Blondelogy.

Gods, he was stupid.

Look at him, she thought. Even the way he stood had her figurative feathers ruffling. He wasn’t even really doing anything and it made her blood boil. Just the sight of him standing perfectly at attention like the ever-ready knight he was, haloed in a ridiculously soft glow of sunlight, wrist perched casually against the steel of his sword’s hilt...Simply existing..

She couldn’t stand it.

That wasn’t the thing that got under her skin the most when it came to him though. The worst was when he would look at her as though he knew what she was thinking. Hm. No, that wasn’t altogether true. He did far worse than that..

Like smile at her. And take her hand whenever she descended a staircase. And laugh. And the way a strand of his hair would fall down his temple when it escaped from his ponytail. That infuriating dimple in his cheek when he-

“Princess?”

And now he was looking at her, the idiot. Why was he looking at her? And with that half grin of all things! Didn’t he have something better to do than irritate her? She scowled and the grin on his mouth grew in size. His eyelids sank into a pleased-seeming squint; “Princess.”

Oh. She realized her disdain was showing so her relaxed her face muscles. She wasted not another second to reply; “What?”

A short series of inhales out of his nostrils gave the audible impression of amusement. “Ah, and I am once more reminded that you are just as charming as you are beautiful.” The blush fled across her cheeks like a rotten thief.

The nerve of him! She wasn’t sure whether to be upset more about the chastising tease or the compliment. So she decided to be aggravated with both. Her head raised to remind him of his place; “Another man would hang for reprimanding me.”

Both of his eyebrows briefly hopped up his forehead, but the smile never left his lips. Those damned lips..

His head tipped to the side to venture; “That seems like an awfully harsh punishment, Princess.”

“Not nearly harsh enough.”

Even then the smile did not falter. Her knight straightened his head and inhaled quietly while asking; “Pray tell, what crime could warrant such a serious outcome?” The question mark in that sentence might as well have been a flick of a cat’s tail with the tone he was giving her.

She fought not to be pressed under the thumb of his smoldering gaze; “You ought to know. You are the one guilty of it.”

“Guilty?” Now he turned to her, wrist still limp against his polished hilt. One hip jutted with the shift of his weight; “The only thing I am guilty of is standing. Is standing a crime, Princess?” He chuckled easily, brazenly comfortable with the sass. Suddenly he appeared to consider the insinuation of his actions. His expression smoothed into a mask of light contemplation; “Unless I am doing it incorrectly? Perhaps you ought to correct my posture, Princess.”

While the movement of him shuffling into a “proper” stand conveyed one of playfulness, his gaze burned into hers as his voice sunk an octave to inquire; “Tell me..”

His head angled low and he continued; “If not here, where would you like me instead?”

Her heart fluttered as she damned him to the Gods yet again.

The sound of the coin purse clinking onto the table was lost to him in the tavern, but nevertheless Simon could very well imagine the noise just by looking at how sizable the pouch was. It was the kind of sight most men in the kingdom would slobber over, but not him.

He hoped to convey as much by sliding the hefty bribe back to the one who had tossed it there to begin with.

“My trust cannot be bought.”

The merchant chuckled, quite amused. He received his offer with a light grasp and dancing fingers, while his eyes were trained on him unnervingly. He didn’t believe the refusal for a second it seemed. The very look on the man’s face irritated him and Simon made this clear; “You think my words a falsehood?”

The merchant softened his scrutiny only for a brief moment, shaking his head. “No, no, of course not, but every man has a price..Whatever it may be.” With this he slid the coins back over to Simon.

He didn’t so much as touch it and the merchant himself didn’t reach for it either.

“Well it so happens that coin is not mine.”

Now the merchant was studying him intensely, his beady eyes like dark beetles nestling in his eye sockets. It was not something Simon enjoyed seeing. Leaning in, the merchant questioned rather seriously; “Then what is your price, oh honorable knight?”

His answer was honest; “Something you cannot give me.” Because how could this stranger ever begin to repay him what had been taken so long ago? Yet here he sat opposite, looking stubborn and self assured. Simon couldn’t tell if it were annoyance or curiosity that began to burn inside, scratching insistently under his armor.

“I trust you might be very surprised by what I’m capable of, my good friend. You do not know of me, do you? You’ve no idea who I am or what I’ve accomplished. By that fact alone, you cannot truly discern if I am able to meet your price or not.” Simon could tell that the merchant thought his words were clever. And they were, but only to an extent. He’d dealt with silver-tongues before. There was no persuading him and knowing that was saddening. If only he could be persuaded, if only.

“That’s precisely it,” Began Simon, staring him down across the tavern table. “I do not know you and you do not know me. So it remains an immense challenge for a stranger to gain my trust, as I’ve no reason to give it to you. That within itself is a risk, and I do not gamble.”

The merchant tilted his head, an unreadable expression etched onto his face.

“Even if there’s a chance of winning, Quill?”

Simon tensed immediately, clenching his gloved fists under the table. If this were not a public setting, he would’ve pulled his sword from it’s sheath in a mere second. If his eyes were daggers, the merchant would be dead.

“How do you know of me?”

The merchant settled back into his chair across from him, looking smug. No doubt it fed his frustration well. “I’ll have you know, I know many things. I have eyes and ears everywhere, and eager little mouths that pour secrets into my lap. Yours is one of many.”

“Is this supposed to help me trust you? Threatening me?” Simon kept his voice even despite his emotions roiling inside his chest.

“It’s not, though you misunderstand. I don’t make to threaten you, not at all. Think of it as an admission of vulnerability. I’ve put some of my trust in telling you my true business. A fair trade of trust sounds perfectly mannered, does it not?”

Before Simon could think to retort, a tall woman dressed in various ruffled scraps slung herself over his shoulder. Long brown tendrils of hair spilled over her front and back and her eyes were bright, however not focused on him.

“That’s a gorgeous little purse, Baraxil. I recognize that little sigil anywhere.” She purred, running her hands absentmindedly along Simon’s shoulders and neck. The touch did nothing to soothe his nerves. He felt like a statue resting in a chair, rigid and guarded.

Baraxil rolled his eyes slightly, gesturing carelessly to the money before the three of them. “Always a hard worker, Rosaria. I’m certain you deserve your pay, go on,” His eyes met with Simon’s. “We’ve no need of it.”

It was astonishing and admittedly rude how quickly the brunette snatched the coins from the table and departed. An unclear sounding; “Thank you, love.” Were the last words she spoke before rushing to fulfill other bar-goer’s needs.

“That one is always so brash, but many sing songs of her lovely loins. I suppose some people never change.” Baraxil smiled thinly, and it was not long before the smiled died on his lips. “Simon Alexander Quill.”

Simon screwed his eyes shut, an image of his father racing to his retinas. For the briefest of moments, he saw his father’s library, saw his mother’s rose garden, saw flames consume the building, saw an armored man with horns on the helmet, saw her face-

He made himself stand from his chair abruptly, roughly. Some pairs of eyes regarded him suspiciously from across the way and around. His eyes slid open, suddenly too tired to glare one last time at the seedy merchant.

Baraxil observed him simply.

Simon chanced a glance at him. “You sought me out.”

The merchant nodded; “I did, yes.”

Gruffly; “Why?”

Baraxil did not answer, instead he responded with this; “I can see I’ve ruffled your feathers a tad. In time I will tell you my intentions. Think of it as a sort of fetch quest, nothing too major really. For now that is all I can tell you. When you’ve gathered yourself, I’ll find you and begin our little business deal. Until then, I look forward to our next meeting, knight of honor.” He dipped his head humbly, those dark beetles glimmering at the thought.

Simon searched his face.

This wasn’t going to end well.

Hello there, my loves. I’m confident by now you’ve all heard the depressing news as of late. I write now to be honest with you and just in case something happens-

I would very much like to stay on Tumblr, because I am a writer at heart. My hands will always need the exercise and, for the most part, Tumblr has always been a conglomerate of creativity and inspiration. I’ve found inspiration here numerous times and have been awed numerous times by other’s works in return.

Here’s where it may concern me and all of you darlings: While I am a writer, that means in general, the writing never stops. Writing does not stop because of other’s feelings, it does not falter in the face of offensive content or even the taboo, writing does not take sides and writing does not choose favorite subject matters above the rest. Writing is much like a force of nature I’d say; A language of communication and expression that can only be spoken through our hands.

We write because we must. No matter what.

Having said this, I enjoy writing about a number of things...Including topics sensual and erotic.

With this massive change incoming, I am left unsure about the future of this writeblr of mine. Will I be brushed under the rug so the staff members can put a sparkling new face on their website? Will I be punished for my inspiration and my creativity? Will I be forced to delete some of my “offensive, unwelcoming” works in order to stay? I do not know what the outcome will be, so I wish you all to stay tuned and we’ll see what happens together.

Love you dearly, my dears. Thank you to each and every one of you for making a little writer happy. Please be safe, keep warm, keep writing, and Merry early Christmas. xo

I’ve crawled into my shell again,

I’m sorry to say I left the real world in disarray.

I abandoned all my friends,

Wasted yet another day.

I’ve been frequenting my shell often,

No dust or decay lingers here.

These walls remain strong;

My sturdy coffin-

No one can find me here.

I’m sad to say my place in reality is far more decrepit and desolate in comparison,

I’m not sure if I can bear the thought of exiting my hidey-hole,

So instead I shrink here in embarrassment.

It’s becoming more and more difficult to lure me out,

It’s safe here, quiet, devoid of sounds.

Who was I before this?

I’m afraid I cannot recall,

Any memory of better times left once it became Fall.

My old self, 

I suppose,

Got buried underneath all the snow.

Likely she’s dead by now..

But if that is the case,

Then why am I still here?

Year after year,

In my shell.

Nowadays it’s where I dwell the most.

My real self has died,

And I’ve become a ghost.

I miss myself.

I’m sorry.

Here Harold found himself again. Although this time he did not approach the manor or enter the threshold with the calm he had when he’d first arrived to the last party. There was no leisure to his step and there was no careless gazing. While his wife spat at him to never come here again, this was something that he must do. This time he had come for a more profound reason.

He was searching for a damned, familiar face.

In these throngs of guests, most would find the task at hand to be a fool’s errand. However Harold had nothing to lose. Especially since his coming here last time cost him his family and the love of his life. All lost now; All because of her.

The first time had been quite easy. While he had not officially met her here, he had caught glimpses of her up above. She had eased past everyone so quietly, so nimbly. It was a practiced art for her and she did it remarkably. On through the night, she tracked him and he tracked her in return, despite his better judgement. A line of silk she had cast and he had followed to places more intimate.

Slipping down the entry way and slithering through the party goers he went, ransacking the extravagant entrance room. In groups, among singular persons, climbing and going down stairs, mingling in the above floors exposed, leaning on columns, his eyes searched for her. Though in his heart, he knew she would not be in such open spaces.

She was not a social butterfly. She was more of a spider, laying in wait for foolish flies in a darkened corner. A place where eyes could not untangle her web, but instead one had to navigate by touch and instinct alone; Where the silk would soothe the skin and tempt the sins within.

And so he pressed past fine shoulders, both bare and clothed. Harold continued through the main space and straight on back to the back lawn.

The night again hit him, chilled him under his blazer and white button down shirt. There was no moon to be seen tonight, only hordes of stars. The sight alone began to distract him. The possibility that she would not be here, the one person he came to see. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, watching all of these nameless to do people wandering around. He had been them once. Hopefully he would redeem himself and join their paradise again.

He found himself striding off to the garden hedges. In comparison to the blue glow of the vast pool and the well lit expanse of outdoor tables filled with food and drink, it was the hidden garden that seemed most fitting for a spider to nest.

How right he was.

A flash of dark orange teased him from where the entrance was, like a skirt whirling to turn. Harold could not help himself. He ran after it. After turning the first corner, down the long green hall he saw her running. A trail of dark hair flew along her exposed back. This woman nursed the same shade of skin the spider had.

Sprinting down the way and making the turn awaiting, he halted just as suddenly. Harold’s breathing and his heart thundered in his ears. This was where he had condemned himself truly. The exact same place as before. Admittedly the first time he had been drinking, and so the way here had escaped his memory.

Now here he stood catching his breath. The small pond was opaque now. No reflection to be had from it’s surface unlike last time. Last time it had reflected everything, including the way her dress had slipped off her supple form. The stone bench still sat in front of the water and the weeping pussy willow tree a foot beside that. All around were lovely flower beds with a paved trail to walk throughout. It was an intimate, private space...Devoid of her. Or so he thought.

“Very good, Sir.”

Harold whirled to his left to find her. She had sneakily pressed herself flat in his blind spot against the hedge wall. His stomach tightened just looking at her. So very beautiful she was. Her hair was pinned in the back, though allowed the rest to cascade down. Her pretty face was exposed to him, leaving no mystery or imagination. All smooth, tanned skin with those minty green eyes of hers. An orange silk dress clung to her body, eerily alike to the first dress he’d seen her in. His brows furrowed. Strangely enough she had no shoes.

As if to answer, she brought out from behind her back a pair of black high heels. Smiling and dropping them simply, she explained; “I thought I sensed a chase.”

Harold had no patience for her humor. This he showcased by grabbing her by her shoulders and shoving her deeper against the hedge. The spider did not flinch. She held him with her eyes and allowed it to happen.

“Looking at you kills me, do you know that?”

She grinned as if that were an earned compliment and ran a single finger down his blazer. “You make a handsome cadaver.”

“This isn’t a joke.” He snarled, pulling her forward and shoving her back to emphasize his frustration.

She gazed up at him, blinking innocently. “Who’s laughing, Harold?”

Refusing to let her get to him, he swallowed the heat of anger inside him. She knew what this whole thing had caused. “You ripped me out of my family, you conniving harlot.”

“And you,” She cooed with a smug smile, tilting her head up at him. “Ripped off my clothes in this very garden. Truly, who’s fault was that?”

While Harold did blanch, his eyes remained hatefully fixed on her face. As evenly as he could manage, he replied; “And tell me, who was it eyeball-fucking me around the party all night long, battling her lashes at me and licking her lips?”

“Oh Harold-”

“Do not address me by my name. You do not get that luxury. Only my wife gets that luxury, and you will never be her.” He hissed.

“Strange. I thought I had alllll the luxury since you were moaning mine.” Making a slow show of licking her mouth, she stared into him. That seemed to freeze him into place. No response could make it past the regret lodged in his throat.

 “You remember that, don’t you?” Her eyes became hooded, sultry. “I’ve never heard anyone moan my name so passionately before. By all means, I am certainly not your wife, but you wanted her to be me. She couldn’t give you what you needed, couldn’t fill your desires like I could. That’s exactly why you fucked me nearly as long as the party lasted.”

A slap caught her by surprise, though not that much.

Before her stood a man seething with a hatred and a guilt so vivid, it was almost beautiful. She took the red hand print with pride. “A bite of an apple is most tempting I’m sure, but it was you who bit it. Not me.”

Abigail: "It was a most saddening realization as I recall. It hadn't been so noticeable at first. I recognized it as a space for her to thrive and find rest. It was the one place I always knew I could find her. Though as time continued, her bedroom had soon become more her hospital room, and less her bedroom." *looking up now, disgusted with herself* "It happened right under my nose."

Olivia: "It wasn't your fault, Abbie."

Abigail: *smiling coldly* "But isn't it? I'm supposed to be her fresher set of eyes to see the world, to see the dangers and warn her. I'm supposed to be able to defend us." *nearly snarling now* "I could do nothing!"

Olivia: "I'm..I'm sorry.."

Abigail: *closing her eyes* "Ah yes, those famous words. I knew they'd come sooner or later."

Olivia: *Swallowing down her hurt* "What would you have me say then? What could I say to make this better?"

Abigail: "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."