he will choose his mate for life and is a fierce protector.

Freddie Jackson

This is one of the most unpredictable Tom Hardy species out in the wild. Note the cheeky smile. Alluring, attractive...but dangerous.

This beast draws in his prey with a calm demeanor before quickly switching over to brute force.

With females, he has a natural tendency to induce a sort of hypnotic trance over them. Pulling them into his bed and mating aggressively, then moving on to defend his territory.

Alfie Solomons

The cameramen have been advised to give this ferocious beast some distance. See the intensity in this male's eye? A stunning specimen of the Tom Hardy species indeed.

A highly territorial predator, Alfie Solomons stalks his natural habitat of Camden Town. To protect his territory, he puts on displays of dominance by proving his intellectual superiority through strategy. If other males are not daunted by this, then he resorts to physical aggression to lay claim to what's rightfully his.

Females are drawn to his musk and intense masculine magnetism. He has no issues finding a mate.

Eddie Brock

This curious creature, latin name Neurotix Eddix, has an interesting migration pattern. Though we've seen attempts at settling, the tracking chip shows yet another transition in location.

This beast is generally good-natured. However, recent blood tests after a catch and release indicate that he has been infected with some kind of parasite.

Instead of making him sick, the parasite has somehow enhanced his abilities. I believe we are seeing a rare but real-time evolution of genes in this species. Truly remarkable.

Ian Eames

A quick-witted and feisty creature, Eames mostly hunts alone. However, there are times we've seen him in collaborations with other males.

He is, at times, able to blend into his surroundings. Going unnoticed for hours. However, when he wishes to be seen, he pulls the attention of many.

If you look closely, you can notice his subtle but distinct plumage. The salomon colored shirt draws the attention of his intended mate, who is then floored by his extraordinary male beauty. Upon sensing the arousal of a potential mate, he wastes no time in mounting the female.

James Delaney

I am keeping my voice lowered so as not to disturb this majestic beast. His tolerance for attention is fairly low, so any sudden movement on our part will likely end in an attack.

James is a stealthy predator who has been known to use others for his own purposes. I've not seen such dedication at completing a hunt as compared to him. So it is best we do not annoy him.

Reggie Kray

Ah, yes, the dazzling yet dangerous Reggie Kray is seen walking the streets of East London. You see, the well pressed suit, polished shoes, and meticulously combed hair indicate his status and power. He is nonverbally telling others that he is king of this jungle.

He is a fiercesome predator. He is able to incapacitate his prey quickly and efficiently.

His ability to find a mate is extraordinary. Instead of looking for the female, as traditionally most males are ought to do in the wild. The female comes to him. It's absolutely fascinating.

[hsmleindia]

Fully Automatic Metallographic Specimen Mounting Press

Automatic metallographic mounting press offer several advantages over manual or semi-automatic methods. They provide precise control over the mounting parameters, ensuring consistency and repeatability across multiple specimens. Additionally, these machines increase productivity by automating the mounting process, allowing operators to focus on other tasks while specimens are being prepared. Its kind of pneumatic and full automatic mounting press, equipped with in-out water cooling system. It is suitable for the hot mounting process of thermohardening & thermoplastic materials. This machine can automatically heat, apply pressure and after sample preparation is finished, it can stop working, release pressure and then push out sample automatically. It is the ideal sample preparing equipment to be used in factories, researching institutes and college laboratories.

[thedickcavettshow]

I’m creating an herbarium of pressed wetland plants for a class and it’s due on Wednesday and it’s taken me like two hours to mount 7 plant specimens so far out of a total of 74

[prof-snakewood]

[A video is attached to the post. In the corner of the screen, a small image of an Ekans eating its own tail is slowly spinning.]

Professor Snakewood stood in a large, sterile looking room. Nearly everything in sight was pure white or a stunning chrome. This must be his lab. It was absolutely immaculate, shockingly spotless for a place where Pokémon were likely being kept and studied around the clock.

Only one sign of the owners personality could be spotted in view of the camera’s lens: In the far corner of the room, a large wire cage containing two very happy Rattata was sitting on a rolling trolley. Did he let his Pokémon tour the lab in their cage? An adorable thought, if not a tad obsessive.

Directly behind Professor Snakewood was a huge, glass tank. Pokémon toys of all kinds could be seen lying about the floor of it. A high tech pokefood dispenser was mounted on the far wall. Clearly this was meant for housing a Pokémon.

The Professor himself was standing awkwardly in front of the camera. He fussed with his lab coat, straightening out a crease and sighing in frustration as it re-creased.

“Is it recording now, Rotom?” He asked, looking up from his jacket to the camera.

“Bzzzzzzipt!”

He smiled, nodding back at the Pokémon filming.

“Hello there, Rotomblr. This is— Or, I am Professor Ibrahim Snakewood.” He introduced. Snakewood appeared nervous to be on camera, looking away from the prying lens periodically to check on the glass tank behind him.

“I am filming this to capture one— just one mind you I— I’m not the first. No that would be silly—“ he trailed off for a moment before refocusing: “Of the first lab recorded interactions with a Wailing Castform.” Snakewood finished his thought, clasping his hands together proudly with a smile.

“This particular specimen was donated to me by its former trainer. Ah— unfortunately this was a trained Castform that was caught in the Shadow Sky phenomenon. I am hoping this can be a comfortable environment for the poor thing…” He stepped aside, letting Rotom and the camera get a better view of inside the tank.

“The specimen has— Already arrived. Yes. He is currently in his holding tank, this ah— Apparatus.”

He pat his hand gently on the side of the large glass tank.

“Aura-tempered glass. Immune to the effects of its signature move— Shadow Wail.” He explained, “Although it’s not sound proof. I need to be able to hear if he becomes upset, after all.”

Professor Snakewood pointed to a particular spot on the glass and Rotom zoomed in further.

“Right here, if you would, Rotom.”

Sure enough, a little gray Pokémon was indeed floating around the tank. The Castform turned to the camera, showing its blood red eyes.

“Hello, Cloudy. Would you still like to be called that?” The Professor asked, putting a gentle hand to the tank. “Your trainer says you used to love the rain. Would you like me to turn on the mist maker for you?”

The Castform drifted over to the edge of the glass, a glare on its little face. Strange purple energy swirled around its body, gathering in the dark cloud beneath its head. It let out a high pitched screech, shaking the glass furiously.

“Woah-Ho!” Snakewood backed up, his hands in the air. The Castform pressed its face against the tempered glass, furiously trying to bite through it to get to the Professor.

“CAH! CAH!” It snapped, angrily pressing its soft, cloudy body against the glass.

“As you can see, he ah— he’s currently too dangerous to let outside of this container.” He pointed out, “But I am certain that with enough time he will see that I am not a threat!— Yes…” He hurriedly walked over to a control panel on the left side of the tank. He punched in a few commands, turning a blue knob to the right.

A soft mist of water began to rain from above onto the still aggressive Castform. The small creature slowed its attempts at assault, glancing up to the falling water in its tank curiously.

“Forrrr…” it coo’d, shimmying its cloud about and flying closer to the source of the water.

“There you are, some water. I bet it’s been a long time since you’ve felt that.” Professor Snakewood said, observing the tank intently. “As you can see I have— I spent a lot of money on making sure this environment would be safe and enjoyable for Cloudy here.”

The Castform smushed its face against the valve, murmuring and chirping. Just as the professor let out a sigh of relief, however, the Pokémon floated to the center of the tank and began surrounding itself with shadow energy again.

“What is…? Oh— damn it.” He hastily turned off the mist, just as Cloudy unleashed a small Shadow Sky. Pitch black clouds covered the top of the tank, raining down caustic purple ooze. The tainted water fell to the floor of the holding tank with a soft patter, flowing into the main drain on the center floor.

Professor Snakewood sighed in defeat, massaging his forehead with both hands. The man walked over to his clipboard on an opposing table, picking it up. He pulled the pen from his jacket pocket and began to furiously scribble notes down in Kalosian.

“Subject responds to even… Pleasant weather stimulus by summoning Shadow Sky,” he announced, looking over his clipboard to the tank with an unreadable expression.

The Castform simply continued to explore its enclosure, now slowly floating back and forth from the various toys laid out for him.

He frowned, letting out a yawn before settling down on a cushioned perch.

“Subject may be… Fatigued? From sudden outburst of energy.” Snakewood noted, writing down more. “Amazing… I have so much to learn.” He murmured.

“Oh!— I almost forgot about the recording.” He laughed, turning back to the camera. “I hope you all have— I hope this has been a helpful video. That perhaps you have learned something, as I feel I have. I will upload more at a later date, for sure.” He promised.

“Rotom— Please shut off the video.”

[The video ends here.]

[mercurygray]

A Falcon Circling - Mike Sadler x OFC

You know me - have period drama, will travel. 1940s Cairo was a dandy to try and research.

Mike Sadler was bloody late for poker.

Late was, perhaps, being generous - in point of fact he'd completely missed last week's game after Captain Stirling's late night jolly had kept Mike and the other drivers of the Desert Taxi Service busy until well into Friday afternoon, when there was not a snowball's chance of making in back in time for a pint of beer and a fair shot at the deep pockets of the boys stationed at the Embassy.

Cairo, on the whole, held few attractions for him, outside of the poker game – while there was always the chance for a clean uniform and a bath and a bed, it was all too much, sometimes, with the noise and the people. There was a beauty to the silence of the desert that he missed when he was in town, and something to be desired in the way of solitude when he was pressed up to the bar, waiting for the game to open, and the rowdy crowd of fellows next to him had, twice now, nearly spilled his drink. 

His hand rose, reflexively, to his face, and the now-neatly trimmed beard - shaving it off entirely made him look about eighteen again, which he hated, and the beard itself was a badge of honor, a sign of having been in places where the discipline didn’t matter so much as being able to survive did. He’d had a haircut, too, and he looked, in the long mirror behind the bar, almost civilized, if one ignored the deep tan. That was one of the things he liked about the desert, too - that one could blend in, disappear into the sand until you were wanted or needed or neither. One could be anonymous, in places like this - but one never really disappeared. 

Mike glanced around the room and realized, with some annoyance, that not only was he not alone, but that he was being observed.

She was tucked unobtrusively into a table in the corner, blonde and wearing a particular shade of blue that stood out against the dark. It was strange to him, after being so long in khaki that bleached you into the sand, to want to be noticed. And by god, was he noticing her now. (Not a working girl, he didn’t think - she wasn’t trying hard enough for that. Rules were different in Cairo, but single women still couldn’t drink at the bar unless they wanted something. )

Mike considered his drink and the wad of bills burning a hole in his pocket and sighed. What the hell. I have some time. It had been a long week, and he might do worse. He took his drink with him and walked around to her end of the bar, taking advantage of an empty seat right next to her. "Evening."

"Hello. You must be here for Sandy's poker game." She looked amused at his surprise to be so easily found out. "Everyone else here's getting soused and you've barely touched your drink." 

Well, damn her for observant indeed. A regular here, then, if she knew that Alex Higgins - that Sandy - had a regular game here in the back room. Strange that he'd never seen her before. He wasn't sure he liked being known. "Journalist?" He gestured with his eyes at the notebook and pen next to her, the word almost accusatory in tone.

A brief smile. "Novelist."

Somehow that was even worse - someone collecting specimens for study and later mounting in prose. "Ah, Miss Hemingway, my apologies." 

She rolled her eyes. “If I had a shilling for every time someone made that joke I'd be able to buy a ticket home.” 

“And? Do you? Want a ticket home?”

She snorted. “Not likely. The war's as awful at home as it is here. At least in Cairo it's warm.” She held out a hand to shake.  "Daphne Markham-Reed, how do you do."

She sounded like Stirling's people, with a name like that. He tried not to be angry about it - it would look good in print, probably. "Oh, both barrels. You don't waste time."

“Not a lot of time to waste. There's a war on, you know.” She gestured to the chair opposite and he sat down, taking another sip of his whisky and trying to make himself comfortable.

"And what is a... young lady of the horse and hound set doing here in the tail end of Garden City?" 

"I should have thought it was obvious,” she said with a smile, leaning back a little with her cigarette, the light just catching the glint of gold in her wristwatch. “Chasing out my prey.” The way she said prey, her eyes lighting up a little, made him go cold and hot, all at once. She took a drag of her cigarette, still obviously observing him. “Do you have a name, Mister Poker Player, or should I make one up?"

He wasn’t sure he liked that, being a character she could name and shape, but he didn’t want to give her his name – not yet. "Curious to see what you think I belong to."

She sat up a little, composing her thoughts as she looked him over again - closer this time, someone looking to see and not only imagine.  “One stripe is a corporal. Scorpion on your jacket says you're one of Bagnell's LRDG chaps. A...mechanic, maybe, on the state of your hands, or a driver.” 

He suddenly wanted to hide his hands, choosing instead to tighten them around his glass. No amount of washing would get some of the oil off his nails. “Do they teach insignia recognition at finishing school?”

She chuckled at that, but didn’t deny him. “They don't let women in the Long Bar, so we have to get our intelligence elsewhere. And everyone can read a rank badge nowadays, the army's practically everywhere.”

He could see her, at one of those parties filled with people like Stirling and Lewes, or at the Empire Club in a slinky dress, surrounded by men with public school degrees and Honorables and names in the court circular. “I'm sure it's all colonels and generals where you are.”

“Yes, and they're much less fun," Daphne declared without missing a beat. "I think if I were putting you in my novel I'd call you...Paul. No - David." She laughed as his face fell, thinking, unceremoniously, of what he'd like to do to David Stirling. "Oh, not David - do you know someone by that name? Another, then."

He liked hearing her laugh - and found he liked surprising her even more. “How do you feel about Michael?”

“Michael, hm.” She rolled the name around her tongue. “Like the archangel. You might be a Michael. Or maybe it's Mike, for short,” she offered, leaning in. He caught a whiff of perfume, amber and civet, and suddenly felt a little bold.

“To my friends, too.”

She arched an eyebrow, her smile vague. “Are you looking for friends?”

“I might be.” He shrugged.  “Are you?”

But what her reply would be he never heard - someone behind him clapped him on the shoulder and broke the scene. “Sadler, you bastard! You stood us up last week.” Alex Higgins was the sort of man who drew attention to himself everywhere he went, a talent that one could attribute as much to his height and his shock of red hair as much as his personality. “Word was out you were on a regular reconnaissance jaunt, thought for sure we’d see you.”

“Word was wrong,” Mike said, rising from his seat to shake hands. ”Can’t say more than that, loose lips and all.”

“And I see you’ve met Daff,” Sandy said with a grin, turning his gaze to the woman behind him.  “Care to join us, Miss Markham-Reed? There are always extra seats for pretty girls.”

What, and he knows her? Mike took another moment to hate being in town, where people knew things he didn’t and liked to catch you out. “Thanks, but no,” Daphne said, rising from the table and collecting her notebook, obviously preparing to leave. “I like keeping my money too much. You all have fun. I’ll see you around, Mr. Sadler,” she added, draining her glass and setting it back down. “Don’t let Sandy win.” 

Several sets of eyes followed her on the way out, and Mike was ashamed to say that his were one of them. “How do you know her? Does she work at the embassy?”

Sandy scoffed and gestured for the barman, who caught his eye and went to work on a drink. “Work there, ha. You can tell you’re not posted in town. Her father’s on the staff. Only third or fourth down the list from Lampson. She’s good fun, though - doesn’t treat you like part of the furniture.”

The staff! Good god - so she really did belong with the Turf Club set. “She said she was a novelist.”

Another short laugh from his friend. “Daphne says a lot of things,” Sandy announced, glancing after her with a grin. “Sometimes they’re even true. Ought to put her in intelligence, honestly, she’s in everywhere.”

Mike made no reply as Sandy went on to flag down another friend, taking another sip of his drink and considering, anew, the calm way she’d been watching him across the bar, and the way she’d responded to his question about what she was doing. What do you think? Chasing down my prey. He’d said horse and hounds as a joke, but he was thinking of the desert again, and black-winged kites with their sudden high whistling calls, circling high in the air above their targets, wings white against the sky. Is that what you are, Daphne Markham-Reed? A falcon circling? 

But Sandy had collected all the poker players, and there wasn’t time for more thought. Mike was here now - he would not be late again.

--

The Long Bar, at Shepheard's Hotel, was famous for being the place to meet people. It was a joke that if you wanted the plan for a battle in North Africa you only need to sit there long enough.

Garden City was the core of the British settlement in Cairo, slightly less exclusive than Zamelek, where houses were a bit more expensive. The Turf Club was an all-male social club that catered to the British social scene, which would have included railway and canal executives as well as the diplomatic corps.

Sir Miles Lampson was the British Ambassador to Egypt; before the signing of the 1936 treaty he'd been the High Commissioner.

Comments, tag commentary, and reblogs are seen, read, and appreciated!

[dustcoveredpages]

Wild Flowers from Palestine (1899)

Harvey Bartlett Greene

"Seventeen specimens of pressed flowers from Palestine, [mounted], with description and Scripture reference. This book catalogs a variety of plants that grow naturally in and around sites sacred to Christianity. Introduction by Hon. Selah Merrill, D.D., LL.D, U.S. Consul at Jerusalem. Inscribed “Mamma Smith Oct 23, 1899." Rose of Sharon is missing from this copy." (x)

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"FAMILY CONTINUES HUNT FOR DINOSAUR," Sault Star. May 8, 1934. Page 12. ---- Sternberg Father and Sons Comb Hinterlands For Animal Bones ---- (By Guy E. Rhoades, Canadian Press Staff Writer) Toronto, May 8. - (C. P.) - If Levi Sternberg goes to the field this year, and he hopes he will, it will be his 14th expedition as a dinosaur hunter in 16 years, but that, he says, is nothing compared with the record of his father and two brothers.

Levi, preparator of paleontology at the Royal Ontario Museum, is the youngest member of a dinosaur-hunting family that has gained the plaudits of scientists for almost six decades. His father, C. H. Sternberg, made his first expedition to the Kaлsas fossil beds in 1876 with the late Edward Drinker Cope, professor of geology at the University of Pennsylvania and one of the most noted pal- eontologists of the last century.

The old man, now 84, is still working on the Pacific Coast, making his headquarters at San Diego, Cal., Levi has been working for the Oftario museum since 1919. Charles has been with the National Museum in Ottawa since 1912 and George is now at Kansas Teachers College in Hays.

Sternberg senior started collecting fossils in Kansas when he was 17, at a time when many people did not know the strange rocks with patterns in them were remains of plants and animals that lived millions of years ago. He did little work in museums, but he was recognized as one of the greatest fossil hunters and is now the veteran of them all.

He and all his sons worked for the National Museum before the war, searching the badlands of Alberta for the petrified bones of monsters that roamed that weather-scarred, barren country when the land was a steaming swamp covered with tropical vegetation.

The father and George returned to the United States, but Charles and Levi remained in Canada and continued to make trips to Alberta, usually along the Red Deer Valley, bringing back their specimens in the fall and spending the winter mounting them for exhibition in the halls of their museums.