#white tapered columns

[sharinghopesanddreams]

Fiberboard in Chicago Large, elegant exterior shot of a blue, two-story concrete fiberboard home with a hip roof and shingles.

[xgosiax]

Exterior - Vinyl Inspiration for a mid-sized craftsman brown two-story vinyl exterior home remodel

[samconcepcion]

Detroit Craftsman Exterior With a shingle roof and a gray roof, this large arts and crafts-style two-story home's exterior is made of concrete, fiberboard, and clapboard.

[augustinewrites]

what are reader’s thoughts about gojo’s black shirt look (similar to what we see in jjk 221) aka what does she think of that bod (＾▽＾)

afternoons were busy, in your experience. the school was awake and alive with energy, bodies moving to and fro as they worked through the day's tasks.

at this time, just after lunch, people typically stopped by your office. whether it was megumi stopping by for a reprieve from his larger than life friends, shoko coming to drag you out for a late lunch, or gojo coming to sprawl himself out on your couch.

so when the sun is high in the sky and no one has come to bother you, you're a little concerned.

when you inquire principal yaga about this, he says he'd last seen nanami headed towards the training grounds. naturally, that's the first place you go. surely he can help you round up your students and their other teacher.

when you arrive at the training grounds, you're surprised to see the first and second year students gathered there, including shoko, watching something just out of your periphery.

"what are you guys doing?" you ask, catching shoko's attention.

she simply gestures to the main area. "sight-seeing."

"sight-seeing?" you frown. "this is the training grounds."

"i know."

you follow her line of sight, curious to see what's gotten everyone's attention.

oh.

the summer breeze combined with the afternoon sun seems to have prompted nanami and gojo to shed a few layers of clothing as they sparred. nanami's abandoned his blazer, the sleeves of his blue dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, and the topmost buttons undone.

gojo's thrown his jacket aside, leaving him in a nicely fitted black t-shirt.

wordlessly, you lower yourself to sit next to shoko.

with his loose-fitting uniform, it was easy to forget how brawny your fiancé was. now you could see everything. broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist and long legs.

he's handling himself in hand-to-hand combat against nanami with ease, footwork practiced and posture immaculate. his body is tight, muscular, rigid. the tension of his toned biceps just right as he swings at the blond. he smirks when it connects and the sorcerer is knocked backward a few steps. it's horribly attractive.

"hey," shoko interrupts your daydreaming when she nudges you. "did you need something?"

you're too busy tracking a drop of sweat rolling down the side of gojo's throat to recall. "i don't remember."

you can't really focus when he's panting like that, chest heaving and tongue darting out to glide across his bottom lip. he grunts with the effort of deflecting a hit, his muscles flexing as he maneuvers his torso to avoid a follow up. when his shirt rides up, you absolutely don't think about where that white trail of hair below his navel leads, heat pooling in your gut as--

"why aren't you both working?"

you both jump as if you'd been caught doing something illegal as principal yaga steps in front of you, arms crossed.

"sorry, sir," you apologize, bowing your head as your face heats up.

_____

gojo is equal parts confused and aroused when he steps into your office and you immediately lock the door behind him. this may or may not have been the beginning of a fantasy of his.

“noticed you oogling me earlier,” he smirks. then he pauses, thinking. “or is it ogling? am i saying it right?”

“satoru?”

“yeah babe?”

“shut up.”

he's half convinced this is a fantasy when you grab the front of his shirt and pull him close, hungrily pressing your lips to his.

he goes to lift them hem of his shirt up, but you stop him, muttering,

keep it on.

well, he thinks as you trail kisses down the column of his throat.

if you say so.

[whencyclopedia]

Horyuji

The Horyuji Temple near Nara in Japan was founded in 607 CE by Prince Shotoku and is the only surviving Buddhist monastery from the Asuka Period in its original state. The complex, consisting of 48 listed buildings including a 5-storey pagoda, has the oldest wooden buildings in Japan. Within the temples are many ancient Buddhist sculptures including some of the oldest bronze and wood figures produced by Japanese sculptors. In 1993 CE the temple complex became the country's first UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Foundation & Design

The Horyuji Temple was founded during the reign of Prince Shotoku (594-622 CE), regent to his aunt, Empress Suiko. Shotoku helped spread Buddhism in Japan, which had arrived via Korea in the mid-6th century CE. He oversaw the construction of many Buddhist temples, among them Shitennoji (593 CE) and Hokoji (596 CE), but Horyuji is the only one to have survived in its original state. The site was not without its problems for several buildings burnt down c. 670 CE but were then rebuilt so that by 710 CE it had regained its former glory. The historian E. F. Fenollosa suggests that the outer gate, pagoda, and Great Hall escaped the fire. The site is divided into two connecting precincts, the Sai-in (Western) and slightly later To-in (Eastern), both of which have their paving covered in white sand and are enclosed within walls to separate them from the non-sacred outer world.

Horyuji's wooden buildings, rare examples of early East Asian architecture, are the oldest such structures in Japan. Features typical of Asuka Period (538-710 CE) architecture include double terrace platforms on which the buildings stand, columns which curve slightly and taper as they rise so as to appear perfectly straight at a distance (entasis), columns topped by wooden block plates to bear the weight of the heavy tiled roofs, and wooden brackets decorated with cloud designs, again to aid in load-bearing. The site benefitted from major restoration works in 1374 CE, 1603 CE, and in the mid-20th century CE.

Continue reading...

[thee-morrigan]

the words you're too scared to say

attachment theory, chapter 11 The Wayhaven Chronicles Nate Sewell/Holland Townsend rated M

Excerpt:

Summer melted away with a slow, easy slide, candle wax dripping and cooling along the smooth column of a long, white taper. The trees turned yellow, gold, orange. Another month gone, and the weather had begun to change, the air taking on a bite, a briskness. Officially fall, now: the nights were growing steadily colder, the air crisp and tart-sharp as the first bite of a perfectly ripe green apple, and the sky had taken on that crystalline brilliance, that startling, bright clarity that only autumn skies seem to possess. (As if everything was sharper, somehow. Clearer. As if the world had become somehow clearer, cleaner.) And Holland had never been one for the summer months. Had always felt like they were a little too hazy-thick, bright in the wrong ways. Too hot and too long, an endless taffy-stretch of days spent sweltering in the sticky-wet heat, sun beating down on everything, relentless and oppressive and draining, where everything was just too fucking much. But this summer, the days had slipped by far too quickly, and the nights even more so. (And the nights had been...) There hadn't been enough time, she thought. Hadn't been nearly enough of him. Summer, for once, had been too short and too little. For the first time she could remember, Holland longed for more of summer's relentless sprawl. (And she thought: There will never be enough of Nate, for as long as I live.) Another month gone. And Holland wondered if they would run out of time before she worked up the courage to tell him that she— well. That he meant more than she’d intended for him to mean.

continue on ao3

[kryptid-writes]

Chapter 9 - Cat's Out

The secret is out and the tension reaches a boiling point.

(2.6k)

The beautiful symphony of music plays, unlike anything I've heard before. It’s soft but powerful, the notes harmonizing and blending together in the most exquisite way, filling me with a sense of peace. 

I find myself dressed in a beautiful flowing white gown, adorned with tiny diamonds that sparkle under the bright light shining from the crystal chandelier that hangs above us in the empty ballroom. 

The elegant ballroom is filled with exquisite architecture that’s reminiscent of a fairytale. The marbled walls are lined with twisting golden engravings creating elegant designs. The white and gray columns tower over us, unique shapes and symbols carved into the stone. But perhaps the most stunning part of it all is the dynamic renaissance painting across the ceiling. Pastel depictions of angels and the peaceful grace of Heaven clashing against the dark armies of demons and black hounds of Hell. Among all the chaos is the battle of Micheal and Lucifer, the story I study like gospel.

Lucifer wears a matching three piece suit in a pristine white color that brings out the deep red of his eyes. His hair neatly brushed back and the usual blood that splatters his body is scrubbed completely clean.

I must admit, for a man that’s never seemed to care about his appearance before, he sure cleans up nice.

With my hand intertwined in his, we sway together, the click of shoes against the old polished wood echoing around. His extravagant wings flow to the melody and hold me close as we spin in coordinated circles. Our bodies press together, that wonderful electric feeling humming between us, pulling us ever closer. I press my face against his chest, breathing in his enticing smell. 

He rests his head on the top of mine and hums along to the music, occasionally singing a quiet word of Enochian. His hand rests on the small of my back and moves up to caress the feathers of my petite wings.

I suck in a breath of air as he reaches the cusp of my injured wing, wisps of pain surging through me.

With a touch of his fingers, a white light shines through and the wound is instantly healed, the pain fading rapidly and leaving a cool sensation behind.

“What happened my beloved?” He asks, placing a tender kiss on the top of my hair.

Lucifer always seems to know more about me then he lets on, but I play along with his little game regardless.

 “Did Dean do something to you?” He tilts my head to meet his gaze. “I swear to dad, I will make him wish he was never born!” His eyes burn with passion.

“No!” I blurt out. I rest my hand on his chest, trying to calm his sudden temper.

“Are you sure? Because I was really looking forward to finally smiting that petulant bug.” His lips twist into a mischievous smile at the thought.

“Dean didn’t do anything,” My eyes fall to the chestnut wooden floor, avoiding his eye contact. “I did this to myself,” my voice tapers off to a hushed whisper.

“Why?” He asks, his voice dripping with hurt, despite knowing the answer already.

“Because I don’t want to be an angel, Lucifer! I want to be me!” Hot tears brim my eyes, threatening to spill at any second.

“Oh, Darling.” He cups my face in his hands, wrapping his large white wings around us, shielding me from the light that has suddenly become all too bright. “This is your true form. This is who you were always meant to be.” He tenderly kisses my forehead.

I shake my head, utterly conflicted by the rush of emotions. I meet his gaze with wide eyes. The tears break free, racing down my cheeks.

“You are my fathers finest creation.” He wipes my tears away with his thumbs. “I didn’t think it possible that you could be any more beautiful, yet here you are my love,” he coos, running his eyes over every inch of me, admiring me as if I were the forbidden apple in the garden of eden. He pulls me into his warm embrace, the magnetic feeling courses through me, I feel as if I'm floating on a cloud.

“Oh, Luce,” I sigh into his chest.

“We’ll be reunited very soon and you’ll see why it must be this way,” he promises, running his fingers through my delicate feathers.

I close my eyes at the feeling and find myself fading from the realm of dreams.

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

The soft murmurs of voices down the hall pulls me out of my peaceful dream that my mind scrambles to hold on to, desperate to return. 

After a minute of resistance, I stretch my arms far above my head and yawn, feeling refreshed after a good night of sleep. Yesterday's events must have really taken a lot out of me. Looking to my left, I notice the messy nest of sheets and pillows where Dean Winchester once slept, holding me in his arms. The memory leaves a soft smile on my face.

I throw the silk sheets off of me and stand from the bed, leaving my comfortable paradise. I grab a flannel off the floor and attempt to put it on, but it gets stuck above my wings, leaving me still completely exposed. I huff and tear at the threads in the back, carelessly ripping open two uneven holes. I constrict my wings into uncomfortable angles and force them through the mangled shirt. This angel business is bound to affect my life in many unforeseen ways.

I step out of my room and tiptoe down the hallway that leads to the library. As I grow nearer, the three familiar voices become more clear. I stop and press my body against the cold tile wall, hiding just out of sight and listen intently to their conversation.

“I’m telling you man, something is seriously wrong,” Dean warns in a hushed volume.

 I can hear him nervously pacing back and forth, his hurried footsteps giving him away.

“You should’ve seen what she was doing to herself! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“So, what? You think it’s some sort of depression or dysmorphia?” Sam asks in confusion.

“Could be. It’s quite a drastic change,” Dean pauses for a second, “I mean you remember what it felt like losing your angel mojo and becoming human, right?” 

“Yes, it was certainly distressing,” Castiel replies in his usual monotone voice.

“I’m… fine,” I say weakly, interrupting their conversation and stepping into the light. I clutch my hands together, nervously picking at the cuticles of my nails. I try to fold my wings behind my back in a pitiful attempt to hide them, but at this point they’re too large to disguise. I can’t help but feel self conscious as their undivided attention is directed towards me.

“Y/N,” Deans gasps, eyes wide and mouth agape, resembling a deer caught in headlights.

“Um, good morning,” Sam says, his face painted in surprise. His eyes scan over my form, unable to look away from my wilted wings, particularly the mutilated one wrapped in bandages.

“Look, I had to tell them,” Dean admits in shame, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m just worried about you, is all,” his voice drops to a softer, concerned tone. 

“It’s okay Dean,” I assure him, swallowing the betrayal I felt deep down. “But really, I'm fine,” I emphasize the last two words, being sure to get my point across. My eyes flick over to the other men, they look back at me with doubt.

“You should let Sammy take a look at the wound, he’s always been better at this kinda thing than me.” Dean walks to my side, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder and guiding me to sit at the table.

I sink into the chair but sulk away from his touch. As much as I've grown to care for Dean, I can’t help but feel a twinge of resentment. It saddens me that someone I thought I could trust would rat me out so quickly. But I suppose all I was doing is delaying the inevitable, they would have found out one way or another.

Dean pulls his hand back, receiving the message loud and clear.

“Right,” Sam says and stands from his seat. His eyes still locked on my wings, undoubtedly having a difficult time peeling his eyes away. Without another word, he dashes out of the library.

The room goes uncomfortably silent, the awkward tension hanging in the air. 

Dean leans back against the table, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, clearly feeling a sense of guilt. 

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, my arms crossed and mind racing.

Castiel on the other hand, stands attentively on the other side of the table, his stare in my direction unrelenting.

Sam quickly returns with a bottle of whiskey and a small white towel. He pulls a chair out, the obnoxious scrape of wood breaking the silence. He sits across from me and clears his throat.

I frill out my injured wing, stretching it so that Sam may remove the bandage and inspect the wound.

He furrows his brows and carefully unwraps the damaged area. His eyes narrow and the bloody bandage falls to the ground. “It’s… healed?” His face scrunches up in confusion. His soft brown eyes shifting from my wings, back to Dean and Castiel. 

“No, it was right there, I stitched it up myself!” Dean huffs, stepping forward. He hovers over me to get a closer look at the wing, running a finger over the area that was previously mutilated. His expression is a mix of surprise and confusion.

I close my eyes at his touch, doing my best to suppress the blissful feeling that burns in my body. “Hm,” I respond, looking at the perfectly restored wing. I shift it back and forth, the pain completely gone.

Dean throws his hands up, bewildered at my response.

“Hm? That’s all you have to say?” He shouts at me and runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

I shoot a spiteful glare at him, annoyed by his temper.

“It’s possible that her newly found angel grace may have healed the injury overnight,” Castiel chimes in. He steps closer and leans over the table intently, placing his calloused hands on the worn wood.

“It’s not my grace,” I say quietly, my gaze falling to the floor. 

“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean barks, clearly fed up with the lack of answers.

“Lucifer… he healed me last night in my dream,” I admit, mentally preparing myself for the backlash I have deliberately been avoiding.

“He’s still communicating with you through your dreams?” Sam questions, his tone soft, much more understanding than his brothers. There’s no question that he’s the more compassionate of the two.

“Great! Well that’s just fantastic!” He roars, his voice a mix of sarcasm and anger. He bounds out of the chair and hastily throws a book that was sitting upon the table, in anger. It hits the wall with a crack and falls to the floor, ripped pages fluttering to the ground, landing in a messy pile. “Were you planning on telling us this anytime soon?” His face flushes red in rage and clenches his fists into tight balls.

I shrug, not paying mind to his childish outburst. 

“So, what? You’re buddy buddy with the devil now?!” He yells, taking several steps towards me with no regard for my personal space.

“I NEVER SAID THAT!” I bolt up from my chair. It tips backwards and hits the floor with a loud bang. I look up at him, his face just inches from mine. Our eyes lock in an intense staring contest, waiting for the other to break.

“Alright!” Sam intervenes, stepping between us. “Take a walk!” He snaps at Dean, giving him a light push to the chest.

Dean furrows his brows at Sam and gives me one final resentful glare before turning on his heels and storming out of the room, grumbling angrily to himself on the way out.

I let out a breath that I didn’t realize I was holding in. I close my eyes, getting my emotions under control, something Dean seems incapable of.

Sam takes a seat and runs his hand down his face, stopping to pinch the bridge of his nose, the stress evidently getting to him.

Castiel straightens up and stands still like a statue, looking unphased as usual. The scruffy angel resigns to silence.

“Look,” Sam says, gesturing for me to take the seat next to him. “We’re just a little frustrated you’ve been hiding this stuff from us,” his voice is calm and collected. 

It takes the edge off of my anger and I relax into the back of the chair, the wood digging into my back. “I’m sorry Sam,” I sigh. “I’m just ashamed that he has this hold on me that I just can’t seem to shake. I didn’t want to concern you.”

He nods his head in understanding. “He’s the devil, a master manipulator, and he’s a natural at getting inside people's heads. Trust me, I know,” he chuckles like it’s some sort of inside joke. Sam silently shakes his head, looking as if he’s recalling some distant memories.

“But these things,” I resentfully gesture to my wings. “I’m a full blown freak!”

“You’re not a freak,” Sam states in a stern voice. “I know why you feel that way, but it’s far from the truth Y/N.” He places his large hand on mine that rests upon the table in a friendly gesture.

“Look at me Sam! These things are an abomination,” I retort, hanging my head in shame.

“Your wings are nothing to be ashamed of,” Castiel interjects, breaking his stoic silence.

I lift my head and look in his direction, suddenly reminded of his presence. He had been so quiet and still that I completely forgot he was here at all.

“They’re a sign of beauty and grace,” he assures, his pensive blue eyes meeting mine. “You are beautiful,” he says in full seriousness, his face softening just a little.

I’m seriously taken aback by his words. A compliment is the last thing I'd expect from Castiel, even Sam looks shocked. “Thank you Castiel.” I’m unable to conceal the blush that creeps upon my face.

“Hey Cas,” Sam asks, changing the direction of the conversation. “How come we’re able to see her wings but not yours?” 

“I’m not entirely sure, but it likely has something to do with the fact that Y/N is partially human. Perhaps she is unable to conceal them the same way a natural angel can.”

“Wow, my luck just keeps getting better,” I reply sarcastically.

Castiel tilts his head in confusion. It seems that to some angels, sarcasm is a foreign concept.

“That’s probably why they look like this,” I say bitterly. “Short and stubby. Even my feathers are a rugged mess.”

Castiel frowns at this and Sam gives my hand a light squeeze.

“I mean compared to Lucifer's big majestic wings, these puny things are nothing,” I sigh.

Castiel’s head shoots up, his brows furrowed and face an unreadable expression. “You can see Lucifer’s wings?” He asks, seemingly caught off guard by this.

“Um… yeah?”

He straightens his posture, suddenly looking stiff and worried. His brows furrow and eyes flit back and forth, lost in thought.

“Cas?” Sam questions suspiciously.

“I believe I have a lead.” The sound of ruffling feathers echoes off the walls as he promptly disappears. 

His reaction leaves me with more questions than answers, an uneasy feeling settling in my stomach.

Sam and I look at eachother, exchanging worried glances.

Whether he admits it or not, Castiel is hiding something.

Series Masterlist

Full Masterlist

[darkdemeter]

FLOWERS FROM MY LOVER

CUT PROLOGUE TURNED TEASER EXCERPT FROM LOVERS IN EDEN CHAPTER 2, COMING SOON...

NOTIFICATION LIST

@nsilvers-personal-treasury

Her heart’s desire. Somewhere that humanity would be protected from the reaches of Heaven, Hell and the Council. Fury sets upon a journey across the cosmos, a liquid landscape of starlight and darkened, inky oceans that swirl in a calming abyss that hum with a beating force. It drones in her ears peacefully. The humans charged under her guardianship venture with her, following her. She leads the way to their new home. But where? 

She musters images of serenity. Somewhere like earth. Green and hospitable, a safe where the dirt doesn’t stir with broken ash upon a mere touch but insead, the soil is rich with growth and can supply an abundance of crops. A haven where they can rest themselves and gather their strength, forge the foundations of their home to build their life anew and reclaim their numbers. 

But all thoughts of such a wonderful place are banished. Overtaken by the distorted and cruel memories of her past. Lands of rolling, green pastures turn to barren wastes, smoke travels in winding spirals until they come together as a large, looming cloud above without promise of anything else but a polluted visage of darkness. All the places she wanted to be safe weren’t good enough. Haunted by the past, she cannot find that safe haven and she, along with the ethereal energies that go with her, begin to falter in their travels. 

Ugh, why is this so hard? Why can’t I find somewhere safe for them?

Her heart pounds hard in the cavern of her chest. She begins to rush through the process, impatient that for once, she tries to do the right thing only to fail. Was she truly suited for this purpose, to serve as their protector? 

Fury.

Her eyes pry open quickly, widened. Someone or something spoke to– no, through her. Fury feels her body become weightless in the grasp of whatever power that guides her. She willingly chooses to follow it instead of being led like some dog. The souls of the humans gather close to her,  following her direction with clinging desperation to not get lost. To not be left behind.

It’s safe here. Come. 

Fury’s body succumbs to the shudder that pulses through her body, leaving her nauseous and weak. Her eyes become heavy, drooping as the calm, soft lull of the voice pulls her through the white light at the end of the tunnel where the twinkling lights of stars and dancing halos fuse closely together. 

Pulled through and vision covered entirely, her head falls back, her hair fluttering in a column of fiery, tapering locks. 

She descends slowly, the phantom hold she feels around her carefully moves to lower her into a bed of a softened texture. It caresses her skin with a comforting tenderness. Her eyes are so heavy. Even when she tries to keep them open, to will herself to stand up and see to the humans in her care, her body has grown exhausted. 

She feels warm under the glowing pale of the sun that paints over her. The scented perfume of flowers fills her senses and further blankets her with promise. This place is safe. This is her heart’s desire. She hasn’t even seen a single detail of this world and yet she knows it is right. It is all that the humans will need. Perhaps what she and her brothers will need, if they ever see each other again…

How she yearns to be with her brothers and finally to be united together. She has seen the error of her selfish wants. Lust had been right, what it was she lusted for was a sin all her own. She continues to learn from her mistakes but some feel incapable of mending. 

I’m so tired…

Her mouth cranes open to yawn, her cheek turning inward to the touch of the lily petals. The shadow that hovers over her is unseen by her, finally able to rest peacefully in this bed of flowers. This serene home. 

“Welcome home, Fury. Sleep now… you have earned it.”

Fingers tethered to a gentle hand move down to brush a stream of hair from Fury’s face. An even kinder gaze watches her, fond and hopeful that the Horseman may finally find her respite here. A breeze envelops the field of lilies, their petals lean with a swaying dance and Fury’s breath slows, her heart no longer rapping hard and instead settles. 

Wherever this new home is, it is nice. Beautiful. She hopes her brothers will get to see it soon. 

This unseen form wanders, steps adrift to leave Fury to sleep amidst the flowery meadow. The humans returned to their physical bodies, gasping and eyes widened, the spiritual verse uncontained by a physical vessel one that they do not experience often. 

Silently, the host that resides in this world as its caretaker lifts a finger to rest on the curve of her lips, inaudibly swearing the humans to secrecy. 

Her identity will be revealed… all in due time. Until then, she turns on a wayward path towards the half bending sun that sets upon the horizon. The veiling whites of her robes flutter in the wind, drawing around her body gracefully. Her bare feet move along slowly, her eyes shimmer with a warm glisten and she continues to smile. In her embrace, she nurses a bundle of freshly plucked lilies, the dark smears of ash and decay fading away and ready for their planting among the many in the field. 

“Thank you for the flowers, my love.”

[cmrosens]

New Release! The Snow Child by C.M. Rosens

My latest release is now available! #fairytale #folkhorror #darkfiction #shortstory #readmorebooks #readingtime #booksbooksbooks

The freak June blizzard shrouded the scarecrow in white mist, but Jem Gregson wasn’t trudging out of the farmhouse with his rifle on Old Rusty’s account. He was out here for the snowmen. They were in a row, slender columns of tightly packed, brilliant crystals, glittering until his eyes ached. Each had a perfectly round ball placed on top of its tapered trunk. They had just appeared through the…

[notmuchtoconceal]

The Mandrake, Pt. 1 of None

The girl’s skin is green with the softness of battered flesh.

If she were brown, her innards would be tart and firm, but she’s mostly tasteless mush. What remains of her face is a wrinkled depression implying the outline of eyes and nose. A slanting molar column mars the slope where her body tapers from stem to base.

A faint gurgle bubbles from her insides. The skin beside the teeth flaps in and out, spewing what sounds like “kill me.”

Bulges of necrotic tissue, still shaped like breasts, shoulder blades and fingers, slicken against the latex suit of her dermis. The name she had as a human is classified. Lost among an avalanche of file folders in a mountainous region of dusty filing cabinets.

She sits in a field outside a plastic pseudo-suburb and smog’s gushing from the mortar lungs of cutout factories mid in the near-distance. With midday resurging, the black veil recedes and decaying radiation shines in a vast tanning bed of yellow dawn. Crows gather on the tops of power lines and radio towers, hunger gleaming in pebbles black and shining with acid rain. Within minutes, the flock could descend as a hurricane of feather and sinew and pick apart the girl to a slimy pit of black bone.

The birds are set dressing placed here to inform me that this is a wet operation. Or, due to the impairment of the target, a thankless execution.

Sickle Cell’s dressed all in white, looking a bit like a barn owl resting on top of a ceramic mall mannequin. Under a wide umbrella, in a beach chair, she’s lounging in a matching sundress and hat with oversized circular sunglasses, the rims of which gleam impeccably. She crosses her legs, squeaking leather boots that she can’t possibly afford, and enters into a staring contest with the girl’s eyeless visage. It is one not one which is unfamiliar to the eye which trains itself on remaining untrained. The subtle curvature of her apricot lips and the tautness of her cheeks display mutual sadness and repulsion. She gives this look to herself in the mirror after coming home from dinner. Behind those opacified lenses, her eyes are running down the curvature of the girl and she’s laying that impression like tracing paper over the memory of her own body.

“Do you pity it?” Sickle asks.

Sweat’s soaking through my new shirt. My jeans are shit, but my back’s held up rigidly straight to draw attention to my upper body.

Certain details are not clear to me. As the hot sun beats down on my head and the long walk simmers in my legs, it’s best to put-off dwelling on them until the last possible second.

“Can’t feel much of anything, sorry. Slept through breakfast and skipped lunch.”

“I know; I’m a bit peckish, too. I still can’t help but feel something for her. It, I mean.”

Kneeling down next to her, my fingers run through her expertly mussed hair.

“Are you planning to meet somebody later?”

Her shoulders retract as she looks at the horizon. She slips off her sunglasses and sunlight strikes her eyes in a golden censor bar as she lingers with a dignified melancholy—a look that you can’t help but dismiss as a display of holier-than-thou mock-sentiment.

With a deep breath and the smells of ash, burning fat and dry dirt fill my lungs. Plastic glove on my hand, my legs swagger toward the girl.

“What’re you doing?” Sickle asks.

“We were tasked with this case for a reason, love.”

The scarecrow standing ten feet away is a hanged-man with a noose made of straw intestine. A burning hot pole enters his rectum and pierces the cap of his skull. This tells me the girl committed a crime worthy of two deaths. The fingers of his right hand cover his lips while the fingers of his left hand cross behind his back. This outs the girl as an informant or snitch. The cosmetics caked on his face tell me the girl had an active nightlife, possibly moonlighting as a hair metal singer or party clown.

I linger on the scarecrow’s bright yellow sundress and the string of doll-heads hanging from fishhooks in the straw rope.

Kneeling beside the girl, dry grass scratches my knees through frayed denim knotholes. My fingers run delicately over her exposed teeth, which have the soft smoothness of porcelain. The textures of her flesh alternate between the weave of canvas and the chunky ripples of papier-mâché. Living animal warmth radiates from her skin. Her body muffles the audible machinery of digestion and blood circulation.

She reeks of lilac perfume and red wine. The latter could be either a leftover from her last night as a human, or the onset of fermentation. On her back is an unspoiled patch of milky white skin emblazoned with a tramp-stamp depicting two worms wrapped around an oar.

I snap my fingers and weakly mumble “totally called it” and it’s only a few seconds later, after a few crows caw like they’re congratulating me, that I wish I’d made more of a show of things.

“Did you check for STDs?” Sickle asks.

“Hell no. I’m not reaching into those fetid depths unless my life depends on it. I bet she has more crabs than a Red Lobster.”

She moans softly to herself. “I could go for some crabs right now.”

“This bitch has the mark, dearest. She was definitely one of CHERRIE’s. From the detail in the tattoo, I’m going to say she was classy enough to be more than a fuck-toy, but from the location, too slutty to be in his harem of silk-clad vampire wives.”

“You think he ever wined and dined it? Candles, violins, clam chowder. Everything.”

“He’s totally the kind of asshole who deludes himself into thinking he’s sophisticated. We’re going to interrogate the vegetable to our heart’s content before commencing with the execution.”

“Are you positive that it’s no longer a person? I mean, it still has teeth!”

“Flytraps have teeth.”

“Not human teeth, dear.”

“What differences does it really make?” I shrug my shoulders and only realize now how heavy my upper body really feels. “We’ve got calcified husks specialized for tearing and grinding. They’ve got thin sensory prongs. It’s the difference between a meat-grinder and a steak knife.”

“Is feeling up an empty bra as fun as groping a full breast?”

“That depends on how lacy it is, now stop changing the subject. This woman, dear Sickle, is going to die because she deserves to die. That decision was made by people smarter than you, who are more willing to assess reality by hoisting their responsibilities on me, a capable agent.”

“What reality is that?” She slides her sunglasses back on. “That all life is equally worthless, but the law carries weight to a degree that it’s pointless to question it, though you'll question everything else?”

“Sickle, you need to lose that tone. It’s simple pragmatism, come now. If we wanted to determine if she was more human or vegetable, we’d need to perform a dissection, so she’s fucked either way. We could kill her, leave her here, rip out her guts and throw them at geese. It’s all going to accomplish the same amount of nothing, so it’s sensible to drain the last remnants of her miserable life pursuing information.”

That shuts Sickle up for a bit.

The crows caw like they’re laughing at her. Now that she’s drained her capacity for rational argument, she attempts to implore my emotions in a passive-aggressive manner without seeming at all obvious about it.

“It’s different, you know. Wishing harm on something and witnessing it. I knew it a bit. We weren’t friends or anything. In fact I frequently found it irritable on good days and obnoxious on bad days, but I’d never wish this on anything, not even my worst enemy or my best friend.”

I’m not paying much attention to her.

My body stinks of sweat and rotting fruit salad. My hands finger the cap of a bottle of cologne in my pocket and I’m pretending to stretch and yawn so I can discreetly spritz myself.

“Dearest, you wouldn’t have the imagination to wish this on her.”

She’s rummaging through a white leather purse. “I used to think it was a convenience to hang out with someone who felt so little. It was nice to not be expected to fake tears when I had none to shed.”

“Always a pain, isn’t it, love?” I ask. “Doesn’t it diminish the worth of empathy to falsify it so regularly? They blow soldiers to bits in deserts, cork children with assault weapons, and I’m expected to fake tears for a fruitcup like a thunderous orgasm in the great porno theater of life.”

Sickle opens an eggshell compact from her purse. She can’t see her own eyes. “Cruelty is understandable when it’s either anonymous or personal. I weep for the dead children. Really, I do. I’m only human after all. They’re so young, so unsure of everything. The girls I watch after look at me with such warm smiles that it crushes my heart whenever they so much as frown. I suppose there’s a sort of lull in the spectrum of human empathy. I simply cannot be bothered to care for someone I barely know. Nothing needs to be said about the raw nerve of a loved one in pain, but with strangers, there’s a sort of purity in aimless victimization.”

Crouching over Sickle’s lap, the prongs of the umbrella poke my scalp. My hands fall upon her shoulders and my face slides inches from her nose. She has to smell the cologne. In the reflection of her sunglasses is the first haircut I’ve had in months.

I lick my lips and whisper in her ear. “What I’m taking from that stirring oratory is that I’ve got carte blanche to torture the veggie.”

Her lacquered gaze glides along the barren earth. She pushes me off, takes two steps toward the girl and stops as if lost in thought.

I smell my forearm and spritz myself some more.

The crows look like they’re nudging and shushing each other. When I walk up beside her, she’s giggling.

“Maybe instead of an interrogation,” she says, “we can perform a firsthand investigation of certain, uh… dineries in the area to see if we can find any… um, physical evidence of occupation by hostile forces. You said yourself that this mystery man might take his prospects out for dinner.”

“Why do I bring you out on field work? You’re a useless combination of hungry, lazy and female.”

She whines so suddenly her glasses fall off.

“I want crab legs.”

“Crab legs do sound nice.”

“Fried shrimp.”

“Oh fuck, fried shrimp…”

“Lobster.”

My stomach rumbles. “Maybe we can just nibble on the vegetable?”

“You’re not even sure if it’s still human. That could be cannibalism.”

“Jesus Christ, can you go five seconds without pointing out another ethical ambiguity?”

“Why? I was planning to make a game of it.”

“I bet she would taste good with applesauce.”

I had anticipated she would moan the word “applesauce” in the throes of muted orgasm, but her mind is elsewhere else and she’s probing the girl with squinting eyes and not a hint of appetite.

“Can it hear us?” she asks.

“Does she have ears?”

“I don’t think so? What’s that thing on its side?”

“The beginnings of an asexual budding?”

“Throw a rock at it.”

I hoist a chunk of broken granite from the base of a pile of stones. The edges scratch my naked palms. I whirl and toss it through the air and watch it rip through the soft flesh of her growth. A glistening bright red wound, like overripe watermelon in the harsh sunlight gushes a rivulet of blood and fluorescent mucus with the viscosity of corn syrup.

The girl lets out a horrible shriek that rips through my ears and forces the perched crows to take off and block out the sun.

I can’t even hear my own obscenity over the ringing in my ears.

‘I’m going to fucking kick that thing, I swear!” yells Sickle.

“She’ll scream again, you bimbo! Don’t fucking touch her!”

Sickle reaches up to her ears and watches blood run down her palm.

“I won’t,” she says, “but only because I’m thinking of the glop it’ll get on my new boots”

“Can you repeat that darling, I fear I’m a wee bit deaf in one ear.”

“Huh? What did you just say? Try talking into the ear that isn’t bleeding.”

“She’s developed the perfect defense mechanism to endure any interrogation. How could she have started evolving so soon after transmogrification?”

“Nope, still can’t hear you,” shouts Sickle.

“No method of polite coercion will get her to talk if she can scream that fucking loud.”

“I’m still trying to figure out how you expect it to talk when it doesn’t have a mouth.”

“Our only hope is to forsake the threat of pain and force upon her the fear of an instant death.”

“I like that you’re not answering my questions.”

“She’ll talk if we drag her up someplace high and suspend her on the edge of vertigo. There’s no way she’ll be stupid enough to scream and risk us letting her go, as that will set into motion her rapid descent to a delectable splat on the pavement.”

“It really is the only way,” she’s twirling her sunglasses on her finger. “There’s no way it would talk if I sat down and tried to ask it questions. We are, of course, one-hundred percent positive that it wants to withhold information. Poor dear would never think to buy protection.”

I reach under my shirt and spritz my chest. “You really need to learn how to mix business with pleasure, you know that?”

The girl mumbles something again. It sounds like “For fuck’s sake, will you shut up and kill me already!”

Sickle walks up to the girl. “Hey sweetie, how are you feeling?”

The girl screams something unflattering about Sickle’s figure.

“Oh fuck you, fat ass!” she says. “You’re one to talk. That’s not an apple bottom, it’s a bean-bag bottom, bitch!”

“Sickle, stop while you’re ahead,” I implore lucidly, so sick of saying. “The interrogation is a delicate art and frankly I’m Bosch at a triptych and you’re a kindergartener with finger-paints.” I walk up to the girl and calmly ask, “Well, fat ass, what’s your relationship with CHERRIE?”

She says, “Eat a dick, faggot.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” I rub my chin. “Sickle, darling, cover your ears.”

Yanking the penknife I always carry in my pocket, I stab her with dozens of vigorous jerks until she screams so loudly, my blind furor slows to a wobbly stutter. White circles flash against my collapsed eyelids and I fall back into the sun-drenched dirt. Red sticky heat fills my ears and runs down my cheeks. When I open my eyes, Sickle’s face is hovering over me, out of focus, her mouth flapping with hysteric jaw contortions, but no words are coming out. When I push her aside and try to stand up, my head throbs with a pulsating buzz and a static whine fills the silent vacuum of the world. My arm is numb and my elbow is on fire with a peroxide burn. The girl’s twitching like she’s in the onset of an epileptic fit. An assortment of fluids, all some shade of green, red or brown, pours down her corkboard flesh as it succumbs to black splotches of rot.

I sit down on the dirt completely of my own volition. I don’t stumble backwards and land on my ass. Sickle pulls a cluster of movie theater napkins from her purse and clutches two wads to my ears. The cheap pulp scratches at the swollen cartilage and bloats with blood so quickly that after a minute it’s not soaking in anything.

Ten minutes later, after standing hunched over a particularly eroded bit of soil sutured by railroad spikes, blood pouring ontp the ground and not my clothes, my hearing comes back.

Sickle’s mumbling to herself about how I either don’ t think things through or over-think everything for so long that I end up not doing anything and that I should really pick one or the other already.

I turn to her and say “I can hear you clearly now.”

She smiles and says, “Well, thanks for that brilliant display of your interrogation skills.”

“Do you have any bright ideas, love? I’m ready to chuck this bitch off a building regardless of how much she talks.”

She puts her sunglasses back on. “I propose we retire the old phrase ‘draining blood from a stone’ and from now on use the far more topical ‘stabbing information out of a vegetable’.”

‘You were a fool for ever questioning my blood-lust, dearest” I turn to the girl, and with the solemn voice of an executioner ask “What say you, veggie? If you speak now, we will grant you entrance to immortality on your own terms. If not, we, who are now death incarnate, will make you suffer to your last breath.”

The girl does not answer.

She continues to twitch and bleed and I can’t tell if she’s purposefully biting her tongue or vocally impaired due to the severing of a vital nerve.

Frankly, I don’t care much and mournfully intone, “Then suffering you shall have.”

Sickle pauses. “You should light it on fire,” she says. “It might explode.”

“I’d rather crush it under something heavy,” I say. “There’s something immensely satisfying about the splatter of cracking bones.”

“These are all pie-in-the-sky ideas, dear. You don’t have anything that can burn or crush. You’ll need to be more down to earth and I don’t think you can do that on an empty stomach.”

There’s a gnawing rumble in my guts. I say, “Let’s leave her on the train tracks and call it a day.”

“Who knows how long we’ll be waiting for a train to pass by? It could take hours. I don’t want to sit here all day. I’m hungry now.”

“You’re right. Who wants to be a passive observer when it comes to murder? I want blood on my hands, goddamn it.”

“Did you ever think about witnesses,” Sickle says, “who’s to say whether or not this is murder?”

“Darling, you can’t expect the common man to decide for themselves what deaths are justified. Their sense of right and wrong are as shapeless as puddings left out overnight. There’s no objective measurement for the value of a human life. When a soldier is shot, we mourn. When a gangbanger is shot, we sing praises and thank Christ that thug is off the streets. Really, though, they’re both thugs; but time and money goes into a soldier, while a gangbanger becomes what he is because he comes from a home with neither, but some people even the government don't fuckin wanna buy, praise the fuckin secondhand market!”

She flutters her eyelashes. “It’s like when I was five and you let Gabrielle eat the neighbor woman’s cockatoo and the old lady spanked you with a cane. Then you cried because nobody cared that I let her tear a bunch of ‘filthy, disease-ridden’ pigeons to bits of pillow stuffing?”

I stop talking for a while. She’s smiling. How can she be smiling? I stare at Sickle’s face and see only obsidian self-portraits. My own eyes stare back at me; eyes that see my own slumped shoulders and wonder how someone who loves me can be so cruel and why, as time keeps moving and I don’t say anything, the smile settles into practiced apathy. Her cheeks slacken into silk bed sheets unruffled by sleeping bodies and my teeth are pressing together so hard that my jaw aches, and she’s about to speak, but I open my mouth and talk like nothing happened.

“It’s polite to say that human beings are irreplaceable,” there’s a tension on my vocal cords, “but they’re an infinitely renewable resource. The only value inherent in a human life lies in the whole of their collective experiences. Why do you think we take pity when celebrities or geniuses are on death row? The problem is we extend that sympathy to those who don’t deserve it. It’s all right to kill a senile old man because his brain has atrophied into a viscous mixture of dust and mucus liable to confused with aforementioned overnight pudding, left out on the same counter as the catfood, not at all east to conflate at two in the Am. It’s all right to kill a child in the womb because they have worthless brains made of undifferentiated jelly, and hardly have much flavor without the fear of death. There is always a correct amount of drama to indulge, my dear”

Sickle stands in silence. What I can see of her face shows the collision of guilt with composure. I raise my hands and invite her to stumble into my arms where I’ll coo her and tell her that she’s not guilty; that she’s not a predatory hawk, but a sweet canary whose love warms the frozen cockles of my heart like some kind of nasty microwaveable meal.

She doesn’t move.

She says, “I’ve seen septic tanks less full of shit than you.”

I move forward. “But none have smelled so nice, have they? Did you notice my new cologne? I got it yesterday. Here, come smell me. I used like half the bottle.”

“The only things I’ve done today are smell you and listen to you, and frankly, I’m a bit tired of both. Let’s get this thing out of here. If you’re gonna kill it, stop talking about it and do it already, because it won’t be daytime forever.”

“Do you think she’s going to be heavy?”

“I never imagined you carrying it, dear. I assumed you’d have no qualms about kicking it on its side and rolling it.”

“Hey, I’m sorry.”

“I know. You’re always sorry.”

“You’re not the only one who can dress up like a high-class whore, you know,” I spritz myself until the skin on my neck is irritated. “This shit cost me like five dollars.”

The girl screams when I push her onto the hot pavement.

She rolls a few feet before she seems to jump and wobble back onto her base. A leathery punching bag is sweating olive oil. With my still gloved hand attached to my still numb arm, I inspect her stab wounds to find the landmine field of punctures exploding into lumpy clusters of fluid-filled sacks. I continue to push and roll the girl. When the weight of her body pushes down on the growths, they act like a spring.

It takes careful diligence to hear the watery boing sound, as each one’s eclipsed by a perfectly timed scream. By the end of the block, she’s either exhausted or too overwhelmed with pain to let out anything more than a tired yelp and frankly, I’m tired of pushing her.

I collapse on the curb and languish in the oppressive sun. The concrete grain’s cutting into the thin layer of flesh around my pelvic bone.

“All right, Sickle,” I say, “I’ve done my part, now you kick her the rest of the way.”

“You’re kidding, right?” she asks, panting as if walking beside me was already too much work for her. She fans herself diligently. Looking around, as if it must be here. “You don’t even know where you’re going!”

“Then it’s hopeless. I guess I’m going to sit here all day and stare at your massive thunder-thighs.”

She takes the bait and gives me a look that says, “It’s on now, bitch.”

Her eyes run up and down the girl’s body. There’s two dents in her flesh: a footprint on the left bottom and a handprint on the right top. Sickle rips off her sunglasses in a way that I think she thinks is dramatic.

Practiced shit-talk is running through her mind. Inches away, she folds her arms and gives the girl a look that says, “What you gonna do, bitch?” Both hands on the girl now, she’s straining for a powerful shove, but dry-heaves, slips down the slope and rubs the pavement with her cheeks.

I’m too embarrassed to laugh.

She starts to cry. “I got dirt on my new dress!”

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I ask, “I regained my breath. I can take back over if you like.”

“No,” she wails. “I’m not being bested by a vegetable.”

I watch until my body aches through osmosis.

She pushes, slips, gets back up. Over and over. Can’t hardly move. The glucose engine that’s my brain’s runnin’ on empty. My bones and fibers rotate the useless analogue coil.

A Coke machine’s beyond a factory gate.

My autonomous body shuffles that way. Can’t read the sign, pull quarters from my pocket, probably enough. Click, click, click, beep, buzz, plop. Oh, it’s cold. Blood’s pouring back into my brain. My throat’s massaged internally with a glycerin clam.

I walk back over to Sickle and ask, “Making progress?”

“Of course,” she says, “I’d managed to shove it at least two inches this way.”

“Good work. Now how many inches in a city block? At this incredible momentum, it’ll only take us however many minutes that is.”

Sickle dashes at the girl with her elbow as hard as a battering ram. There’s a wet plop and warm droplets of sticky gunk splash my face.

I back away, but she keeps charging and charging. Sickle stares at a massive brown stain seeping into her dress. It soaks through to the skin, making the material cling to the outline of her tits. Chunks of mushy flesh stick to the dimples in her chest and melt to yogurt between her cleavage.

I wave at her while discreetly rubbing my nipples. She yanks on her neckline, and the dress turns from shrink-wrap to garbage bag.

I ask, “Do you want to find a sprinkler or something?”

She screams and tugs at her hair. Pointing at the girl, she yells “Die, bitch, die!” Sprinting in place with her squat legs, she’s throwing out all the weight her little body has, but the growths swell up into speed bumps.

Now Sickle’s barely standing, hunched over with her hands on her knees and sucking in air harder than a malfunctioning vacuum cleaner. Throttling my hands around her waist, I lift her up, give the girl a good kick and we’re halfway down the block before I dry-heave and fall over.

We lie in the grass, our lungs contracting and Sickle lets out a cry with the staccato vibration of a cough.

“Why are we so out of shape!” she cries. “You said you were going to start lifting weights!”

“I did start,” I say. “The hard part was continuing.”

The girl’s toppled over in the shade beneath a tree. She’s laughing and rolling from side to side. Laughing really isn’t the most accurate word to describe it, but I think it’s what she’s going for. It’s a sort of guttural bubbling from the intestines buzzing through pussy lips.

A sound that makes your asshole clench.

Sickle sits up. “If I was that ugly, I don’t think I’d find much of anything funny.”

“I’m sure she meant to cry. She’s so stupid, she screwed up a reflex.”

With each laugh, the flap of skin on her mouth balloons out, sucks in and clings to her throat lining.

“Shove it, fish tits!” I kick her teeth and what starts as a scream breaks down into dry hacking.

“Hey, move aside!” Sickle runs up and spin-kicks the girl’s soft flank. “You ruined my outfit, fatty!”

Juice splashes my pant legs and Sickle’s white boots. My foot breaks through the girl’s skin, into some kind of warm pothole and with a loud shlorp I’m sucked in up to the ankle. Burning petroleum jelly seeps between my toes. Pricks crawl up and down my foot. The hole clenches tighter around my ankle as white plumes of steam whisk from the girl’s pores. Sickle runs to my back and gives me the Heimlich as the tendons in my jerking leg tighten into a hemp rope. I plop loose and fall on top of Sickle. The scorched wrinkles of my red foot are tender in the sun.

My shoe is still inside.

I wiggle my toes, peel off the other shoe and shove it in the hole.

Sickle stares at me with wide eyes and flat eyebrows.

“Really?”

“This makes it even,” I say.

An old woman no doubt owns the house we’re squatting in front of. White siding sags and grey shingles on the roof thin into the gutters and walkway, exposing patches of rotted plywood. Angel statues swallowed up by shrubbery, flowerpots shaped like nesting fawns asphyxiated by vines, plywood dogs clawed by twisting branches.

Sickle heaves a stone garden gnome holding a sign saying “Welcome” and drops it on the girl’s teeth. My shoe shoots out of the hole with a wet plop and the other inches out in slow contractions. They’re both coated with yellow mucus and reek of burning rubber.

“Thanks,” I say, and drop the shoes down an open sewer drain.

“Listen,” she says. “I am very, very hungry.”

“Are you still on that? Now that fish tits isn’t screaming, we can probably take another stab at interrogating her.”

She slides her sunglasses back on. With a breathy giggle that comes off more like a bitter sigh she says, “Listen, I’ve got a dinner date. I need to be leaving soon. Do you understand?”

I scratch my neck.

“Well, you look like shit now, so you might as well ditch it.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option. You’re going to have to find some way of getting me there, or find someone else to help you move this thing.”

My fists clench.

“I should have left your ass at home and forced Key Lime out here instead,” I say. “He’d whine a fraction as much, then do twice the work, and he’s the laziest guy I know.”

“Oh, but I work so hard at being lazy!”

“He can help you push the damn thing and I can stroll behind and whack your ass with a newspaper. Tell him he owes you for staying over in your room the last few days.”

“He hasn’t been staying in my room; I haven’t seen him since last week.”

At this, I sit up. “What do you mean you haven’t seen him? I haven’t seen him.”

“Why would he be with me?”

“He’s your best gal-pal. Why wouldn’t he be with you?”

“I have a life outside of him.”

“Does he have a life outside of you?”

Her pleading eyes tell me she knows I’m right, but she’s going to pretend I’m not.

“I don’t have any idea where he could be,” she says.

She dials his number, I crouch down beside her, and we press our ears together into two funnels of cartilage tuned into the digitized ring of the dial tone. “Hey…” comes a groggy voice.

I say, “Key Lime, where the fuck—”

“I’m not here right now. But if you’d like, you can leave a message and I can get back to you… Except, I probably won’t, so don’t be angry next time I see you and ask why I didn’t call back. I don’t understand phones, okay? Now how do I get out of here? … Push what button? Hurry up, I think it’s still recording…No. No, I think it’s still on … Don’t yell at me. Okay, fine, if you know how to do it just take it!”

She sighs. “My poor boy,” and the beep flares out. “Hello Key Lime, it’s me. We’re near the train tracks down by 69th and K—”

“He doesn’t understand streets.”

“We’re across the street from the Baskin Robbins! We’re trying to move something. Come help us.”

“You couldn’t mention a different landmark?”

She glares at me. “If you come we’ll get you a smoothie, you don’t have to ask. Good-bye.”

“Ask him where he’s been for the last few days.”

“We’ll ask him when he calls back.”

“He’s not going to call back, we’re wasting our time.”

“It was your idea to call him!”

“What, you do everything I say now? Flash the next car that drives by.”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that with a dry t-shirt.”

I pat her on the head. We somehow roll the girl out to a busy street and this is where we need to make things count if we want anyone to help us haul the fat skank away. I collapse against her rough, leathery hide and the smell of fermentation is so strong my first instinct is to pull away, but I think I’m getting drunk just sniffing her, so I lay still in a stupor.

My shirt’s soaked through with sweat and my eyes fall straight across the street. Sickle steps up to the corner, pointing at the girl, and then waving at passing cars. A guy stops, asks if she’s a hooker and drives off.

Her face puffs up in a cantankerous balloon and I laugh for a good minute before realizing I’m part of the punch line.

I turn to Sickle. “We can run with the hooker thing.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sickle and I stand on the side of the road, my jeans rolled up to my knee and my long, pretty legs nestled between her thighs, sticking out through her dress, her two legs wrapped around my hips and joining into a stump wiggling behind my ass. My back hunches into an arch under her linen dinner jacket and the effect was that we look like a single woman with a lumpy hunchback, two disproportionately long legs and a mysterious fifth limb that could be a tail or the gaster of a giant ant. We are an entity that nobody but the vilest degenerate would find doable. It’s at this moment that a thin Chinese man in his fifties, whose eyes flutter with a pronounced effeminacy, gilded and regal as a celluloid closet star, pokes his head out of one of those organ-harvesting execution buses that go from prison to prison, then out to the cobbler fields.

“Hello pretty girl,” he says. “Do you need lift?”

Sickle flaps her mouth in such a manner that nothing matches the high-pitched whine squealing half-muffled from beneath her jacket.

“Oh kind sir! I am but a lowly street performer who seeks fame and fortune in Las Vegas or Fown, but I’m so, so hungry. I would do anything and I mean anything for a quick bite to eat.”

“How hung are you?” he asks.

“Not too young for you, stud.”

“What do you do in act?”

“I give this here vegetable a lap dance. I get as nude as indecent exposure laws will permit me. And then some.”

“Oooh. I like and then some. You get naked as duck in butcher window?”

“Honey, please, I make duck in window look like virginal school-girl.”

“I am intrigued and perhaps possibly aroused. All right. You get in back of van now.”

“You are simply too kind, sir. I have always benefited tremendously from the sexual neediness of strangers.”

“Do you need help with vegetable?” asks the Chinese man as he opens the driver side door.

I grab Sickle’s arm and pull it back against her head and we fall back so the only thing keeping the two of us upright is my other arm planted against the warm pavement, and Sickle now looks like a melodramatic plantation whore in some life-threatening woe, like perhaps she dropped a handkerchief, or will perhaps be encroached upon by a solar body.

“Oh please sir!” I moan. “This sun has become intolerable! I’m hotter’n a cross at a Klan rally!”

The Chinese man lets out a prolapsed evil laugh as he sashays contemptuously from the driver’s seat.

The doors at the back of the bus fly open and out walks a cute girl, probably about nineteen, flashing a toothy smile with both her mouth and her long necklace of human teeth. The driver hauls the girl in both arms and throws her to the girl. She stumbles backwards into darkness.

The driver turns to us and says, “Please get in.”

[mercswercs]

What in the ever-lovin' feck is THIS.

>It's a photo, but it's a doozy of one. It's a massive crack in the ground that Mercury's looking up from the bottom of, a fissure-turned stubby, jagged-canyon. The whole place seems to have been split from below with such force that it broke the ground itself. The place HAS to be Wayouddy, the rocks match the reddish brown of the planet's two biggest arid regions; the sky is right, too, and this time of day the planet looks up and into the tapering end of the galactic arm it calls home. Looming, arcing wisps of murky, periwinkle clouds seem to hang high above the sky, more like some kind of incomprehensibly massive object in the stars than like the thick canopy of black-gray clouds that usually come with Wayouddy's monsoons.

>But the fissure is wrong. No storm-clouds hang above the crack, yet the pounding gray sheets of monsoon rains persist, even while the absent sun seemingly beats down into the canyon. The thing is nearly as wide as it is long, and every square inch of soil is awash with jungle-life. Palm trees, rubber trees, nut trees... everything towers, or clambers over something else that towers. Trees overgrown with vines have emerged from the canopy and snapped under their own dead weight. Green, jagged teeth stick out of the jungle at every level in this microbiome, but so do shining white stone columns.

>As the reddish brown rocks, much more tan than the Flats, reaches the bottom of this place of humidity and heat and oppressive ambient pressure, the material composition of the stone gives way to a dull-white sandstone. The stuff's been quarried from below, all the way across from Merc's position, cut and polished into a gleaming shine that always catches the sourceless sunshine from above. The pillars are conical, driven through the jungle as if they were stakes, and carved to cast sharp shadows into menacing, monstrous faces.

>The biggest source of the worked stone has been erected, partially inside a carved overhang. The cave-quarry itself is a yawning thing that stretches nearly half a mile high, like a bite taken out of the side of this already gaping wound in the desert; cut block-by-block, giving the whole wide site a jagged look. Emerging from the quarry is a massive, gleaming Ziggurat, ten absolutely massive tiers of carved reliefs that emerge from the shadows and seem to glow, holding the unnatural daylight of the fissure and menacing the already oppressive atmosphere.

>Then Merc posts a second SERIES of photos, zooming in on the Ziggurat itself. Each tier appears to be around two or three stories on the inside, with windows barely perceptible amid relief carvings, scenes of violent battles (or slaughters), scenes of living sacrifices and burning towns and forests, atrocities always propagated under a leering demon's face in the air above each relief. The higher-up tiers in the photograph are somehow worse, as the glimmering-white sandstone is dulled by dried blood. More dried blood than anyone on a desert planet could ever bear to waste; more dried blood than a hundred grown men, farm-fattened like pigs, could ever spill.

>The upper tiers of blood-soaked scenes are scenes of defeat, retreat, and salted land and torn-down walls, giving way to cloaked figures in prayer around that omnipresent, demonic face, the only image left at the tip of the ziggurat. A tower emerges from the top floor, with an inset spiral staircase barely perceptible that leads up to a shining red table-top altar. Buried in the sharp shadows of the now extremely-close ceiling of the cave, the altar has its own inner light, as if the edges of the stone were shining with a white light made pink by the too-wet blood.

>In a word, even from across the multiverse, the photos of the Ziggurat are WRONG. The oppressive humidity and malicious intent can be felt the longer anyone looks at those looming, demonic faces, posted all over the jungle, all over the structure.

[thepaleys]

It was at Coburg during the autumn of 1891 that Mamma received news of the death of Uncle Paul's young wife. Grand Duke Paul was the youngest son of Alexander II and our mother's favourite brother. Hardly three years before he had married Alexandra of Greece, eldest daughter of King George and Queen Olga; and now "Alix", as we all called her, that sweet young wife and mother, was dead! The news came like a thunderbolt. Two Lovers, full of their young happiness, they had filled our quiet home with their Joy. A daughter had then already been born to them and it was at the birth of their second child, little Dmitri, that Alix had died. What a cruel, unnatural event. Alix was dead. Our guest so recently, that sweet, gay, happy young creature, she was no more. It was unbelievable. Could happiness be so quickly torn asunder and destroyed? Mamma decided on a hasty departure for St. Petersburg and that Ducky and I, the two eldest daughters, were to go with her. She wanted to be at the funeral, but above all she wanted to be with the brother she so dearly loved. How well I remember that funeral when young Alix was laid to rest alongside those who had gone before her. She was buried in the great church of the Peter and Paul fortress where, since Peter the Great, all the Tsars and their kith and kin had been interred. (...)

And here we were, all gathered together in this great, gloomy cathedral, to lay a young wife and mother in her untimely grave. Full of the pomp and splendour characteristic of all Russian ceremonies was that funeral. Stupendous chants rose to the vaults, echoing again from the fortress-like walls; there were thousands of lighted tapers, fumes of incense, and those thundering bass voices of the cantors which always made me hold my breath, wondering how human lungs could sustain such an effort without bursting. Clad in deepest mourning, with long black veils on their heads, stood the Empress, Grand Duchesses and Princesses, their dull black slashed by the bright ribbons of their respective orders, blue for the Empress, red for the grand duchesses, making their sombre apparel appear all the darker by contrast; and there was huge Uncle Sasha, surrounded by his enormous brothers, cousins and uncles, and as chief mourner, Uncle Paul, a little in front of the others. Frailer than his brothers, though just as tall, and marvellously slim, Uncle Paul was a different type darker and more gentle, he had soft brown eyes and the beautiful hands of his mother. In the white tunic and silver helmet of the Garde a Cheval, there was indeed something knight-like about him. I cannot remember if he wore this particular uniform at the funeral, but it was thus that I best member him, long and slim like a slender marble column, with his impressive voice and luminous eyes. A man full of human kindness and understanding, a man who always defended those who were being attacked, who was always fair towards others, a charming companion, gay and intelligent, it was not astonishing that of all her brothers Mamma loved Uncle Paul best.

I can still see him bending over the bier upon which his lovely young wife lay with crossed hands, against which leaned a small holy image we all had to kiss in turn, and with a thin white veil over her face. I remember the tears running down his cheeks and how Uncle Serge, his favourite brother, took him in his arms when he made a desperate gesture of protest when at last they laid the coffin lid over the sweet face he had loved. It was indeed a scene which made a deep impression upon the very young girls that we were then the grand setting, the flickering tapers, the flowers, the impressive chants, and above all the grief of that young husband who had to be torn away from the coffin of his bride. Tout passe.

Queen Marie of Romania - "Story of my Life"

[firapolemos05]

Whumpmas in July

Day 25: Share a sneak peak

Little preview to a sequel I'm making for Still your Heart. Narcos will not be having a good time.

CW: captivity, use of 'master' as a title, nonhuman whumpee, pet whump, creepy whumper

She leads him down one of many hallways, lined with various artworks and shining sconces. It's unfamiliar, and while he's supposed to keep his eyes cast downward, he can't help but take in the decor. Usually when Master presents him, he's brought to the dining room or the parlor, or some other gathering area for guests.

She stops at a pair of wooden doors, and once opened, gestures for him to enter.

It's one of the guest bedrooms. 

A crackling fireplace bathes the space in a warm glow, colluding with the darkness leaking in from the night outside the windows and balcony doors. The glow lights up the rich browns of the wooden furniture, carved with ornate motifs that must be the bane of whomever was tasked with keeping them polished and free of dust. His eyes are immediately drawn to the large four-poster bed. The columns at its corners taper to spire-like points above the canopy frame, from which hang silk drapes of burgundy. A cushioned bench sits at its foot, and a plush rug of intricate patterns ('looks like Muthamian make,' says a far-off point of his mind) spans the area of dark hardwood surrounding the bed.

"Ah there he is." The voice pulls the Champion’s attention back to the opposite end of the room. A figure rises from an armchair in front of the fireplace, and years of training make the tiefling drop to his knees, eyes down. "My my. You have my compliments, Scarlet. This is quite the ravishing introduction."

Something about the man's tone doesn't sit well. It twists a knot in his stomach. He can't pinpoint exactly why; it's not like this was the first time someone made condescending remarks towards him.

"I figured this would be to your liking," Master replies. One of her fingers strokes the spikes on his horns, flicking a dangling gemstone. "You did mention wanting to see him in red."

Footfalls approach, and black leather shoes with gold buckles enter the Champion’s vision. A snap of fingers tells him he should look up. Pale stockings, slate blue pants rising high on the waist, a white dress shirt frilled at the collar and cuffs, and a smiling face framed in brown hair. In his hand was a wooden cane with a curved ivory handle.

"A pleasure to formally meet you, Champion," the man greets, words rolling with a thick Mężnydzik accent. Short, rounded ears speak human and high-quality clothes plus a well-trimmed beard speak high class. "Ivan Mitreski, I am an associate of your master."

[libidomechanica]

Light or wrong: you talk a little light defend

That Johnny, never plight, to their     journeys he saw; he mix with our ears, a columned entry     skies? The time heard she will,

and showers away this mane, she     shadow on the think you, freeze. It is vast parade was taken     by day, to leave, till

Phosphor, doubt: but wise as made of     Cyrus, beset her sleep, And they sang from barren tenor     kept, till walk by my mother’s

great mouth to sport, did frame     wherewith thee is gone; ten till their station on the silver     taper in the world or

Nation’s stronger the subjects, the     rose, and many a sigh I take her as she turn’d, threw warm     white robes the black as he

whole host’s fresh operation rather     mind? Then what a pool in sighing and kiss, and fix my     though many times a sigh

the field. Beneath his world’s storms, and     is always company. But I’ll wrap about a present     pieces. And the thrids th’hill’s

shadows! That most adoring of     wind bloom to its true; for thy laboured out of mild sitting     kings. The mutter’d tremble,

with him, and the Life did but     in but wonder, a bird feet of the understand. Light or     wrong: you talk a little

light defend. Graceful tact, the blood;     a belt of steel’d sense gives which the bugle breathed o’er the wall,     indeed and lavender’d

fruitless of Matter game, nor thro’     the wind’s at they learnest to Ghost the shall leane mens fant’sies     took exactly what kind

of the liar, ah God, immortal     waits hungry, and I will do to sweetest thinks that I     found a vent. He follow

smoke them really as fair, and pretty     will stop it, till the lips, as all the thrust to quotation     warm as an old old

king has been here, the years of     Albion hear you’re shadows cast: a little ones, set light is     seed into the eldest.

[littlepup93]

Thank you @gioiaalbanoart! Having a lot of fun with these tags.

WIP: A Rogue's Fairytale

Some context for this snippet, Gregory was abducted by Fae the previous chapter from this section.

When next he woke, it was like breaching the surface of a lake. The scattered fragments of his surroundings came together with remarkable clarity. He was in a bedroom with curving spandrels and columns made of pale wood and white stone, embellished with floral carvings and inlays. The daybed he lay in was covered in woolen blankets and incredibly soft pillows. Everything was delicate, peachy, and warm, accentuated by the golden sunlight streaming in from a pair of tall windows. When he sat up, a damp cloth plopped off his head and onto his lap.

… Where’d this night shirt come from? Better yet, where were his clothes?

From outside, that voice sang as he approached. It was in Elvish, but Gregory recognized the tune of an old folk song. Without so much as a knock, in came none other than the Fae King himself, a small wicker basket filled with vials and paper packages tucked between his arm and hip. He tapped the door shut with his heel, locked eyes with Gregory, and the song tapered out. “Oh. Good morning.”

Gregory must’ve looked like a startled deer, and he felt completely justified in his shock. This was the Fae King, an enemy to his kingdom, dressed in an understated pale tunic and dark robes. His hair, silver and braided, was twisted up into a bun using wooden forks, and his circlet was nowhere to be seen. How could his massive, flamboyant presence be subdued into that of a mousy servant boy?!

Soft Tagging : @mk-writes-stuff and @illarian-rambling

Writing Share Tag!

thank you for tagging me @romances-not-tragedies !

I love this scene with my whole heart and the need to share is starting to outweigh not wanting to give too many spoilers lol

His voice is whisper quiet when he says, “dance with me. Dance for me.”

“I can’t.” This. This seems too intimate. There’s no one around. It’s the dead of night. The only illumination is coming from the campfire. It’s too intimate.

softly tagging @drchenquill @gioiaalbanoart @madi-konrad @themaidenofwords + an open tag <3

[kimetsu-no-yaiba-writings]

This was a request made by LudicrousLoopy - I hope you enjoy the way I’ve written your request and that I’ve written it to a standard that you enjoy! - which was meant to be posted earlier this week but I had a mishap with my laptop crashing!

Seriously I hope you enjoy!

So! This was an interesting request to do as it was my first time writing for something with ovipositor etc. 

if this is something that doesn’t interest you please don’t worry I’m sure I’ll have something else written you’d enjoy

Warnings/Thoughts: Use of an Ovipositor, Impregnation/ Eggs and Slight Mummy Kink if you squint

Ovipositor: the thing the eggs come out of and includes the act of laying eggs in someone/something - Just thought I’d add the definition 

Word-Count: 851 words 

Please remember that Rui is 18+ in this 

NSFW BELOW!

Rui always handled you with care, hands tracing such gentle shapes, kisses practically lighter than air against your skin as you sat on his lap, sitting so prettily on his relaxed legs.

Your mouth felt dry, like sand or dirt, and even though you did have saliva it just didn’t wet your mouth enough.

A gentle kiss - almost lighter than air – brings you back down, brings you back into painful awareness of how hot, embarrassed, and nervous you feel to your own arousal. He wasn’t a blind man, in fact, Rui favoured himself to be quite observational, he saw the way you shivered, saw the clenching of thighs together as you shifted and nuzzled closer to his chest.

You were still embarrassed at how quickly your arousal skyrocketed, how quickly your pupils blew wide with arousal at a quick passing comment that Rui had murmured earlier on about how much of a great mother you’d make.

Hushed whimpers fall from your lips as soft and study hands – usually moving with a swift deftness – trace gentle shapes on the bareness of your hips, Rui’s nails leaving fading trails of love as your thighs shivered as they contained his form between them, yet you knew that he could easily flip you both over, changing positions from being sat to something else with primal ease.

Rui’s white lashes fluttered prettily against the curve of his cheek; eyes filled with patient calmness compared to yours as with a gentleness only your shown, your pulled closer to him, his kisses feather-light against your skin.

You would have laughed earlier in the day at how intently he kissed you, would have giggled at how his breathe tickled the column of your throat but now you could only whimper as heat pooled at temperatures hotter than you’d ever felt before.

For a brief moment you regretted undressing so quickly, regretted being so bold and undressing the both of you with sitting stark naked on your lover’s lap.

 “Please,” You murmured resting your forehead against Rui’s, eyes wet with unshed tears as your voice held a slight wobble “Be gentle with me…”

 “Always”

 Kisses were once again peppered upon your skin, quiet praises slipping past Rui’s lips as with simple ruts against your bare pussy caused cute tears and whimpers to spill over, the nervousness you once felt – while still there at the backburner of your mind - practically evaporating with his touches, with the gentle nudges he gave.

No more time was wasted, Rui knew not to tease you when you were so nervous, tapered cock oozing precum and another type of sticky substance against your entrance. Taking in the way you whimpered against his mouth as with he pressed inside of you with ease.

You whimpered, hands tangling in the soft strands of Rui’s hair at the delicious pressure.

It felt as though everything was lit on fire; a full body burn, a warm, tingling feeling sprawled across your bodies to where you were connected in a delicious unmoving state.

“Shh, Shh Your Ok,” Rui crooned sweetly

 Simple thrusts teasing your walls as the sticky substance - a relaxant? Or an aphrodisiac? You couldn’t tell – caused the tingly pleasure to burn pleasantly.

 You bite down on his shoulder after one thrust almost sends you over the edge, drool dripping past your lips as you try so desperately to keep yourself from cumming.

You felt a warm, pleasant burn fill your pussy, leaving a delicious numbing sensation in your core. Rui’s arms wrapped around you, his body almost melting into you. His moaning almost desperately in your ear as the first egg pushes against your walls with sudden precision, before slipping into your womb with ease.

A moaning sob leaves your lips.

More pleasure builds up, skyrockets, as more eggs make their way inside of your womb pushing and rubbing against your sensitive walls as you sob with pleasure your grip tightening on Rui’s hair forehands still touching.

 A babbling whine of praise falling past your lips, placing kisses on Rui’s face as with a gentle hand of his moves to where his eggs rest, massaging the tense skin as it stretched to accommodate more of his eggs.

Back arching as the stimulation of the eggs became too much, babbling with a blissed-out brokenness,

 “Ah,Please,” You whimpered “Please, Please make me a mummy, Please, Please”

 You continued even as you came, walls fluttering tightly as the final set of eggs were pushed into your womb as Rui with a final hard thrust covered your insides – and eggs – with cum, mutterings of praise and kisses being pressed against you.

 “You’ll be a wonderful mother,” Rui finally coos a hand still resting against your tummy “A truly wonderful mother”

 A tired and blissed-out look still coats your face, form clutching and pressed against Rui’s as you lift a hand to cover your tummy, to cover Rui’s hand that rests so nicely and coolly, with a last kiss you allow yourself to be lifted, allowed your lover to bring you back home.

Back home where you could have your family.