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hockeynoses · 2 months

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Sick!Steve: A College AU, Part 2

Summary: A sequel to this fic. Steve is sick again. This time he's in class with Eddie, but they don't know each other yet. Eddie has the fetish and it's from his POV. This is set in the Spring semester, following the last fic which was in the Fall.

Warnings: Mess, contagion. 3.2k words.

Notes: I finally finished it! I started this last July and let it sit for far too long. It's one of my favorites that I've written in a while.

I imagine the professor to look like Jaime Cam/il from Schm/igadoon, but that's neither here nor there. The snippets of his lecture are directly taken from the Wikipedia entry on the Renaissance.

One tiny scene was inspired by this post by gemsden.

I hope you all enjoy! 💖

~*~

At five minutes to the hour, Eddie strolls into class as though he has all the time in the world. He’s learned from years of being punctually challenged that it’s easier to fly under the radar if you don’t appear rushed and frazzled when you make your entrance. There are only a few seats left in the large lecture hall, and they’re all up at the front. Reluctantly, he chooses one on the very end of the curved row, the seats in the hall forming a semi-circle that fan out like those ancient Greek theaters the professor had mentioned last week.

World History 101 – the most basic of basic history classes. Almost everyone here, Eddie included, is taking it as a required core class. But it isn’t the worst thing in the world; Eddie makes a game of it, searching for little tidbits he can add to his D&D games when he’s in need of inspiration.

The eye-candy isn’t half bad either. The professor, Mr. Smith, is actually pretty hot. Dark hair, a well-trimmed beard, glasses… Eddie can get on board. And halfway through his lecture, without fail, he’d take off his suit-jacket, loosen his tie, and roll up his sleeves, drawing the undivided attention of half the class. Aged to perfection, he can’t be more than in his early 40s, his hair just starting to get that salt and pepper color to it.

Unfortunately, he’s also known for being kind of a hardass. One of those guys with lots of chili peppers on RateMyProfessor, tempered by lots of comments about what a stickler he is for the rules.

The doors at the top of the hall open just as the professor is about to get started, and Eddie looks up.

Speaking of eye-candy, he thinks. It’s the guy that he’s had his eye on for half the semester. Hot-prof doesn’t hold a candle to this guy. Steve. The name floats through his mind and his heart gives a little kick.

He hasn’t managed to talk to him yet, or even figure out how to covertly snag a seat near him. This class is pretty much just lectures and tests, no group projects – which doesn’t offer a lot of openings for an introduction. Eddie only knows his first name because he’d heard Mr. Smith use it once or twice. He may be an asshole about the rules, but he does try to learn their names. As much as one can with a class of 100+ students.

Steve hurries down the steps to the first row of seats. The only open desk is in the dead center, about 10 feet away from Mr. Smith’s podium.

“Shit,” Steve says under his breath, looking embarrassed. Eddie’s glad he’s not in his shoes. Even though he’s in the front row himself, he’s somewhat hidden off to the side. The curvature of the row gives him a great view of Steve without it being obvious he’s looking at him.

The professor greets Steve with a firm nod as Steve sits and pulls his notebook out of his backpack, settling in. Eddie sees his nose scrunch up in a sniff. Probably just from the run over here to make it on time.

“Welcome, everyone,” Mr. Smith pulls up a PowerPoint on the screen behind him, “Today’s lesson is going to cover the Renaissance, which is a period in time ranging from the 1400s to the 1600s. The Renaissance was a cultural movement that profoundly affected European intellectual life in the early modern period.”

A sound crackles through the air, and Eddie’s eyes snap back to Steve. He’s got his face buried in a tissue, eyes closed, blowing his nose for all he’s worth. Heat sparks to life low in Eddie’s belly. Oh god…is he-?

Mr. Smith shoots Steve a look over his glasses, waiting for him to finish. Steve sighs and swipes at his nose, managing to find a dry section of the ruined tissue. When he notices the professor’s gaze, he looks sheepish and whispers, “Sorry.”

Steve hides the crumpled tissue away in a pocket of his backpack and then pulls out a fresh one from – Is that a fucking car pack of Kleenex? Eddie wonders. Leave it to pretty-boy Steve to go out and buy the perfect size tissue box to fit in his backpack. Eddie would’ve just brought a roll of toilet paper.

With a nose that beautiful, he deserves the best, he can’t stop himself from thinking. Then he chastises himself for being so gone on this guy. He focuses back on his own notes, or rather, the doodle he’s already started, and tries not to be too much of a creep.

Mr. Smith drones on for several minutes, punctuated every so often by Steve’s wet sniffles. Eddie can see him rubbing the bridge of his nose out of the corner of his eye. He wonders if the whole class can hear him – auditoriums are designed to carry sound, after all – or if Eddie’s just hyper-aware.

The sniffles turn ominous, and Steve reaches for a tissue just as his breath starts to hitch. He holds it at the ready, splayed over both hands, inches from his face.

“Ha... ehh…hih…hih’AEESSHH’IUE!” The sneeze bursts from him as he snaps forward and buries his face in the waiting tissue. The sound ricochets throughout the room and lightning pulses through Eddie’s veins, white-hot. Oh fuck.

“’Scuse be,” Steve mumbles, his eyes glazed over as he snuffles up the loosened congestion.

Jesus, he’s actually really sick, Eddie thinks, his own elation at the sight at war with the pity he feels for the guy.

Mr. Smith gives a small, put-upon sigh. “Where was I? Oh yes - The unique political structures of Italy during the Late Middle Ages have led some to theorize that its unusual social climate allowed the emergence of a rare cultural efflorescence.”

Now that Eddie knows for sure that Steve is sick, it’s a struggle to keep his eyes off him. He doesn’t want to miss a moment; his gaze darts across the room without his permission, tracking every movement of those busy hands, the fluttering eyes, the flaring nostrils.

As the minutes tick by, anticipation curls warm through Eddie’s gut. Steve is holding a Kleenex in his hand, wiping his nose with it as subtly as he can, forced to breathe through his mouth due to the congestion that has taken up permanent residence deep in his sinuses.

Eddie wonders how long he’s been sick. If these are brand new symptoms or if he’s been suffering for the better part of a week. He looks contagious as hell, red nose constantly dripping into the tissue that he presses to his septum. Eddie feels for the students who were unlucky enough to sit next to him, but he would also happily take their place.

His thoughts are interrupted by a hitch in Steve’s breath, no doubt building to something more obscene and uncontrolled than the first go-round.

“Ehh… Oh god, haa-… hih-EETSSHHOO! Ha’AEESHHah! Uhh…huh…ITTSCHHuh!” He groans, low and pained. “Oh bmy god. SNF. Sorry.” Eddie watches as Steve holds the destroyed tissue to his nose while fumbling in his bag for a fresh one. There’s no way that abused tissue contained all those haphazard sneezes. If the students next to him have to sit through an entire hour of that, they’re definitely screwed. Hell, Mr. Smith is probably screwed too, being directly in front of him, albeit several feet away.

“Are you quite finished?” Mr. Smith says primly.

“Ugh.” Steve gives a liquid sniffle and swipes under his nose with his bare hand. “I hobe so.”

Jesus Christ, Eddie is going to pop a semi in the middle of class. He slides his jacket off - it’s getting fucking hot in here anyway - and sets it over his lap.

The professor clears his throat and continues. “As I was saying, one theory is that the devastation in Florence caused by the Black Death, which hit Europe between 1348 and 1350, resulted in a shift in the world view of people in 14th century Italy.”

“Ha….HA’EHSSHHOO!” Steve’s whole body shakes with the strength of the sneeze, drenching his fistful of Kleenex. Oblivious to the teacher’s glare, Steve’s eyes flutter, his brows inching higher and higher with each sharp inhale, fighting against the prickling itch deep in his nose that’s begging for release.

“Italy was particularly badly hit by the plague,” Mr. Smith continues, pausing to direct a stern, pointed look at Steve. “And it has been speculated that the resulting familiarity with death caused thinkers to dwell more on their lives on Earth, rather than on spirituality and the afterlife.”

“Huh-ITTSSH’IEW!” The relentless barrage continues, Steve struggling helplessly against it. “uh…huh’GGKSSHH’IUE!”

Eddie stares, entranced. He can hear how wet they are, thick with mess that’s barely contained in the clump of increasingly soggy tissues Steve’s got a death grip on. Eddie gets another glimpse of Steve’s disobedient nose - pink, wet, and sore - as he pulls back from the tissues with a wobbly inhale, clearly not done. A flush darts up Eddie’s neck, his toes curling in his sneakers.

“It has also been argued that the Black Death prompted a new wave of piety, manifested in the sponsorship of religious works of art.” Mr. Smith soldiers on, agitation clear in his voice. “However, this does not fully explain why the Renaissance occurred specifically in Italy in the 14th centu-”

“Ahh…ihh…hih…HIH’EERRRSHH’IUE!” The last one tears through Steve in the middle of an attempt to grab a new batch of tissues. He curls into himself, unleashing the spraying sneeze across his lap and part of his desk. There’s a visible sheen on his cupid’s bow that he desperately swipes at with the back of his hand.

“Steve!” Mr. Smith says sharply. “I do not appreciate these interruptions!”

“I’b sigk, dude!” Steve argues, as if that isn’t obvious by the gurgling, cold-ridden noseblow that immediately follows. His features are a tired mix of annoyance and embarrassment.

“Please don’t call me dude, Steve.” Mr. Smith pins him with a flat look, clearly exasperated but unwilling to kick him out just yet. Steve glares at him.

“I’b sigk, professor – hih…ha’AESSHH’IEW!” The sneeze erupts from Steve, forceful and clearing. He puts much less effort into covering this one, holding the tissue inches away from his face and releasing a huge, spraying sneeze openly down onto it. Eddie can see the escaped stray droplets misting the air.

This motherfucker better not make me come in my pants, I swear to god, Eddie thinks as he adjusts himself, trying to find some kind of relief. He feels too hot in his own skin.

The students nearest Steve are leaning away from him in mounting horror, trapped without any open seats to flee to.

“If you’re feeling so poorly, why did you come to class today?” Mr. Smith radiates disapproval.

“Idt’s your attendance policy, bman.” Steve scrubs a finger back and forth under his raw nose. “I didn’t thigk it wa-aah…hah–Ha’ERRSHH’IUE!” The sneeze is only half-muffled against his fist, the rest scatters free into the air. “Ugh. Allowed.”

Mr. Smith’s mouth pulls into a frown. “Exceptions can be granted when there are legitimate… health reasons.” He eyes the growing pile of tissues on Steve’s desk with disgust, calculating the odds of how likely he is to catch his cold, no doubt increasing with every one of Steve’s careless, pathetic attempts at covering, with every slimy tissue added to the pile, cluttering up the desk, creating a foreboding minefield of germs.

Steve snorts up the clogged mess in his nose and clears his throat. He’s so congested that even his throat sounds thick with it. Pulling a tissue from his pack, he lays it across his cupped palms, ready, waiting.

“I didn’t thigk this would count. Idt’s just – heh – just a c-cold – Ha’GGSHT’CHUH!” His head snaps forward as he unleashes the sneeze vaguely downwards toward the tissue spread across his hands. Eddie can see the unrestrained spray of it swirling around in the several inches of open air between his agitated, rebellious nose and his hands.

He folds the splattered tissue up to release a crackling blow, so loud that Eddie thinks he must be doing it on purpose. When he’s done, Steve offers a pointed, “’Scuse mbe,” with a telling twist to his lips. Now apparently fully committed to his appearance as a plague rat, he breathes through his mouth, dabbing at his sore, chapped nose with the tattered remnants of the tissue. When he pulls it away, he has no shame – his red, glistening, contagious nose is on full display.

Oh, Eddie likes this one. A buzzy warmth fills him down to his toes, and he has to stop himself from shivering with it. His cock is rock-hard in his jeans. Has anyone ever died of blue balls? he wonders, shifting in his seat.

Rather than hiding it away in his backpack, Steve adds the sodden tissue to the pile on his desk like a challenge, trying to get a rise out of Mr. Smith. The brazen audacity of it is doing nothing to help the heat under Eddie’s skin.

“If you’re ill to the point of being a distraction in class, you should have emailed me, and I would have given my approval,” Mr. Smith says in a tense, clipped voice.

“I didn’t thigk I felt that ba-hah… bad – hih - odn the way over h-here,” he argues, quickly scrambling for a fresh tissue, “but I – huh… I cadn’t stob – ihh… s-sneeziihh… Ha-iih’ERRSSHH’IUE!” His brow furrows with the strength of it, shoulders curling in. He’s crumpled the tissue under his nose, anticipating the sheer amount of mess, which unfortunately leaves his mouth uncovered. The sneeze forces the breath from him in a violent gust that causes the used tissues on his desk to flutter and threaten to topple over the edge.

Eddie’s pulse jumps and he almost snaps his pencil in half, tapping his foot on the ground in an effort to not shake out of his skin with want. He tries not to openly stare as Steve pulls back the Kleenex from his face, having to pinch off the mess that still clings to him, wiping the spit from his lips with his other hand.

“Ugh, what a bmess.” Steve says, really playing it up. “Sorry. I’b trying to stob but they’re too strogg.”

“I can see that,” Mr. Smith grinds the words out between his teeth.

“I thigk I’b really contagious.” Steve presses the tissue to the underside of his tender, dripping nose. “I already godt all of mby roobmates sihh-sigk. Heh…Huh-HA’IIGGGHHH’SHOO! Ughhh. Trust mbe, you don’t want this…” He punctuates his warning with a truly miserable-sounding noseblow.

“I agree. We don’t need you getting the whole class sick.” Mr. Smith takes a few careful steps back, looking like he’d rather be running from the room entirely. “You can get the notes from one of your classmates.”

“Are you s-sure?” His nostrils flair and he cups a hand several inches from his face in a sluggish attempt to cover another impending outburst. “ihh – hih’iiiiGGHH’shue!” It scrapes from his throat, the last syllable drawn out into a pained exhale.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Mr. Smith says. Having reached the end of his rope, he points to the door. “Go. Before you infect us all with your pestilence.”

Satisfied, Steve gathers his things, touching them all with his germy hands in the process. The used tissues are scooped up and crammed into an open pocket in his backpack. The car-pack of tissues stays out. Clinging to it like a lifeline, Steve pulls two fresh ones from the cylinder.

“Thaggs, professor.” He quickly bunches the tissues to his face, his chest heaving with every hitch of his breath. “ahh… hiiiih… Hih’AAIIGH’shoo! SNF. I’ll see you next weegk.”

With that, he turns and makes his way up the stairs, pausing every few steps to shudder with a wrenching sneeze, barely contained in his damp fistful of Kleenex. Now that he’s not even trying to control them, it seems he’s completely at their mercy, pitching forward in several small fits, trying to cover as much ground as he can between them until he finally makes it to the door. Fumbling the clump of tissues into his pocket, he pulls at the door handle, finally making his escape into the hallway as an awkward hush settles over the rest of the class.

Mr. Smith attempts a joke and tries to refocus everyone’s attention. Eddie doesn’t hear any of it. His head feels all floaty and he’s trying not to come in his pants. That was insane. He blinks, trying to shake himself out of it.

By the time he’s managed to bring himself back to reality, Mr. Smith is making a show of marking off Steve’s excused absence. “Steve Harrington,” he announces as he notes it down, enunciating clearly as if to let the entire class know who’s to blame when half of them come down with this cold from hell.

Harrington. Something clicks in Eddie’s mind at that. Chrissy’s knowing smile flashes through the haze. A months-old memory washes over him in waves – she was telling him about some guy she made friends with in class… going on and on about him. About how one time he’d shown up for class sick as a dog, and how she wished Eddie could have been there - he’s just his type. She had wanted to introduce them.

At the time, Eddie’s interest had been piqued, how could it not? But this guy sounded like a Grade-A jock, and although he trusted Chrissy, Eddie dating a jock went against practically every facet of the Munson Doctrine. He had filed it directly under “Never Gonna Happen” in his brain, and they’d both forgotten about it, buried in finals, before heading off for winter break.

Since then, Chrissy might’ve mentioned her and Steve meeting up for coffee once or twice since they didn’t have a class together this semester, but her hopes of introducing them got lost in the throes of a busy Spring semester. If Eddie had known this was Chrissy’s Steve – a bit of a jock, sure, but still sweet and smart and with sneezes straight out of Eddie’s wildest fantasies – he sure as fuck would’ve made that introduction more of a priority.

Fuck. Now Eddie has to see if there’s still a shot. If Chrissy was going to introduce them, that means there’s a slim chance Steve might be into him, right? He’s going to text her as soon as class gets out and tell her he’s seen the light.

Eddie wonders if he could give Steve his notes from class. Didn’t the professor say something about that? Yeah, he’ll get his number from Chrissy, then bring him the notes… maybe some tea…

Shit, he’s got to get ahold of himself.

For once in his life, Eddie tries to take flawless notes. He’s only partially successful. It’s almost impossible to focus with replays of Steve’s little spectacle parading through his head. And if that wasn’t distracting enough, he can’t stop himself from imagining scenes from their future together like some kind of lovesick fool. He taps his pencil to the page, daring to hope.

He’ll start with notes and some tea.

#snzblr #snz fic #snzfic #snz fics #snzfics #cw: contagion #st/eve ha/rrington

83 notes · View notes

merakiui · 11 months

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11:11 — sugar dew sewn anew.

yandere!rook hunt x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, violence, murder/death of reader, description of blood/injuries, rook is rather morbid and creepy in this fic note - this fic is the result of a character fic poll, in which rook was the winner.

“You wear a very forlorn face when you paint, mon cher.”

You swivel on the stool, legs unfolding at the ankles, to properly peer past the easel at the man who sits in a gold-and-white satin chair, backdropped by various animal heads. They’re mounted with such care, each one organized according to where it lies on the food chain. They almost form a pyramid when you look at them from where you’re seated. From a dusky brown house mouse to a pitch-black crow, the heads range in species and size, all arranged on a vermillion wall.

The biggest one, sitting in the very center of the display, right above your client’s head, is a chestnut-colored buck with a pair of magnificent antlers curling from its scalp. From where Rook sits, it almost looks like those horns are sprouting from his head. Contemplating the discrepancies between man and buck, you swirl your brush through a muddy cup of water and survey the rest of the aureate placards until you reach the top.

There’s a mount lacking a head.

It was the first thing you took notice of after stepping through the halls of this quaint cabin to reach the sitting room. Although, after spending hours enclosed in cedarwood walls, it feels more like a trophy room—a place meant to showcase the spoils of every hunt rather than welcome people with disarming decorations.

Rook crosses one leg over the other and, resting his elbows upon his knee, steeples his hands. You peer at the antlers, noting the valiant curvature, before meeting his verdant stare. A grin slowly sprawls on his lips once he realizes you’ve caught his gaze.

“I concentrate on my source,” you explain with a shrug, still twirling the brush through the water. “Steady focus makes a steady hand…or something along those lines.”

“And yet you never smile, even when working so diligently to bring your masterpiece to completion.”

“If I viewed it as such, then I would have reason to smile.” Your contemptuous scowl slides to the canvas, where you’ve painted two dull green eyes set into a freckle-speckled face. The beginnings of a smile trace the portrait’s plush lips, withholding secrets no one will ever know. “I’ve yet to create a masterpiece. Therefore I can’t smile.”

“Oh, you’re much too critical of your art!” Unclasping his hands, Rook places one upon his chest, as if he must calm his heart after hearing your response. “I’ve studied your work, both through a screen and in person, and as your devout follower I can wholeheartedly say it is beautiful in every way, even down to the miniscule flaws other critics often spot with sharp, perceptive eyes!”

“You speak as if I lead a cult,” you admit with a sheepish chuckle. “I’m just painting the things I find interesting.”

“For a reason, I assume?”

“Usually it’s to find inspiration for what I hope will be my first masterpiece. I’d like to finally feel proud of my work.” The brush peruses the colorful selection on your palette, settling into the green you’ve mixed from yellow and blue. “It’s not that I’m unhappy. I just can’t find it in me to love what I produce.”

“But you enjoy creating, yes?”

“Of course. It’s what I’ve been doing for years. Painting allows me to understand the world and its inhabitants through my own lens.” You put brush to canvas in a series of small, significant strokes. “So when I’m painting… Well, I guess I just want to try to love the things I put on my canvases, even if it’s impossible.”

“Is that so? Then I’m beyond flattered you would ever consider using me as your most beloved muse!” He tilts his head, suddenly more animated than when he first sat down to pose for you, and adds, “I love you, too. Very much, my little artiste.”

“Are you just saying that so I’ll paint you handsomely?”

“Why, I would never say anything that would influence or persuade your process! Just as I love sweetly and solemnly, I also love monstrously and mercilessly. The primal facets of humankind are not exempt from my loving eyes. Even the most dirty and deceitful corners of this world—I love those just as fiercely. So should you choose to depict me as a fiend, I will adore your representation regardless of its harsh implications. After all, there’s beauty in tragedy.”

“And would that make life the greatest tragedy?” You hum as you add a sadistic glimmer to the eyes on the canvas. They pierce you with their unblinking stare, hollowing your soul until they reach unfathomable depths. “Or maybe it’s the ability to love with such a big heart?”

“Are you suggesting love is a tragedy? I suppose, in some sad sense, it is. Unrequited feelings, shattered hearts, lovers separated by way of death or divorce, and even the type of love that curdles like spoiled milk—oh, the misfortune! Each is a tragic tale spun from a mixture of melancholy or the intensity of hatred and all-consuming loneliness. But even so, no matter how horrendous it may seem, I hold each in my heart. They’re beautiful because they have the unique ability to shape a person into someone new—for better or for worse.”

You lower your arm, hesitating while the excuses rise to the surface, before turning to look at him. “I’ve never known real love, Mr. Hunt, which is why I’m trying to capture it while I paint. I suspect I’ll be able to smile at my work because it will be something I’ve fallen in love with. Only then can I consider it a true masterpiece.”

“Your way of thinking is simply très bien!” He drums his fingers along his knee, humming his contemplation. “I’d love to unscrew your skull and poke through your brain. I wonder what memories have shriveled your ability to love…”

“It’s not that it’s shriveled. It’s just…” You shrug, losing your previous statement. “The words ‘I love you’ are just that—words. I have no use for meaningless sentiments. If I force myself to love, it feels wrong. I can like people and things, but loving them is too much. I can’t cross that line. If I did, I’d be a liar.”

“Ah, so it’s like that…” Rook chuckles, but none of what you said was remotely humorous. His voice lowers to a whisper, ghostly and haunting, as if wrapping around your head and settling into the very folds of your brain. “I find it charming that you’re unable to love and I love too much. We possess many differences, and yet at the very center of it all we’re merely human beings composed of flesh and blood. It’s a beauty more stunning than the most radiant sunset!”

You pretend to have not heard him, resigning yourself to your work as you spend an absurd amount of time trying to illustrate the peculiar glaze in his eyes. They’re always so bright, but here you’ve painted them as soulless, viridescent sockets—a dark, dense forest having lost its vivid greenery with winter’s frost. But then there is not an ounce of ice within Rook’s eyes. They are always smoldering with many things: enthusiasm, intellect, new opinions just waiting to be shared regardless of whether or not you wish to hear them. It’s a genuine warmth, but something feels strange. Out of place. Much like the headless mount poised right above Rook to form the tip of the pyramid.

Why is that mount lacking a head?

Without realizing it, you’ve abandoned your task with fixing his eyes to start on the antlers poking from a head of canary-hued hair.

“You live up to your surname, sir.”

“Please, you’re much too formal with your fan. You need only call me Rook, should it suit your fancy.” He giggles when you pin him with a dubious glare. “Is it so wrong to label myself as such? I go to great lengths out of admiration and support of your work. Wouldn’t that, by definition, make me your fan?”

“I’m not very famous.”

“In my eyes, you are the famed sun and I am merely the moon who hopelessly pursues.”

“Really? Well, I wasn’t aware I had an eloquent hunter for a fan.”

“Do you find my hobby eccentric?”

“No. It’s normal to enjoy all sorts of pastimes. Hunting is as much of a hobby as it is a sustainable sport. In older times, most people would hunt for the sake of survival.”

Rook nods, his gaze flicking towards the heads on the wall. You dip your brush in brown paint to add more color to the antlers. “It takes immaculate patience to be a hunter. Most hunts are not always successful.”

“Is there a reason you hunt?”

“It’s in a human’s nature to obtain the unobtainable, and I seek beauty in its most visceral forms.”

“I see…”

“Do you?” Rook crosses his legs again, but this time his posture is stiffly statuesque. “Is obsession not the most flattering form of dedication?”

“It’s not exactly how I’d go about defining dedication… But then I suppose everyone has their reasons.” You steal a peek at the headless mount. “Do these heads mean anything to you?”

“Why, of course! They are the beautiful animals I have pierced with my arrow, whether or not I intended to. Often, when you trek through the territory of beasts, you might need to release a mortally wounded animal from its suffering.”

“So a mercy kill.” Your eyes return to the painting, where you set to work adding tiny blossoms along the curved antlers. “Doesn’t that upset you?”

“So goes the cycle of life, I’m afraid. I would be a daring fool to interfere with the balance of the world.”

“Have you ever lost any of your hunts?”

Rook hums, tapping out a rhythm against the top of his hand. The pads of his fingers fall in rapid succession: tick, tick, tick, tick. “As a matter of fact, I have! Just last week, after your departure, I lost the mouse I’ve been trying to catch for years now.”

“Years? Shouldn’t you give up?”

“Not until I feel that mouse’s heart beat within my enclosed fist.” He smiles wide, flashing flawless rows of pearly whites. Under the dim lighting, they appear sharp and predatory. “I suspect I’ll get lucky tonight.”

“How can you be sure? Mice are difficult to catch with bare hands. You’ll need a trap.”

“Mon cher, you wound me! I would never make such an amateur error.” He chuckles to himself, relishing in the cruelty of a joke that doesn’t quite land. “When I set my sights on something, it’s a guarantee I will catch it, even if I must play a dreadful waiting game.”

“My apologies. I was only passing on a helpful tip.”

You pull away from the canvas to inspect the strands of white dahlias curled around the man’s antlers. Frowning, you raise your arm, intending to slash through the portrait with a streak of black paint, when it occurs to you that you need only add red.

But before carmine, you return to nature reflected in wide greens.

“Has my dear artiste ever hunted before?”

“No, not really. I seek inspiration all the time, but I wouldn’t call that a hunt.”

“Oh? Please elaborate.”

“There are stakes in a hunt. Life and death. Danger. A battle of wits between predator and prey. Looking for inspiration is just a matter of searching and exploring. It might lead some down scary paths, but for me it’s a matter of reading more books or taking a stroll through the town. I don’t like dangerous things, so I tend to avoid them.”

“It pays to be cautious, no?”

“Right. Shouldn’t you be the same, Rook? As a hunter, don’t you worry about what might happen if you aren’t careful?”

“Of course there are worries! That comes with every profession and hobby.” He gestures to the plastic tarps plastered to the floor and walls. “You worried you’d sully my floors, and to ease such a fear I put these protective plastics up. My worries for hunting may be different, but they are worries all the same.”

“I guess that’s true… Well, what do you worry about?”

“Whether I’ll be fast enough to catch my prey when they’re unarmed and unaware.”

“O-Oh… That’s a little…”

Rook laughs a guttural laugh—a sound that comes right from the depths of his chest. “Imagine something you’ve always wanted. Picture it slipping through your fingers, just out of your reach, and now you’ve lost the chance to seize it. Is that not worth a worry or two?”

“I can’t say. I’ve never tried to chase after things I knew I wouldn’t be able to have.”

“Mon cher, you must learn to take risks. How else will you live?”

“I live perfectly fine without the need to step out of my comfort zone.”

Rook hums. “I think you’d change your tune if you found yourself in a risky situation.”

“Define risky.”

“Life and death.”

You pause, your brush poised at the pupil in his eye. “Everyone wants to survive. It’s in our nature as animals. A very basic instinct.”

“And despite our most dedicated efforts to stall the inevitable, death catches us all—some sooner than most.”

“This is getting kinda…morbid.”

“Haven’t you wondered,” he asks, and you don’t hear the wood creak under approaching feet, “what someone might do if they found your corpse?”

He’s behind you. Five steps away in this cubic space. The man with antlers has crawled out of the canvas that once confined him, and he’s behind you.

The mount on the wall lacks a head.

The man in the chair lacks antlers.

The creature in the portrait lacks humanity.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a voice recorder tucked away beneath the chair.

You swallow thickly, your heart in your throat. “I… I’m not sure. I’d hope they’d give me a proper, respectful burial if I died of natural causes.”

And if it wasn’t natural causes?

You don’t hear him verbalize the question, but somehow you catch it amidst the smothering silence.

“If it wasn’t natural causes…” You force a laugh, but it’s flat and misplaced just like the headless mount. “That would be murder, right?”

His shadow looms behind you, cast ominously dark over the earthly colored canvas. Slowly, so slowly, your free hand lowers to the pocket in your artist’s apron, where a dozen palette knives rest. Trembling fingers peruse the selection, locating the one with the sharpest point, and it’s the heaviest burden you’ve ever secured in your fist. You remain sitting horribly still on the stool, listening only to the frantic, slick sound of blood rushing in your ears.

Steeling your frayed nerves, you whirl just as he descends.

There’s a pause, a stumbled heartbeat, and then raw fear coagulates into confusion when you find him sitting primly in his chair, his verdant stare striking through you as if it’s an arrow he’s just loosed. It hits its mark, for it leaves you pinned in perplexity.

He was behind me.

“And… And what about you?” you ask, your tongue heavy and thick in your mouth. “If someone… If I found your corpse, what would you want me to do with it?”

He was behind me. I’m sure of it.

“That wouldn’t happen.” His lips curl into a cat-like smile, and he angles his head curiously. “Normally it’s the other way around.”

You see it, then. The silver glint of a sharpened meat cleaver. It lies in his lap, where his fingers curl around the wooden handle, and all while holding eye contact he continues to smile. His teeth are refined cutlery in the light: artfully honed, yet not quite serrated, they’re tough enough to bite and tear and chew. Like a deer trapped in the hauntingly hypnotic glow of oncoming headlights, you don’t dare move. Perspiration wets your brow, slides down your back between your shoulder blades. You lick your lips. Anticipation claws through your intestines, nestling in the very pit of your stomach. Bile creeps its way up your throat like acidic fingers.

What’s happening?

“Come now, ma souris, don’t give me such a sullen face! I’ve shown you my hand. Isn’t that a miracle more beautiful than life itself?”

Your hold on the little palette knife tightens. “One person’s going to leave this room,” you say, your eyes sliding to the recording device, “and it’s not going to be me. Isn’t that right, Rook?”

“I can’t possibly say,” he affirms, dulcet and smooth like rivers of blood running ruby-red from a broken nose. His finger drums a rhythm against the flat side of the cleaver. “But I can certainly guess.”

Carefully, you rise from the stool. His eyes track you, so full of the vitality of the color green. More than that, they’re bright with bloodlust and you’ve been caught in the crosshairs of his cutting gaze. He peers at your unfinished painting and chuckles.

“Even your interpretation of me is beautiful! It’s an honor to be your fan, ma souris. Truly, I’m quite happy.”

You brandish the palette knife as if that will do anything to protect you from him. He stands from his seat, a monster adorned in gloomy garb. Like a stain against the red wall of heads, he no longer fits into the picture you once thought he did. Rather, he is blight in human form, a sinister omen housed within a skeleton encased in friendly skin.

And he’s walking right towards you, putting one foot in front of the other, in no hurry to rush. The cleaver taps against his hip as he approaches, each bump mirroring every one of your heartbeats with startling accuracy.

“Are… Are you unhappy with my portrayal?” you ask, not particularly interested in his reply, but desperate to keep him talking at arm’s length.

For every step he takes, you take two backwards.

“Not at all! In fact, I’m flattered.” Rook narrows his eyes at you, sickly entertained. “You’ve made prey out of a predator. Not many are capable of such a generous feat.”

Your back connects with the door. Swallowing thickly, you search for the door knob. “Do you really see yourself as one? You don’t have to be one. Y-You can be neither. You’re only human.”

“Ah, but humans are the worst kind of predator.”

“What makes you say that?” Your fingers wrap around the metal door knob.

“Humans are afforded choices. We think through decisions. We make merry with our enemies and then hurt them after they’ve properly settled. We are complex in a way that differs from other animals. Predators are bound by survival, always trapped in high-stakes life or death, unable to truly make a decision that ventures beyond whether they wish to live another day or become sustenance for those who sit a rung above on the food chain. You see, we are not simple predators.” He raises the cleaver and points it at you. “As for humans, we can decide if we want to feel something when we hurt and kill. We can communicate in languages simple predators can’t use. Oh, the beauty of words!” He chuckles, elated. “To pluck a phrase from my vast lexicon: I’m going to take your life for myself, ma souris. Stow it within the depths of my very soul so that I may be the only one to treasure your rarity.”

The confession guts you quicker than his knife ever could.

Wrenching the door open, you turn on your heel and step through, ready to break into a sprint, when heavy footfalls make their way towards you from behind. He covers the meager distance in seconds, wrapping a muscled arm around your torso and yanking you back into the room. You scream, words and sounds mixing into something incoherent, and elbow him in the ribs with as much force as you can muster. He releases you and you, fueled with panic and adrenaline, drop to your knees just as he swings, your hand closing around the palette knife you had previously lost.

Somehow you manage to get back on your feet when he descends again, this time intentionally missing your shoulder when he brings the cleaver down. It cuts through the sliver of space between empty air and your own body, narrowly missing you by a hair. You throw yourself against the wall, entangled in a plastic tarp that comes loose from its hooks. They fall around you in noisy pitter-patters, something akin to metallic rainfall, and you hit the floor with a harsh thump.

And all the while, the mounts continue to peer at you with glass eyes.

“There’s no need to fall over yourself in a frantic haste. You’ll waste all of your energy, and even then adrenaline won’t be enough to fuel you. I’ll catch you if you aren’t careful…” He smiles at you from where he stands, green eyes cold with calculation. “Let’s take a moment to chat, shall we? I’d like to regale you with the five stages of the delightful thing known as prey drive. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

“No, of course not,” you spit, vitriol lacing every syllable. Your pupils flit about the room, tracing the cleaver in his hand and then flickering towards the chair. The recording device sits in shadow, just within your reach. If you can stand up, take two steps forward, and drop down when he moves to intercept, you might be able to retrieve it. “Enlighten me since you seem so eager to run your mouth.”

Rook chuckles and enunciates his every step with a whistle. He reaches the chair in three steps and kicks the recording device out from under it. You watch it skid across the floor towards you, settling mere inches from your feet. You glance at it; it’s still recording, seconds stapled into it with every tick of your heart.

“A dog searches.” His back is turned to you, and he gazes at the mounts on the wall. You lower just enough to swipe the device from the ground. It’s not heavy in your palm; rather, it’s palm-sized and it slips into your pocket like a silent knife through butter. “And when it finds, it stalks. Have you caught the pattern yet?”

His neck is right there. All you need to do is rush up to him, grab him from behind, and drive the palette knife so far into the side of his neck that it’ll surely cause some sort of distress. Or you could turn and run. You have evidence. You have his address. You have your car. You can escape. You can drive far away from this horrifying cabin in the woods and never return. You can live.

You can run.

“And from there…”

So you do.

He whirls just as you dart through the door, over the threshold into the hall, and you miss the crazed twinkle reflected in wild, untamed green eyes. Rook’s laughter follows you, airy and light like a comforting breeze. He’s alive with murderous delight, and you’re nearly dead with fright.

“Ensues the chase!” he calls out, so close in the cramped confines of the hall that his voice nearly grazes you.

You swallow your sobs, pressing onwards with hardened resolve, and follow the length of the hall until it spits you out into another room. It’s undeniably a kitchen, what with the refrigerator and microwave pushed into a corner, but it’s furnished more like a lab. Nearly every appliance is metallic and the floors are tiled, constructed with surfaces that are perfect for washing away pesky fluids. A drain is built into the very center of the floor, sticking out like the nastiest bruise. You spy meat hooks hanging in place of where spatulas and whisks ought to be—both of which are innocent culinary tools meant to assist in food preparation rather than something killer.

Spinning on your feet, you locate the door opposite of where you stand in the small kitchen-lab and take a momentous step towards it, hoping it leads you closer to an exit and further from your hunter, when a cold hand seizes your wrist, spidery digits curling into your skin. A shrill scream rips from the depths of your throat, surely shredding your vocal chords into bloody ribbons. You struggle, yanking your arm in vain, for his hold is impossibly strong. He tugs you towards him, his feet moving in time with the shuffling of yours. It’s a stiff stalemate of a waltz. You pull away and he pursues, his hand creeping up your arm in an attempt to pin it to the nearest surface. With another helpless shriek, you tear yourself free, staggering backwards against the metal table, which rolls further away on well-oiled wheels. Your horrified reflection blinks back at you in the shine, and with a sunken heart you realize it’s a dissection table.

“Mon cher, I must say, you wear disarray so naturally. It’s far too forbidden for my simple eyes to behold.”

“Why… Why are you doing this?” Your voice is thick with terror, sore from screaming, and you wipe furiously at your glossy eyes. “Please stop… You’ve had your fun. Now… Now let me go. I… I promise I won’t come back here again. Y-You can keep all of the supplies and the canvas. Just let me go…”

A secretive smile stretches slowly across his lips. “Oh, how Fortuna graces me with the benevolent opportunity to admire these special sides of yours. To be able to witness the rawness of pure horror after cornering the most dangerous animal of all…” He pricks his finger on the tip of the blade and adds in a breathy whisper, “Beauté.”

A disgusted shiver claws its way up your spine. You glare at him. “So it’s the thrill you enjoy, yeah? It doesn’t faze you that you’re going to kill an innocent person?!”

He tilts his head. “Rather than snuffing your light, I intend to give new life to your excellence. In many ways, aren’t I also an artist?”

“Like hell! You’re crazy!” You take a step back when he advances, moving towards you like a graceful panther stalking its prey. Your grip on the palette knife tightens. “What did I ever do to you to deserve this?”

“Nothing, mon amour.”

“N-Nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing!” he reaffirms, rather conversationally, and the frustration-riddled tension in your body deflates all at once.

“But… But I thought—” You shake your head, hopelessly searching for a means of convincing him otherwise in his pursuit, and say, “I thought you… You said you loved me! Can you really hurt someone you love?”

Rook hesitates, his feet shuffling to a halt, and he peers blankly at you, all emotions veiled in a stoic mask. “While it’s true that I will always cherish you in life, I must also come to love you in death. If I’m unable to accept even the rotting and decaying sides of everlasting love that most shy away from, then I’m simply undeserving of my title as a hunter. If I seek the wonders of life, it’s only fair I seek the wonders of death all the same. You understand, don’t you?”

“No! In what world would I ever understand that logic?!” You point the palette knife at him. “You don’t have to kill me. You really don’t have to…”

“I suppose, if I’m to apologize for anything, I should ask that you forgive my greedy behavior. I’m hopelessly infatuated with your work, so allow me to thank you for all that you have shown me tonight. I promise to repay your tenderness tenfold.”

He smiles, stepping aside to allow you passage through the door, and foolishly you take the bait. It’s a run through tar—something you’d only ever experience in a dream, in which outrunning a villain is an impossible task. You make it through the door and out into the hall, and from there your only goal is to mindlessly flee towards safety. Tears obscure your vision, clinging to your lashes like fragile sugar dew.

You think you see the outline of a faraway door, but perhaps it’s just the illusion brought on by mournful tears.

You think you’ll make it to freedom, but perhaps it’s just the animalistic desire to survive that ignites your nerves.

You think you can escape the horrors of encroaching affection, but it slips into your hand, tight and reassuring.

Tugged into the kitchen-lab, your back collides with Rook’s chest. His grip is bone-crushing, and you don’t hear anything he’s saying—is he humming or waxing poetry?—but you feel the warmth of spreading blood as it soaks through your shirt and stains your artist’s apron. The palette knife slips from your grasp, landing on the floor with a noisy clatter. You peer down at your abdomen, where the cleaver is snugly nestled in your stomach.

The cleaver.

It’s in your stomach.

He’s stabbed you.

The cleaver.

It’s in your stomach.

It doesn’t hurt. Not at first. The shock snuffs the agony. He twists it gingerly, once or twice, before he yanks it out. Sticky strings of torn flesh and blood cling to the blade, connecting it to the injury he’s inflicted. Then you feel the rush of torturous, agonizing pain, and it stings more than anything you've ever experienced before. Red-hot, thick trails of blood trickle through your fingers when you shakily place your hand upon the wound, hoping to stop the flow. Rook clicks his tongue and guides you towards the dissection table, your feet dragging bonelessly upon the floor as you’re led along. You try to fight him, but everything’s so painful, and so all you can manage is a slight shake of the shoulders. Your world spins, and your mind reels as it struggles to process the dangerous gash.

“After the chase,” he says, lowering you onto the table despite your blubbery protests, “the dog grabs its prey in a sharp-toothed bite and then it kills.”

“S-Stop… You…” Your fingers curl into shredded skin, and you press down with as much strength as your shuddering body can muster. Blood continues to seep through the cracks between your fingers. “You… You’ll kill me…”

“Well, that’s the point, no?” Rook pets your cheek, fondness glittering in his green eyes.

You peer up at him through bleary eyes, reaching for his face with a trembling hand. “Please… I’m begging you… It h-hurts… Please…” A helpless sob wracks through your frail form. “Please, Rook…”

For a while—whether an eternity or merely a few seconds, it’s hard to discern—he watches you fade in and out of consciousness, your groans a haunting melody in the discomforting quiet. Eventually, his hand finds yours on the table, limp and twitching, and envelops it in a firm hold.

Blissfully ignorant to your wheezing gasps, he begins to murmur: “‘Out—out are the lights—out all. And, over each quivering form, the curtain, a funeral pall, comes down with the rush of a storm. While the angels, all pallid and wan, uprising, unveiling, affirm that the play is the tragedy, ‘Man.’” He looms over you like a ghastly shadow, lips arranged in a gleeful grin. “‘And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.’”

The time is 11:11 at night when you finally fall into Death’s frigid embrace, never to wake again.

11:11 - the mystical time at which the universe tugs celestial cotton from its ears and listens to wishes and woes alike. it is not a promise that all wishes will be granted and all woes will be soothed at this hour.

The time is 11:11 in the morning, and sweet, twittering birdsong flutters into the trophy room through a window left ajar.

The sun has long since risen, casting radiant beams through the thinning slices between the trees. Rook Hunt hums as he works, deft fingers perusing various cosmetics arranged on a metal tray. Eyeshadow is applied to delicate, paper-thin eyelids, each one pinned open in the permanence of preservation. Glass marbles are set into hollow sockets, colored in memory of the eyes that were once attached to a brain via optic nerves. He matches foundation to the skin tone, which works well to hide meticulous stitching and mottled flesh. He’s humming in tune with the birds, the nearby rushing stream, and the swaying foliage caught up in a wind gust, relishing in nature’s symphony.

“You claimed you’d finally smile after you’ve learned to love,” Rook observes, petting the top of the head, feeling human hair beneath his rough, calloused palm. “And now you beam brighter than the sun outside! Perhaps it’s because of me? You’ve always been so honest with your heart. It’s a facet I most adore.”

His gaze slides towards the unfinished painting propped against the wall, where an antlered man smiles at his viewer, his green eyes filled with a mysterious forest.

“Have you always thought me to be prey?” Rook pauses, awaiting an answer, and snatches a lipstick from the selection. “Or maybe this is an artist’s ideal vision… Perhaps it’s a fantasy you’ve wished to see or a place you’ve always wanted to visit. Escapism is most magnificent when it’s comforting.” He opens the lipstick and surveys the color with his observant greens. He inhales deeply and catches notes of the cedarwood cabin walls and the floral perfume he spritzed on his dear artiste. “Though it may not be your masterpiece, it’s one that will forever fascinate.”

Red blooms on dry lips that can no longer scream or protest. He cups a cheek stuffed with the finest wood wool, palming an area that was once bruised and broken. The grisly mark has been painted over, and now it is out of sight and, as far as the hunter is concerned, out of mind. As the saying goes, before one can broach beauty, one must suffer some degree of destruction.

Rook steps down from the ladder and sets the tray of cosmetics on the gold-and-white satin chair. He lifts his hands, fingers forming the borders of a rectangle to frame you in his own portrait. At long last, the headless mount has its head and the pyramid of trophies is complete. There’s a crooked smile sewn into features expertly stitched to finalize beguiling taxidermy.

With a covert grin, Rook peers through his fingers at your head situated at the very tip of a tragic triangle.

“After all, prey are the prettiest when they’re dyed scarlet.”

#if i said jade's version of this concept was far more lighthearted would anyone believe me?#yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere rook hunt #yandere rook hunt x reader #yandere rook #yandere rook x reader #tw: death #tw: murder #tw: violence

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sonder-paradise · 2 years

Note

Since requests are open...how about slow dancing scenario with Dazai ? The setting is up to you,of course ♡♡

𝐒𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐞 — 𝐎𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐮 𝐃𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐢

Crisp, flourishing music flooded the hall. Your whirlwind adventures at this advantageous event had been all but lonely. With an abundance of people crowding you like a flock of nitpicky birds, you danced until you could no longer feel the tips of your toes.

Through hordes of people, you strolled through in search of the man you had first entered this arena with. Your venture was occasionally stopped by a person inquiring about your outfit or your accessories, or perhaps by a simple waiter asking about the empty champagne glass nestled in your fingertips.

From the balcony above, Dazai sipped at his bubbling drink. He skimmed through the bystanders up on the second level. When you turned left or right, he mimicked your actions as best he could. He knew you were looking for him.

He knew that your feet were most likely dying in the tight shoes your wore tonight. He also knew that the last dance would start in five minutes.

His mimicry lead him to the top of the extravagant stairwell where you awaited at the bottom, still skimming the crowds in search of him.

Dazai momentarily chuckled at your obliviousness, setting the now-empty glass on the tray of a passing waitress. Your name tumbled from his lips quietly and—despite the sonorous music—fell into your ears.

You turned from your spot at the foot of the stairs, looking up at your charming partner. His messy bangs hugged the back of his left ear and he smiled that familiar smile down at you.

"Osamu," you said softly, returning that brilliant smile.

It was those types of smiles that got Dazai's stomach swarming with a bouquet of monarch butterflies. Especially as he took in your captivating appearance.

He descended down the stairs, hands in pockets and a boy-like grin on his face. "Y/n, are you ready to go now?"

"Not quite." Another tap of the conductor's wand signaled the final dance of the evening. "Shall we dance?"

Dazai inclined towards you; Hand gently outstretched towards you like a picture of refined royalty. "Why, of course, my love."

With your hand secured in his, he guided you back towards the center of the room. His other hand nestled itself on the curve of your back, gripping it tenderly. The rise of the serenading music sent the two of you in a practiced dance.

"How was the party?" Dazai asked.

"Much more interesting than staying at home. I'm surprised you came with me actually," you commented.

"And miss a chance to dance with my darling? Not a chance." For a moment, his hand left the small of your back and brushed away a loose strand of hair from your face.

"But I danced with so many other people too."

"I noticed," Dazai murmured, raising an eyebrow at your attempt at an implication, "But what matters is your last dance and that one is all mine."

The curvature of his tone told you he was a little too happy to be staking his claim on you in this fashion. But you disregarded it, allowing him to bask in your arms.

Another flourish of the music had Dazai gently spinning you into a dip. His charming eyes beamed at your lowered figure while a steady hand held you tightly.

As he brought you back up, you mimicked his previous action; Reaching up to brush a loose part of his bangs back over his ear. Honestly, you should dance with this man more often.

Taglist: @todorokichills @alittlesimp @greenshirtimagines @darlinqserenity @nameless-shrimp @whorefordazai @requiem626k @missrown @rirk-ke @kiyokoxd @jessbeinme15 @starglow-xx @shadyteacup @kuraxmasha @yochicoz @pompompurin1028 @trashykawahq @swrdemon @foolishestchildofchilds @fyodorscello @hanemiso @dazaiaiko @chuuyasboots @ruthdied @allisonlol @questioningmyownexistence @sebtomm @nullified-kiss @cuteflowers-101 @sigmafied @boombboi @scarletta-ruan @skgch @dazaiscum @thekaylahub @alexaizawa @dazaisfavgf @thesatanofpizza @yuuotosaka3 @kisara-16reblogs @alice0blog @irethepotato @vinyicryes @monastary

Wanna join my taglist? Comment under this post!!

#[🖋] writing #osamu dazai bsd #osamu dazai x you #bsd dazai x you #bsd dazai x reader #bsd imagines #bsd drabble #dazai x reader #bungo stray dogs dazai #bsd dazai #dazai x you #dazai x y/n #bsd x y/n #bsd x gender neutral reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs dazai #bungou stray dogs x reader

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istherewifiinhell · 11 months

Text

anyone wanna get emotional about collaborative art with me?

[Mirage 19 Story: E&L, Layout: Eastman, Pencils: Jim Lawson, Inks: Laird, Letters: Steve Lavigne]

ID from alt: Cropped section of the page annotations by Laird, (relevant) text: Page 18 is also the beginning of what I think of as "Brick hell" - Jim drew so many panels with hundreds of bricks in them, and I felt obliged to ink them all in. That was a LOT of bricks." Left is a panel showing Raph running down a curving brick tunnel, the wall is drawn with individual bricks, uncountable amounts of lines that illustrate the curvature.

If not, enjoy brick hell instead (I'll leave, just a doozy of a brick hell image at the end)

(this issue has beautiful layout paneling, which little snippets of could never replicate. great one to check out. imho)

come one come all to the worst barn party of the decade...

[IDS AND ALTS THE SAME]

ID: Jones family barn interior. Mike and Don speaking to Raph (off panel). Mike, in an open gesture: Life is good here... It's given us time to heal, to accept what's happened. Leo's needed this time, too--. Don, by his work table, no mask, wearing an apron. More neutral: We're not the guardians of society, Raphael... we never were. END

ID: Three panels, Raph pushing Leo around, yelling at him. The background moves from uninked, to midtone, to dark tone, as they both get more angry. Raph: No-- You're hiding out here... scared to face facts... And you're dragging all of us down with you! Fun and games are over, Chump... Look at yourself! END

ID: Two panels, Raph looks down to a wooden sword Leo (off panel) has held up in his way. He looks at it, unimpressed. Then looks up, pissed off and says only "Mistake." END

1. Three panels, Leo in the forground, just his leg seen. Raph on the floor against a wall. He whips his chin, saying "You were always good, Leo...". Close up, spit hangs from his mouth, continues "... One of the best..." He stands and finishes "...Which makes life here even more of a crime."

2. Four panels, Leo has Raph in a choke hold, holding him from behind, they are on the floor. Sweaty and teeth grit with exhertion. Leo says "--Do you hear me?!" Raph starts throwing punches to Leo's head, just above his own. As each one land we close in on Leo's face. END

Well. Thats great. Ill eat my own heart out how abouts.

AND ANYWAY. My favourite favourite effect.

ID: 1. Four panels, Leo, Mike and Don, run along a roof top, grab some fire escapes, and make their way to street level, skirting the edge of a street lamp's glow. The entire set is pen inked normally, and washed completely with the mid tone, save the small circle around the lamp, glowing white.

2. Large panel. Raph, 3 point lands, kicking up dust in the center of a spot lit section of sewer. The tail ends of a hood he wears trail up with the motion. Very little double-tone is used on the page, instead the shadow is communicated by increased hatch lines still following the shapes of every object in shot. END

ID: Raph sits in the tattered remains of the turtles lair, his brothers shadowed in the foreground. Raph, not very warmly says "Welcome Home." END

Okay okay. cry forever and every. please for the love of god. read comics. now. more brick hell

ID: Three panels, showing the entrance of a sewer tunnel into a larger area, closed and open pipes along the wall. The shot holds empty for two panels, then with the inclusion of Raph jumping out the exit in the third. If you are to look carefully. You can tell, though the scenery remains the same, in each, the intricate pen inked brick work and shadows have been done three separate times. END

LIKE. I KNOW ITS TRADITIONAL MEDIUM COMICS. But sir.... SIR? Another annotations from Laird specifically. Have mentioned using the copier to place certain things in backgrounds.... i just.... SIR?

#some shit #turbles...#one occassionally gets the impression that. laird is. ehm. a little particular about his work. Id say. well. its good work.#tags now refer to the contents within....#RAPH LEO FIGHT EVERYONE STOP THE PRESSES IMMA DIE....#ahhh. the blueprint. god. im ILL. fuck. this. don telling RAPH its not on them. thats. god thats a WHOLE OTHER. ouf.#and then. THE INTIMACY. of the violence. it KILLS THE MAN. thats. one hell of a fight scene. honestly. just. again. the over all pacing #of this issue. tuned to perfection. that is. some of the first time ive very felt panels come like blows. emotional ones.#like. NOT INCLUDED. but theres a moment thats. like down right scary? not horror scary just like. STRESS SCARY.#GENUINELY. feel sick. LOVE IT #i CANTTTT handle it. i love laird turtles inked by lawson but guess i ALSO love lawson turtles inked by laird.#idk. they so emotive and pretty naturalistic expression wise. also makes me think of sophie campbell though i could just be thinking about #the idw leo micro. cause. well. i want (issue) where (they) pass away. not because i hate them becauase i LOVE THEM.#wifi blogs mirage

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silvokrent · 2 years

Text

Presentation from guest speaker Prof. Rowan, held at the Jubilife Conference: “Redefining Evolution through the Lens of Obligate Symbiosis.”

The current paradigm for evolution, defined as a sudden, radical metamorphosis of a Pokémon’s physiology, has sufficed for many years, although it’s hardly gone uncontested. It’s a contentious subject amongst researchers—no doubt, I speak from personal experience—largely due to its complexity, and our inability to neatly articulate it.

One such topic is that of multi-constituent evolution, wherein two or more individuals simultaneously engage in the process. Our understanding of evolution acting upon a single Pokémon is muddied somewhat when we’re forced to define what counts as a “single” Pokémon. In cases such as these, the definition becomes rather vague.

Presently, there are two recognized categories of multi-constituent evolution: conspecific and heterospecific. For those that might need a refresher, conspecific is defined as an evolution where two or more Pokémon of the same lineage evolve together into a superorganism. Notable examples of this include the Beldum line, which culminates in Metagross, a Pokémon formed from two of its mid-stage evolution, Metang. The other category, heterospecific, is disproportionately rarer, as it involves two different species collaboratively evolving together.

I’m sure you don’t need to guess what Pokémon I’m referring to—it’s written on the pamphlet, after all—and its infamy certainly goes without saying.

Slowbro. A rather unassuming creature at a cursory glance, yet its existence challenges our fundamental understanding of evolution. For decades, it’s been argued that the Pokémon evolving into Slowbro is its precursor, Slowpoke, and that the Shellder merely induces the process, either by acting as a counterweight, or through the analgesic enzymes found in its venom. The counterargument—as proposed by some of our audience members in attendance today—is that “Slowbro” is a misnomer. Instead, Shellder is the Pokémon primarily evolving, as evidenced by the change of its shell from a bivalve-morph to a gastropod-morph. The catalyst for Shellder’s evolution, in this scenario, would be the exudate secreted from the Slowpoke’s caudal glands.

Both theories hold merit. The only issue with them is that they emphasize the evolution of one species over the other—Shellder or Slowpoke. Neither considers the potentially obligate nature of their shared symbiosis, only the ways in which they superficially impact the other.

My proposition is that the evolution of Slowbro represents a holobiont—a superorganism composed of two distinct species whose synergistic interactions cannot be separated.

The primary argument against this theory is devolution—the hypothetical scenario in which the removal of the Shellder would force its host to “revert back” to a Slowpoke stage. At present, this remains purely conjectural, as no instances have been documented in the wild, nor artificially induced in a laboratory setting. Outside of the temporary phenomenon known as “Mega Evolution,” no Pokémon has ever been witnessed regressing to an earlier stage in its evolutionary lineage.

In addition to there being no substantiated evidence to back this claim, it hinges on a flawed supposition—that the Slowpoke partner can return to its default state, while ignoring the anatomical changes induced by evolution.

X-rays of the Slowbro’s skeleton show that it becomes adapted to a new form of ambulatory movement: bipedalism. Its hind feet become plantigrade, with a well-defined heel for energy conservation during locomotion. Similarly, the enlarged knees make it possible for the legs to support its weight under gravity. The lumbar and thoracic curvature of the vertebral column—absent in the pre-evolution—allow for the body’s center of gravity to be brought directly over the feet.

None of these anatomical changes to the Slowpoke would disappear in the absence of the partner Shellder, making a reversion to a quadrupedal gait impossible. I should also point out that the existence of the Galarian Slowbro—whose partner Shellder is clamped to the forearm—belies the argument that the Shellder is merely a counterweight on the tail.

I feel it’s worth mentioning that evolution doesn’t just induce an anatomical shift in Slowpoke, but a behavioral one as well. Without the ability to fish for prey, Slowbro becomes reliant on active pursuit swimming, and, even more importantly, a wider repertoire of Psychic-type moves. There is a direct correlation between the Shellder’s venom and Slowbro’s increased proficiency in using Psychic-type attacks. This suggests that not only does the Slowpoke benefit from this arrangement, but the mutualism is obligate.

The same can be said for its Shellder partner, which becomes permanently sessile post-evolution. In exchange for amplifying its host’s Psychic potential, it is allowed to feed on the scraps of its meals. This not only eliminates the need for Shellder to passively hunt, but it gains an additional form of protection from its host.

If Slowpoke and Shellder are capable of independently surviving, you might wonder, then why would either species choose to evolve together? One possibility is that evolution reduces competition amongst Slowpoke, Shellder, and Cloyster populations through resource partitioning. Active predation, as opposed to passively luring in prey, has the potential to offset competition. Its natatorial locomotion gives Slowbro access to fast-moving fish that were previously excluded from its diet, such as Basculin, Remoraid, and Bruxish. Both initial and replication studies have substantiated this fact. One such paper by Professor Westwood, of the Seafoam Institute, looked at the stomach contents of both Slowpoke and Slowbro where they occurred sympatrically. Gastric analysis revealed only a 10% overlap of prey species in their diets.

We can clearly measure and observe the benefits of this partnership, and why it has persisted to the present day. The more elusive question, though, is how this symbiosis came about.

And for that, we must turn to Slowpoke’s hunting strategy: fishing.

Here we verge into the realm of conjecture. While anatomical structures are well-preserved in the fossil record, evidence of behavior is harder to find. (The paleoethologists in the room have my sympathy.) That being said, trace fossils have been discovered over the years—enough to speculate on the origins of this behavior.

Fishing, as it’s widely theorized, is an exaptation of autotomy, or self-amputation. Much like its descendant, the ancestor of the Kanto Slowpoke is thought to have been rather sedentary and lethargic, due to its slower metabolism. When pinned by a predator, it could discard its tail as a decoy, and flee to safety. Over the course of the following weeks, the ancestral Slowpoke would regrow the missing appendage through epimorphic regeneration.

This was the point at which researchers were stumped, if you’ll forgive the pun. Then, thirty years ago, amateur fossil collectors in Azalea Town unearthed something quite extraordinary: coprolites from ancient fish Pokémon. With the remains of caudal vertebrae from a Slowpoke.

It is here we draw our conclusions. At a certain point in time, the ability to shed and regrow its tail became useful as a fishing line. The caudal gland—previously used for marking its territory, and attracting potential mates—was modified to lure in aquatic prey. From there, Shellder soon began to clamp down on Slowpoke’s tail, using its analgesic venom to prevent the Slowpoke from being alerted to its presence. Over the course of thousands of years, this interaction triggered the joint evolution of a new Pokémon—Slowbro.

A creature derived from two different species, whose existence cannot be neatly separated into its constituents.

Of course, further research still needs to be done to determine the catalyst for evolution into Slowbro—venom, exudate, or a combination of factors.

Perhaps, in a few years’ time, we’ll have a new controversy to talk about.

That concludes this presentation. I’d now like to open up the floor to questions from the audience.

Since there seems to be an interest for this sort of thing, I went and finished the excerpt that I initially wrote for this post. I’m also happy to announce that this is going to be the first in a series called The Pursuit of Knowledge, a series of epistolary works written from the perspective of each professor.

#pokemon #pokemon thought dump #speculative biology #realistic pokemon #the pursuit of knowledge #pokemon fics #slowpoke #shellder #slowbro #my posts #i speak #professor rowan

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rosesandcloves · 2 years

Text

Unwanted years

Part Three: Origins and Oils

*Warnings* NSFW

When Veera met Klaus she was just a college student, studying ancient literature.

He was sitting in a bar having a drink and no doubt plotting someone's demise, when she rushed in all a fluster.

She rushed up to the barman and handed him what looked like a resume.

"Hi, do you have any jobs going, here's my resume, I don't have huge amounts of relevant experience but I do have arms training so if any of the regulars get a bit rowdy." she let out a nervous giggle and then quickly straightened her face.

"No sorry we have all the staff we need at the moment, perhaps the 7/11 down the street is hiring".

Klaus who had been listening in to the entire conversation swallowed the last of his drink.

"I could do with some help at my studio love!" He raised his voice so she could hear above the noise of the bar.

She walked over to him, a total stranger offering kindness to her.

"Are you sure?! When would you want me to start? Would you like a resume?"

Klaus looked down and smirked, then looked back up at her.

"I think you will do just fine. Can you start this afternoon?" He reached over the bar and took the order pad for table orders, scribbled down something on it and tore it off and handed it to her.

"This is my address, meet me there at five." And then he walked out of the bar.

"My name is Klaus, by the way, Veera" he shouted back to her.

If she wasn't so young and stupid she wouldn't have gone. But she needed the money.

At ten past five she trotted up the steps to a huge house in a gated community in the French quarter. She knocked on the door using a huge antique knocker, and turned to look at the courtyard garden, roses and cloves growing in the front garden, that smelled just like her perfume.

She heard a man clear his voice behind her and she spun on her heels to face him.

"You're late." He grumbled. "Not great for your first day" he smiled and she relaxed. "Come on in. Would you like a drink?" He led her through a huge entrance hall and down a corridor into a small room with an easel and a small white box in the center of the floor.

He handed her a drink and a white silk robe.

"From your resume I saw you have experience modelling, so this should be a breeze for you. Just stand still and only move when I tell you and you will do great."

She had only life modelled for friends before, who studied at the art college campus near her home. She had never done it for money before, or in front of a stranger.

She went behind a wooden screen in the corner and changed into the robe. When she returned Klaus was setting up his brushes and choosing his charcoals. He sat down on a stool in front of the canvas where he could always keep one eye on her and one eye on his work.

She stood on the podium and untied her robe with delicate fingers, and slowly let the robe slip off her shoulders and fall to the ground. Klaus cleared his throat and inspected his subject with his brows furrowed in concentration. "Can you bring your left leg forward a bit love?" He directed. "And twist your back slightly" "that's it." "and place your hand on your thigh." "Perfect! Now stay still!" He commanded.

He picked up the charcoal and started to sketch the fluid lines of her curvature. After a while he broke the silence while he was preparing his paints.

"I like your perfume." He stated while looking intently at his work.

"Thank you." She smiled awkwardly.

"Victorian women used to wear rose and cloves to attract vampires" she said trying to impress the older man with her knowledge.

"Was that your intention?" He chuckled and looked down at his pallette and took a scraping of a pale flesh tone. He stood up and walked over to her and stopped and delicately smoothed the paint onto her waist. "You have never done this before have you?" He looked up from the paint on her waiste to meet her eyes. Round and doll-like green and watery with nerves. "H-how can you tell?" She stuttered, she could feel his warm breath against her naked frame.

"Because if you had, you wouldn't have let me do that."

She stared into his pale blue eyes. All of a sudden realising she knew nothing of this man but she was standing here naked with his paint all over her.

"I think all men like the smell of roses secretly" she says with wide eyes like a dear in the headlights.

"You could be right, however I don't think I'm a reliable sample of the average man"

Then he told her, he compelled her not to be afraid and not to tell anyone but he told her and he did not want her to forget he just wanted her to know him in the honest way he knew her.

Part 4

#painting #tvd klaus #klausmikealson #daddy klaus #klaus mikealson smut #klaus mikaleson imagine #klausartist

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bees-in-the-machine · 10 months

Text

Math dump.

Basically I set out to prove that inverting the coordinates of all points in a circle produces another circle, except in the case where it produces a line instead. These are wellknown results but i hadn't seen much of an argument for why it should be the case, and the results from this might be useful in proving decarte's appollonian formula relating the curvatures of 4 tangent circles.

Anyways. This is a circle: x²+y²=r²

A way of stating it with complex numbers: (x+jy)(x-jy)=r²

Displaced circle (center at h+jk): (x-h)²+(y-k)²=r²

with complex numbers: ((x+jy)-(h-jk))((x-jy)-(h+jk))=r²

simpler complex number notation. z=x+jy. z*=x-jy. c=h+jk. zz*=|z|²

(z-c*)(z*-c)=r²

Now, inverting coordinates is when you keep the angle constant but take the reciporacle of the magnetude. Which with complex numbers is as easy as z => 1/z*

So our inverted circle:

(1/z*-c*)(1/z-c)=r²

multiplying by complex cojugates to make the denominators real:

(z/|z|²-c*)(z*/|z|²-c)=r²

common denominators:

(z-c*|z|²)(z*-c|z|²)=r²|z|⁴

expanding

|c|²|z|⁴-cz*|z|²-c*z|z|²+|z|²=r²|z|⁴

dividing by |z|²

|c|²|z|²-cz*-c*z+1=r²|z|²

putting it in quadratic form

(|c|²-r²)|z|²-cz*-c*z+1=0

Defining A=|c|²-r² to make it less messy and bringing back x, y, h, and k

A(x²+y²)-(h+jk)(x-jy)-(h-jk)(x+jy)+1=0

A(x²+y²)-2hx-2ky+1=0

If A is non zero we can divide it out (I'll come back to this)

x²+y²-(2h/A)x-(2k/A)y+1=0

completing the squares

x²-(2h/A)x+y²-(2k/A)y+1=0

(x-h/A)²-(h/A)²+(y-k/A)²-(k/A)²+1=0

getting it into standard circle form

(x-h/A)²+(y-k/A)²=(h²+k²)/A²-1

(x-h/A)²+(y-k/A)²=(h²+k²-A)/A²

bringing back A=|c|²-r²

(x-h/(|c|²-r²))²+(y-k/(|c|²-r²))²=r²/(|c|²-r²)²

so after an inversion the new center of the circle is at (h/(|c|²-r²), k/(|c|²-r²)) and the new radius is r/(|c|²-r²).

(Or alternatively the curvature is (|c|²-r²)/r.)

And taking care of the case where A=0,

A(x²+y²)-2hx-2ky+1=0 becomes

2hx-2ky+1=0 which is a generic 2D line.

So if A is not 0, the circle inverts to a circle. If A is 0, the circle inverts to a line. A is 0 when |c|=r, which is when the edge of the circle passes through the origin.

Unrelated to the above math, I've found a case where more than 4 circles can all be tangent to each other in 2 dimensions. It's when they all only share exactly 1 point. Normally this case is excluded by having one side (either the inner or outer side) be solid/unavailable. In standard Appollonian circle packings, the outermost circle is full on the outside, and so all other circles fit in the empty interior. And those other circles are all full on the inside. And with this kind of arrangement the max is 4.

#text post #math

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dongtopus · 6 months

Note

A final parcel arrives. God only knows what must have happened to it, because certainly no mortal could guess. The outside is a thick cardboard box which appears to have been chewed by some animal, possibly a direwolf, either before or after being kicked down several flights of stairs. Bits of packing straw are leaking out of it. The address has been rewritten several times, at least once in what appears to be blood. Someone really wanted to get this package to "Mr Marion," come hell, high water, or possibly apocalypse.

Inside is a much smaller box covered in torn floral wrapping paper. This in turn reveals shreds of wrapping which apparently read happy birthday once in the distant past. There is a note pinned to the top.

"My Marion. May this reach you in good health and good spirits."

Opening the inner box at first reveals raw sheep's wool, and it takes a little rummaging to find all the contents it was cushioning on its travels.

First to be uncovered is an ink pot, decorated with what appears at first glance to be a floral pattern, but on closer inspection is small meadow flowers actually included into the glass of the bottle and stopper, suspended perfectly preserved and outside of time.

Slipped down the side of the box is a print of one of Clive Cliverssons's more scandalous works - lines taken from his love letters to a married man, set in such a way that the white space formed an image of the lovers entwined.

At the bottom is a winter's kiss rose, but made of lace as fine as spider's webs. Despite this, it has remained perfectly in shape during the journey. As it is pulled free - still a flawless as it ever was - for a moment a ghost of its scent can be caught.

The rose is held as tightly and delicately as possible in a bony, chitinous grasp.

Marion feels his heart pulse weaker for a few beats and his legs fail him. Slumped against the doorframe and not quite on the cold stone tiles of the foyer, he purses his lips tightly, holding back a quiver as the waterline of his eyes start to sting.

memories of gentler, tender moments wash through his mind as he brings the rose to his cheek, as though hoping to feel the loving caress of a hand against his facade.

Footsteps move from the master bedroom and onto the landing behind him and he attempts to take a sharp breath of air through his nose. His chest becomes suddenly very tight and uncomfortable, almost painful as he is reminded that he does not, and has not posessed a nose for quite some time; His spiracles all draw air in and close simultaniously.

Marion gathers himself, placing the rose gently onto his legs, splayed to his side as he continued to support himself against the doorframe.

Reaching into the smaller box, he felt the cool, smooth surface of the glass inkwell and withdrew it. He turned it slowly in the light, admiring the craftsmanship that must surely have been involved in creating such a magnificent piece. The attention to detail, both the level of preservation with the flowers as well as their placements. The flowers were in order of the seasons across its four sides. Spring, summer, autumn and finally winter. He had never in all his years seen its like and he was struck with the rediculous realisation that he did not posess an ink fine or perfect enough to deserve to be housed in such a creation of art. The stopper, itself housing a spliced flower across its dome. Four separate flowers layered once more in the order of the seasons, their petals clear between one another. A near rainbow of colour, topped with a shining gold disc at the center and a very faint 'M'. Even against the roughness of his chitin, it was as smooth as it could possibly be- he could barely beleive his thumb was truly following the domes curvature.

In complete silence, the inkwell was placed beside him, and the stopped in its place. After a bit of picking at the wool, which had been very adamant at getting stuck in the ridges and roughness of the chitin, the works of renowned lover and writer, Clive Cliversson was held aloft. A little more picking of the wool that clung to its embossed cover and it was free in all it's lasciviousness. Just seeing the book in person, merely holding it made Marion flustered. subconciously, he covered his mouth with his fingertips and scrambled to his feet, closing the door and scurrying to his seat in the parlour next door.

When everyone had gone to bed, or dispered for the evening, it would be time to read.

#i think i ucked up tenses there #i am tired!#this was however very lovely and i thank you dearly for it Ro #Marion #Necropolis Snippets

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hexpea · 2 years

Text

Ch. 15 - Just a Mistake ⚠️NSFW BELOW⚠️

The car you had taken to get there had been patiently waiting for your return. With the alcohol still heavily coursing through your veins, you could hardly keep your hands to yourself.

The minute you got into the vehicle, whose driver was separated by a tinted shield, you snaked yourself almost entirely onto Gojo's lap. Using your delicate touch, you tilted his jaw down toward you and captured his lips as you had many times before. But this time was different. This time you had a purposeful, sexually charged goal in mind. You were dead set on giving your virginity to him that night. There was no arguing with you, not after Geto's nasty attitude, whether he was acting that way to push you into Gojo's arms or not. Prior, you may have contemplated your feelings, but that had been completely thrown out at this point.

"Slow down," Gojo chuckled between your lips. His hands lightly wrapped around your waist as you nearly straddled him in the car.

"No," you responded lowly and with little interruption to your kiss. You were pressing all of your rage into your affection. Should your rage equate with your performance, you were about to be the best Gojo ever had.

After your response, and the car starting to move, you gave a low growl into Gojo's lips and moved to completely straddle him - no seatbelts. Naturally, Gojo's hands moved to your ass and squeezed lightly. Your own hands moved to relax against his chest.

As much as he knew how risky it was to perform foreplay in a moving car, he couldn't help but partake, letting you do as you pleased.

While still lip-locked, you suddenly grabbed his wrist and pulled it between your legs. With even more guidance, you used your fingers atop his to press into the lace of your thong. He fully understood what you wanted. Once your hand had moved back to his chest, he dove in with one swift motion.

You gasped with the insertion. You had never felt anything there before save for your own fingers. This felt...different. His fingers were a bit thicker and much longer, able to reach spots your own digits couldn't. Gojo had his own way of doing things, his own rhythm and force. With his speed and intensity, a wet sound filled the suddenly musky air of the car - tinted windows now doubled with the fog of your desperate breaths and tiny moans. You tried your best to keep quiet; while there was a window separating the driver, sounds could still travel.

Your hands moved to his shoulders, nails digging into his muscles through his shirt. You tried your best to keep quiet despite the strength of his fluttering fingers. You felt pleasured tears at the base of your eyes as his own breathing grew unsteady - finding pleasure in knowing you were in another world all because of the skillful curvature of his movements.

As soon as you couldn't take it anymore, you adjusted yourself and shoved your hands between your bodies. You skipped his belt and button and went straight for his zipper. Unlike earlier with Geto, you went in for the kill, going straight through the zipper and into his underwear. His stiffness made it easy to release him. Based on your positioning, you couldn't see it, but you could feel just how soft he was to the touch with vein upon vein pulsing full of warm blood.

"Y/N," he huskily whispered out of caution but still letting you do your thing. His fingers at this point had ceased their movement and were removed from your center. He carefully laid them away from you to not dirty your dress.

You ignored him and positioned him anyhow, also ignoring the advice Geto had given you. Mentally, you had given yourself the green light as soon as you felt his soft tip against your opening. Instead of taking your time and easing onto him, let alone being in an uncomfortable car, you forced yourself down.

Your eyes widened and you let out a nearly audible gasp as his rigid cock tore through your hymen. It felt similar to the rug burn you used to get on your knees as a kid, but in a much worse place. The pressure also added an intense amount of uncomfortableness. You swore you could be bleeding. You used a hand to cover your mouth as your earlier tears of pleasure turned to pain and spilled over. But you were still determined to force the burning and stretching sensation into one of butterflies.

"You okay?" Gojo asked seriously, placing his caring hands on your shoulders, making sure to avoid placing his dirtied fingers on your bare skin. You shook your head in response. "Okay, just take it slow," he guided, "it'll hurt getting off, too, so you might as well take a second to ease into it."

His hands then moved to your waist to begin guiding you into a very shallow rocking motion. It was still painful at first, as if rubbing salt into a wound. But as you continued and gained a bit of momentum it began to become more comfortable. In fact, you swore you could feel the beginnings of a very filling type of pleasure.

"Haa~" you gave a small, little moan. Gojo mirrored you with a similar tone as if to let you know that he was there with you, too. "Th-thank you," you stuttered your gratitude toward his advice.

"Welcome..." he grunted and let his head fall back on the headrest.

As soon as you found a steady, slow rhythm that you felt comfortable with, Gojo began to meet you with upward hip pulses. The pain you had once felt truly began to subside and turn into a different kind of burning, a burning that could hardly be described that began creeping up toward your stomach and into your throat.

The repetitive feeling of Gojo's tip pressing against your cervix forced a sound out of you that you had never heard before. It was a kind of cry that begged him to stop but also begged him for more. There was no longer any care about the driver hearing. Your body was completely conflicted as you felt heat increase between your legs.

You felt as if you were about to hit your peak when the car came to a halt. As soon as the two of you felt the brakes, you moved at the speed of light to adjust yourselves. Gojo carefully opened the door just as the driver had reached out to knock on the window.

"Thanks," he nodded toward the man who chose to remain silent. At least he was professional about it...

You smoothed out your dress and followed Gojo toward the campus apartments. You felt your body throbbing for more, the wetness that was created began to drip down your thighs in the most uncomfortable yet erotic manner.

As Gojo shut the door to his place behind you, you wasted no time in letting your dress hit the floor. Gojo smirked as he watched you and let his back fall against his door.

"Satoru," you used his first name for the first time, "it's my birthday." He silently watched as you pointed a toe to let your panties join your dress on the floor. "Aren't you going to give me my present?"

He gave a low chuckle at your teasing. "Oh, you know it." He came forward and used a little bit of force to get you against his chest once more. "I always finish the job."

Your hands came up and began messing with the buttons of his shirt as he felt up on your ass and nibbled against the crook of your neck. You let out breathy, unrestricted sighs as his fingers went dangerously close to your sex.

Suddenly, he took charge and lifted you up, forcing your legs around him. He lifted his neck upward and reached to kiss you, your hands flying to his cheeks to indulge. He then blindly carried you through the apartment to his bedroom, tossing you down on the bed and working away at the last of his buttons.

You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch the show, slowly spreading your legs on the mattress in the process. As soon as the last of his clothing was tugged off, the only thing remaining being the blindfold, he perched over you. With a snarky grin, he tugged next on the blindfold, bringing it down painfully slow.

His hair drooped in front of your face now with the covering removed. His shockingly blue eyes looking incredibly lustful as he leaned down to kiss you. The hand that wasn't propping him up spread your legs even further, and then lined himself with you.

"I'll go slowly," he whispered against your lips, "I don't want to press you too hard into this." You nodded silently and slowly felt him slip in.

You relaxed as many of your muscles as you could as his girth went inch-by-inch into you. With one painful, little twinge, you knew he had pressed against your cervix once more. Though he could go no further, your hands on his back and legs now wrapped around him pressed him closer.

Physically, you were feeling great. Gojo was really paying attention to your every nerve, making sure you were feeling good about each little movement he made. But mentally...mentally you were starting to go elsewhere. It could've been the alcohol starting to wear off but, you swore, you felt rather sad. Something in you felt incomplete.

Gojo kept a swift but careful pace, brushing your collar bone with his lips with each thrust. You let your moans pour out without hesitation, the feeling of your voice escaping your vocal chords a relaxing way to let out the painful pleasure building in your abdomen. It eventually got to a point where you felt yourself begin to slip over.

"T-Toru," you stuttered, hands flying from his back to the sheet next to you. You gripped tight and pulled as he continued his steady pace. Steadiness was surely the key. The burning sensation began to grow and grow an unfathomable amount. At the same you felt the need to cry out bubbling up your throat. "I think...I'm gonna'..." You whined.

"Cum for me, princess," his slithery, sexy voice gurgled into your ear as one final push.

The burning wave then overcame you. Your body felt so fluid in that moment as each wave crashed over you. You gripped Gojo's forearms as he towered above you, continuing to help in carrying out your high. Your nails pierced his skin as he plunged in and out with your body clenching against him, damn near sucking the life out of his cock.

In the midst of the fogginess from your orgasm, you decided it was time to put what Geto taught you to work.

As soon as Gojo pulled himself from you, still pulsing and rock hard from not having achieved his own orgasm, you maneuvered to sit on your knees. Gojo faced you in the same position, waiting for some kind of reaction from you on his performance.

You carefully leaned forward, adjusting so you were practically laying on your stomach, and began by digging into his thighs with your nails.

"Let me finish you," you mused while leaning down to plant kisses along his inner thigh.

"As you wish," he smirked, using one hand to position himself at your lips.

You could smell your body on him, but it only reminded you of what your body happily endured just moments before. Slowly, you stretched out your tongue and took him in, blocking out the taste of your juices that lingered on his skin.

You pressed him as far as you could until you reached the back of your throat, just barely touching your gag reflex. Just as Geto had taught you, you began to carry a comfortable pace while making sure to be wary of his most sensitive parts. It didn't take long before you had him melting underneath you.

His breathing increased steadily. You began to feel a familiar feeling coming from his shaft, the pulsing of warm blood bubbling upward. You knew what was coming. You braced yourself, positioning him comfortably in your throat yet away from your gag reflex. Just as his body stiffened and muscles began twitching, you felt his hot, milky cum flow down your throat. The sour sensation was slightly difficult to swallow, but you did so confidently despite being completely drunk.

"Wow," Gojo mused as you pulled away. "You've...you've done that before."

"No," you shook your head, barely paying attention to your lie.

"C'mon," he teased, "no way was that your first time."

"I'm...I was a virgin," you reassured him.

"Mhm," he rolled his eyes and leaned over to grab his blindfold. "Whatever you say, Y/N," he continued while pushing up his hair for the blindfold.

"I'm...going to go freshen up," you blushed with a crooked smile.

"Sure thing, just across the hall," Gojo nodded and motioned toward the bedroom door.

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jonnysinsectcatalogue · 1 year

Photo

Narrow-Mouthed Snail-Eating Ground Beetle - Sphaeroderus stenostomus

Success! The identity of this insect has (hopefully) been confirmed!

This wonderful specimen was unearthed by accident from the fallen leaves, and likely it was disturbed from its overwinter preparation. As its form suggests, this is one of the many voracious and predatory Ground Beetles that prowl along the forest floor, lending a helping hand to keeping pest insects in check. They can overwhelm prey with great speed and seize them in their mandibles. For all the speed at its disposal, it ironically prefers to make meals out of land snails. With a narrow, (relatively) elongated head, it can reach into the opening of a snail’s shell until the thorax doesn’t fit and bite the soft gastropod with ease. It’s also reported that if this Beetle can’t find snails, it will turn its attention to hunt slugs or soft-bodied insects such as Caterpillars. While running around, this forest cleaner uses its large eyes to watch for hunters and the hunted, and should the former be around, it has to run for cover, squeezing under objects with its flattened body until it’s safe to proceed. It cannot evade otherwise as this type of Ground Beetle is actually flightless, and can’t escape on the wing! The wingcase is fused together forming a singular armored shell and the hindwings inside are reduced.

This showcase was one of the first sets of images uploaded to this blog, but I didn’t know what it was. To paraphrase myself from years ago: While in Muskoka there was a lot of raking to do, and while cleaning up the area I found this Beetle...but I didn’t have my phone nearby. Luckily one of my closest friends had her iPhone and was happy to lend it here. Identification took a while as the pronotum shield shape wasn’t correct on any specie I found. It’s a distinct curved shape with a line down the center, two rises in the back. It’s not a long journey like it was to identify the Bull Bush-Cricket; it’s just that there are many Ground Beetles with this general shape, shell color, and overall proportions. I initially thought it was a Pterostichus Beetle and then later settled on Carabus goryi which is confirmed to live in Ontario, but I wasn’t confident with that answer. This insect was left alone for a few months until serendipity struck on a Bugguide search. When searching through the many subdivisions of Carabidae, the genus Sphaeroderus was found, and I was delighted to finally see images where the wingcase, thorax, head and legs all matched perfectly. S. canadensis looks similar, but S. stenostomus was ultimately chosen due to abdomen’s curvature and the wingcase shape and texturing.

This was a previously unidentified insect originally posted on November 16, 2018 whose picture was taken on November 3, 2018 in Muskoka with an iPhone 8. Thank you dear Lin for lending me a camera and sending me on a journey to discover this Beetle!

#jonny’s insect catalogue #ontario insect #beetle #narrow headed snail eating ground beetle #ground beetle #coleoptera #insect #muskoka #november2018 #2018 #entomology #nature #invertebrates

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arabellaflynn · 1 year

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I've been wearing contact lenses a long time. I was first issued daily-wear disposables when I was fourteen. After being late to school every goddamn day for two weeks, my mother marched me back to the optometrist and got me extended-wear disposables -- the kind you could sleep in -- instead. A lot of people don't tolerate these well, but I do, and I've been wearing them ever since.

Fitting these lenses is not the exact science they would like you to believe. Getting eyeglass prescriptions in general is not. They stick you in front of a rig with switchable lenses and ask you which one you like better, ffs. You go to the eye doctor to make sure your eyeballs aren't going to fall out, not for custom tailored prosthetics. Neither glasses nor contacts are ever 100% custom-fitted to your needs, at least outside of very specific circumstances. Glasses are ground to "close enough" specs from the settings available on the machine, and lenses come in fixed size/power combinations.

If you wear rigid gas permeable lenses, you do need them to conform pretty well to the front center of your eyeball; as the name suggests, RGPs do not flex, and if they don't adhere well you will blink them right out immediately. In fact, the suggested procedure for taking them out is just to pull your eyelid taut and let a blink peel them right off the surface of your eye, where they ideally fall into your other hand. RGPs are not common anymore. The last person I knew who wore them had a prescription of something like -12.00, which is beyond what you can even grind acrylic eyeglass lenses for, and definitely qualifies as 'very specific circumstances'.

Soft lenses are less picky. They're squishy and flexible, and fitting them is more like fitting clothing than like fitting a new leg. Toric lenses are the contact equivalent of bifocals, where the corrective power is different in the middle and at the edge. You don't want these to stay bang in the middle of your cornea, or you'd be unable to change between the regions, but they need to drift a certain minimal amount. Lenses that correct for astigmatism are wobbled along an axis that goes through the center of the lens and need to stay in a particular orientation; they are slightly weighted or have a flat edge at the bottom to keep them upright.

If torics and astigmatics are the lens equivalent of tailored clothing, then then ones I wear are basically jersey knit. I have one power correction, same in both eyes, and astigmatism not worth bothering with. The prescription has been the same my entire adult life. I'd still be wearing the same kind of lenses I was given in high school, but they were discontinued a while ago, so I swapped to CooperVision for my clears. I've actually been fitted for a lot more kinds than those two, all of which had radically different (in contact lens terms) base curvatures and diameters -- it just doesn't really matter when all I need is a bit of hydrogel to recontour the front of my eyeballs a bit so I can see things at a distance. If I stick it on and it stays comfortably where I put it, then it fits. CooperVision "Biofinity" varieties are easy to get and their quality has stayed consistent even when they revise their materials and manufacturing practices, which is not something I can say for everything I've tried.

Colored lenses, on the other hand, I order from the UK. I order all of them from the UK these days; it's cheaper and faster if you don't have vision insurance, especially if whatever hole-in-the-wall place your uninsured ass makes the "new patient special!" appointment at doesn't happen to have your preferred size and brand in stock. (Strip mall optometrists, like Victoria's Secret, will generally "fit" you into whatever they have handy in the back. No thank you, I want my regulars please.) In the US, you technically need a separate prescription for colored lenses -- and sometimes each color, if the otherwise-identical lenses are branded differently -- even if they are literally the exact same as your clear lenses but with some printing in the middle, whereas UK suppliers are very obliging about just mailing me the thing I fucking ordered without an interrogation.

One of my earliest tries at color lenses was a type called "softcolors" that had translucent screen printing over the entire center of the lens. There was a very faint tinting effect that wasn't noticeable at all unless I wore one color and one clear lens, and even then it didn't bother me. I had an unusually bluish-evergreen color. I really liked them, but they don't seem to be out there anymore. Everything I can find now is the "ring" style, where there are streaks of color around the iris part of the lens with a clear area in the center. I've no idea why the change, other than the softcolors only work on light eyes, and only work really brilliantly on eyes like mine, which are the gray-blue structural color you get from Tyndall scattering when there's no pigment in the iris at all. You'd think this would be the default in natural redheads, who are generally short of pigment everywhere, but it doesn't take a lot of melanin to turn eyes honey brown, or a lot of lipid deposits to make them look green, so those are more common than you'd think.

Nothing wrong with my normal color, it's just fun to change and I like decorating myself.

The first set of ring-style lenses I had were huge compared to my normal ones; the color streaks were opaque and the extra-wide rim going across half my sclera was necessarily to stabilize them and prevent the pigment from drifting into my field of view. The colors all seem to be screen-printed dots now, which makes that less of a problem, and everyone's "natural colors" are all pretty much the same diameter as my Biofinity clears. I find the current style less convincing than the tints or opaque ones, because a band of your natural color can show through the middle when your pupils constrict. I suppose most people consider that invisible at normal conversational distance.

The second ones I got were FreshLook, which seem to fit across all their lines, and are the ones I normally order now. I'm fond of the "Dimensions". The only "green" they had at first was the very jade-y one with a smattering of honey-colored dots in the middle, which changes more than you'd think, since my eyes have no brown/gold in them at all naturally. They've expanded the color range a bit, and I think I'll try a different one next time I order. FreshLook lenses are 1-2 week extended wear and come in boxes of 6 lenses, which for me is 3 complete pairs, and in my experience can be cleaned/stored/reworn just fine if you use them for shorter stints. They are idiotically expensive from US sources, running close to $100/box. Ordering them from the UK is less than half that, including overseas shipping. (For further information: My regular Biofinity lenses are $43.99 + S&H uninsured from 1800Contacts, a big independent supplier in the US. The exact same lenses are £13.99 to literally anybody with a credit card on NextDayLenses.com, which is under 20USD, and they are more than happy to mail all your shit straight to the colonies for about $7.50. Feel free to rage.)

FreshLook doesn't have quite a full range of fantasy colors, and I try to keep these things around for costuming, so I took a chance last time I did the rounds and plonked for a pair of indigo contacts from Bausch & Lomb. Sadly, I don't like them quite as much. I don't know what they're packaged in, but when I took them out of their plastic blisters they were oddly tacky and wanted to fold over and stick to themselves, which usually means they're dehydrated. I did get them to adhere to my (palms and fingers and) eyeball once out of the package, but they still weren't very cooperative. Taking them out and giving them an overnight soak in my normal cleaning/storage solution -- ironically, also by Bausch & Lomb -- made them behave much better, although still not as nicely as the Biofinity or FreshLook lenses.

What do we think of the indigo? It's much more striking in person. Not as natural-looking as the jade green ones, but fun nonetheless.

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