Origami Around
oozey mess
pixel skylines
noise dept.
★
Show & Tell
Cosimo Galluzzi
tannertan36
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
@theartofmadeline
occasionally subtle
YOU ARE THE REASON
Today's Document
Keni
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
seen from Malaysia
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Singapore
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Morocco
seen from Morocco
seen from Morocco
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@fibonacci-fractals
❝ Dragons, the policeman knew
Were supposed to breathe,
to breath fire, fire, , , , , ,
to breathe fire
And occasionally get themseleves.
themseleves, get
Slaughtered, slaughtered, slaughtered ❞
𝄂𝄂▌│█𝄃 𝄂𝄂𝄃▌│█║▌║▌║▌║𝄃𝄂𝄀𝄃𝄃▌│█𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁▌│█║▌
Curious of spiral spines
and twisted human minds
Poet of parts and Fragments Fatally affectionate
Please Knock knock knock
knock knock
𝄂𝄂▌│█║▌𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁▌│█║▌║▌║𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃▌│█║▌║▌║
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Random TMA headcanon/how I imagine it: spraying Michael (Distortion) with water like a cat could probably work to keep him away for a moment. Same for Helen.
@fibonacci-fractals uhhhh
Yes or no
yes
no
and
very easy
in betweens
it would be pleased
to be startled
and that
Is another In Between
that may earn your life
save
Amusement ʰᵃʰᵃʰᵃʰᵃʰᵃʰᵃ
the sweetest thing sheep can be :)
i do not understand this very well but I'm genuinely shocked there was a response-
one can not
Call into a void
and be shocked
when ones words
bounce back
echoed and yet answered
Random TMA headcanon/how I imagine it: spraying Michael (Distortion) with water like a cat could probably work to keep him away for a moment. Same for Helen.
@fibonacci-fractals uhhhh
Yes or no
yes
no
and
very easy
in betweens
it would be pleased
to be startled
and that
Is another In Between
that may earn your life
save
Amusement ʰᵃʰᵃʰᵃʰᵃʰᵃʰᵃ
the sweetest thing sheep can be :)
Dude, are you just like. Allergic to positive emotions. And don’t give me the “Oh, I’m a concept I don’t have emotions,” when you CLEARLY have expressed things like discomfort, appreciation, and infatuation. LET YOURSELF BE HAPPY FOR ONCE, GOD DAMN IT! YOU DONT HAVE TO BE AN OMINOUS BASTARD 100% OF THE TIME!!!!
busy
busy busy
Stalking
Hunting chasing
finding preserving
Eating Prey
And these are
the questions
Asked of it ⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？
explain
Dreams of sunlight
Caught in the fracture
between sky and light
in a lovers eyes
to a stone
Make it weep
then it will consider
Telling you
whether it feels pleasures
sorrows
The view from over 3,000 metres above sea level was dizzying, the promise of a free fall only stopped by large, vast windows and wooden floors. It was cold, a small snow having fallen on the gondola ride up the mountain to the restaurant.
That was its own journey with the tour guide, a family, and Mike crammed together. The tour guide cheerily rattled off facts and the mother looked pale faced every time her son rocked in his seat.
The restaurant itself was lovely, upscale and modern with a gentle warm lighting to compliment the beginning of the lowering sun behind the mountain peaks.
Most patrons sit bundled in coats and climbing gear, but for once, Michael was dressed casually. Its heavy snow jacket and scarf traded for just its under sweater. And its hair is pulled back, in an intricate coiling shape that makes anyone who looks feel a bit ill when examining it too closely.
It looks mostly human, but the window behind it betrays the truth, cascading its reflection in a twisting shape across the sky.
The table it picked was set in a quiet nook in the back, pressed cleanly across the glass and allowing for the most expansive view.
When it seems Mike, a smile breaks across its face and it gives a small wave.
🌀 @lightning-bastard
The creature wants to collapse in on itself again and again, even more flustered by the overwhelming combination of embarrassment and shame. How can it explain the torment of not having a body and yet having one and the pleasure of experience for the first time and yet not the first time. The impossibility of experiencing new again and again when you are so very old and alien. Like pleading with the moon to understand the importance of dreaming, whimsical, but perhaps in the end pointless. It cannot sulk. It cannot collapse. It cannot focus on anything but the hot red of its cheeks. How human, flushing like a rose.
"It apologises, , , it, , of course , it would like that." The taste of truth on its tongue makes it ill. Another impossibility, the mouth of madness vomiting sweet truthful wants.
Mike feels dejected, though doesn't let go of Michael’s hand. The experience is still worth a lot, even if it doesn't end the way he wante- oh.
He looks back up, his eyes brightening up at Michael's words. Maybe he should've been a little more patient with it. "Oh, amazing. You'll love the soft sheets... and the painting hung up on the wall. It looks like a broken mirror."
Michael itself feels a bit like a broken mirror, pieces crumbling tinier and tinier, but growing ever more sharp. What use does shattered glass have amongst silk sheets except to shred and harm? It supposes that is part of its purpose.
But Mike looks so brilliantly radiant, sparkling and sparking with his off electricity and subtle breeze. If it were less coherent and more understanding of its lovesickness, it would wax poetry about him. The more coherent and less understanding part of it wants to swallow him whole.
"It does not know,,, if it would stain your sheets. Ruin them," the tablecloth beneath them, once pristine white is now rippled through as if subtly embroidered with twisting fractals of a pattern, the pattern changing ever few beats, like a snowflake, asked to repeat itself again and again. "But it certainly trusts your taste in art and finer things,,, it cannot wait to see this side of you."
Mike traces the patterns on the tablecloth with his eyes, feeling a light swoop in his stomach after a moment. He wonders how it will feel when he can taste more than the pale echo of it.
"Oh, I trust my taste in the finest things too... and it just so happens to fit my wants perfectly." He grins. "I don't mind the stains at all, so it shouldn't worry about that. What matters most is that it is by my side."
For the first time in what feels like eternity, but surely must have only been a scarce few seconds, it smiles, a bit more bashful and a bit more genuine. What a silly, silly creature it is, comforted and tamed by human soothings of soft smiles and softer words.
Whatever cryptic gushings or rambling romance it has to babble is interrupted as their food makes an appearance. The trays noticeably are carried by a waiter who was not their own, the mousey haired petite woman now replaced by a tall dark man with even darker features. The distortion cannot hide its snickering, as the man introduces himself politely as Claude, and mentions Marie was feeling a touch ill. The polite honey of the man's voice tasting sweet to the creature with a white lie. Seems they'd unnerved their waitress a bit too much.
Mike looks up when the waiter comes over, struggling to hide his amusement upon hearing the flimsy explanation. "That's a pity... still, thank you." He nods politely as the food is set down on the table. His eyes are still just a touch too bright as he looks over Claude, looking for possible weaknesses. He keeps his hand entwined with Michael's, feeling a bit scarier with it by his side.
Yes, Michael quite likes this. Two peas in a pod, monsters bolstered in monstrous actions. For a man who seemed so determined to ignore its pull, he seems very content beside it. Broken thing. Emboldened with the other by its side, the impression the pair creates is a bit of a rabid dog and a leash, though it's unclear which is acting as which.
"Of course, enjoy your meal, gentlemen." The man politely nods, not quite enjoying the dip in his stomach under Mike's eyes. It reminds him of rollercoasters as a child, nervous anticipation . Michael shudders, its form shuffling like playing cards, leaving it jagged and pale like a sliver of the moon. Claude startles a bit himself, not even bidding his farewell before he turned on his heel and departed the couple. The distortion smiles, like a pleased cat left with its cream.
Their roles might seem obvious at first, Mike acting as the limit, the voice of reason, but with the way he's looking at the waiter it just might be the other way around. He likes to think he keeps himself looking normal, but sometimes he has something of a rabid animal in his appearance.
He chuckles as Claude leaves, his attention finally turning to the food. It looks well made, served elegantly. "Smells amazing." He comments, picking up his utensils.
The Distortion found satisfaction in its own rabidness, of course, but it found even deeper satisfaction in the crack in a perfect porcelain mask. The taste of blood creating a noise that even one so poised must drool. It was content enough in letting Mike take the lead, bare his teeth, but something about how he watched the waiter leave made it prickle sharply.
The meal did look excellent. But it cannot remember the last time it ate a person's food, let alone hot cooked meat. Red and cooling, it wonders if the meat inside it was still edible. Or if adrenaline had spoiled the lot long ago.
"it looks delicious,, , yes, , very well made. Very nice." It politely agrees, struggling to find the balance of its utensils for a moment with its long fingers. When it does, it carves into the steak with the determination of a butcher.
Mike raises his own utensils, graceful and easy in his movements. It's far from the first time he's doing this, and it shows as he elegantly cuts a small bite off his own steak. He takes a breath, savoring the scent before he even tastes the meat. It's almost enough to get his mind off tonight's plans. Almost.
"Tastes delicious, too." He adds after tasting his food, nodding approvingly. "Flavorful... this place gets it right. Some don't." He says with no small amount of disgust.
Michael watches him eat, for a bite or two, wide enraptured eyes. It's unclear if it is fascinated simply with the elegant way his partner moves or simply the way humans eat. It is a fascinating process to it, teeth grinding solid to paste and then consumption. So very different from the intricacies of breaking a mind.
It takes its own bite, chewing and grinding with unnaturally sharp teeth. The taste of the meat is warm and iron, settling on the back of its throat, and it swears it can taste the acrid after taste of fear. Somewhere in the centre of it, it feels sick, whether from the taste or thought it cannot tell. It chews another bite, swallowing before smiling pleasantly.
"Michael was a vegetarian, , it thinks." And that thought makes the creature giggle, folding in on itself twice, before unraveling back into the slightly looser form of Michael. Its stomach, what stomach it is a concept, hurts, and it cannot tell from the laughter or the taste of scared meat. "It does seem well cooked,,, though you might look prettier eating something. Bloodier."
Mike doesn't mind the staring too much, perfectly content to cut one of the small, herb covered potatoes on his plate and eat a half. The flavors mesh together well, causing him to hum contently.
He looks up when Michael speaks, smiling in amusement at the comment. "Michael was missing out. That's what happens when you worry about morality a little too much." He hums, raising an eyebrow at what comes next. "Oh? It'd like to see me with a little blood in my teeth?" He pauses, considering. "It must have some blood in its neck..."
The Distortion, upon seeing Mike cut his own potatoes, does similar, amused by how easy it was to spear the little thing. It gnashes its teeth down on it, the soft flesh a more recognisable texture, something between the memory of biting skin and eating chips with--somone. Someone late at night. Eric, it thinks. Or Emma--
It isn't sure if it's Mike's next words or the sharp shard of a memory, that send it coughing. But it certainly does: an odd display of shaking and the sound of coughs, air catching in lungs, however, it's mouth doesn't actually open. Finally, it seems to catch itself, its skin left stained red furious sunsets and shards of pink gold. It's voice when it comes out again sounds intertwined, one word behind the other, the time dissonance between one and a next creating the impression it is speaking over itself.
"it is uncertain,, it does not know, , blood is so,,, a human thing. Humans bleed and cows and sheep and lambs,, and blood freezes at -3,, it is,, was,, was at least -7,, it is uncertain if its blood is even still warm." It spills out these words, yet it is uncertain if this was true, especially as it placed a fork against the next piece of meat, only able to focus on its hands. Its hands were still warm. Michael's had been cold. Does that mean its blood is indeed still flowing or perhaps it means in another sick, twisted fashion, it is once again an antithesis forced to occupy the name of Michael Shelley.
Mike tenses up a little when Michael goes into its coughing fit, his brows furrowing in concern. He watches it carefully, his meal momentarily forgotten, utensils touching the sides of his rectangular plate. An elegant black thing, made to look fancier than it actually is with garnish and careful food placement.
"There's one way to find out." He says, finally, as Michael calms down. "But if it wouldn't like that, I'm not going to push for it. I can get a nice, bloody steak another time." As weird as it feels, he really would like to appeal to it more. If that means tasting some blood... well, so be it. He doesn't hate the taste.
The Distortion supposes it must be something like it feign the acts of coughing and eating and smiling and blushing. It can't taste that sticky start of discomfort from Mike, the start of questioning what exactly you saw and if it was real, a taste so similar to lemon drops and citric it burns its tongue.
It still has a tongue, to taste with. And it still has lips that can speak, touch. So, surely, it must have flesh to flush and bare. And what an impossibility it would be, to allow a fractured shard enough to bleed, to bleed under the teeth of a lover. And what was its nature if not to be impossible.
"Of course it would like to,,, bleed for you,,, if you would find it,, darling,, charming,, if you were to taste. And perhaps by tasting the most human of it,, you will allow it to savour you at your least." It smiles, carving a piece of meat, and happily chewing it this time. The sharp iron a promise of the difference between the man and the monster.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
apple Pie
for the pastry: : :
200g plain flour
50g spelt flour
pinch of
Salt
175g unsalted butter
cubed and chilled
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
1 tbsp cider vinegar
2 tbsp ice cold
For the filling: :
5 large bramley apples
peeled
cored and thinly sliced
You will need: : :
20
22 centimetre pie dish
Sounds pretty good, not gonna lie.
Is that... eight eggs?
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
It's ten. Why did I think eight?
....Maybe that's a rabbit hole it would be best not to go down. Hi, by the way. I'm Marc.
1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8 , , ,
Eight
Eight
marc a prophet
but different then Its
I have my moments.
Sometimes I wonder if any two avatars or manifestations or whatever you want to call it actually serve the same purpose. Maybe we're all different. Or all the same!
I'm guessing that last one would probably not be a popular idea. Anyway, don't inflate my ego by calling me a prophet. I'm just an academic.
prophet is a term
Augur is more proper then
someone who attempts to
read the sticky
claims of Future and Past
and find meaning in the pit
I think you make what I do sound much more consequential than it is. And mystical. Not that I don't appreciate the mythologizing.
Anyway, what does that make you?
a mad man
who spits out words of
Destiny
and lives only a life of sorrow One he was born babbling
a true prophet
Now that sounds like what a prophet does.
What kind of futures do you see?
it once saw everything
before birth and after death
every moment of one single
Meaningless moment
echoed and shattered
Into infinity
it saw the ever how and where and what who and why
of a lamb turned star
I guess I'd post extremely fucked up apple pie recipes too if I saw all that. My condolences.
thank you
you are very Polite
I've learned that being polite significantly cuts down on the number of people and things that try to kill me.
that is very smart
some others could take a
Page From your Book
Yeah, probably. I can't exactly fault others in my position for being less than friendly, but I'm very motivated by self-preservation.
HM, , ,
yes very clever
many think they are
but are often curious
biting off more then they can chew
So sweet
Well, I am still an Archivist. There's only so much I can act against my nature.
You know other Archivists, then?
yes,,,
it does
though he is different
than you
tender soft sweet edible
Aw, I'm not tender, soft, sweet, and edible?
Just kidding. I'm going to count that as a good thing. Which Archivist? Maybe I know him. It's a small field.
he is still
quite fresh
so silly
so foolish so blind
but if he tries to see,,,,,
ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ
poor sweet thing
Oh, you're stalking prey, aren't you. That's... a shame to hear. I'd like to think I still have some solidarity with my peers.
Anything I can say to convince you not to?
he lives
that is better then most
Prey
is it not ⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？
That depends on the circumstances, doesn't it.
Alive
and half Sweet
Half Mad
it has been very Charming
Charming, huh?
Are you going to kill him?
kill
is such a Simple Term
it does not Kill
that is for humans and soldiers
What an... interesting way to frame things. What would you say happens to people who never return from your tunnels, then?
it Cherishes them
keeps them safe and close
they join infinity
as a moment passed
I'd almost call that romantic if it wasn't so horrifying. I guess it makes sense. Dead people can't fear anything. More sustainable to keep farming them for fear.
It's all very practical. I'm not sure I would have expected that from you.
oh no ,, ,
farming is certainly not a word
have you ever been
Lucky enough to
have a coma
Or Aneurysm
or dementia ⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？
No. I have been in the domain of something very like you, though. Not for very long. I think I'm... unpleasant to digest.
Yes it imagines it would have to
gnaw on you for quite a
bit
perhaps it would start simple: easy: slow
moving objects out of reach
Or perhaps a centimeter to the left
Or perhaps even completely out of view
always subtle
enough to convince you
that it's your own mind
slowly
starting
to fail you
after all humans are comprised of moments,,,
moments of before birth moments of during birth moments of life
then moments of after death after birth
all of it is one continuous cycle
they spiral in upon themselves
starting strong on four legs confident on two and then collapsing back into four
moments fractured
and yet oje would not ask if the moment ones memories slip from consciousness to unconsciousness
if they are being farmed
you cannot demand to farm the dreams of a coma patient
because there is nothing to farm
not a crop
a moment divided into Infinity
it is the moment when a mind
slips : fades : falls
I apologize, obviously I was oversimplifying. I didn't mean to belittle your, uh, process.
Although I have to say I'm not sure how well it would work on me. My memory is very, very good these days.
HM,,,
you have been
Polite otherwise
it accepts your apology
ʰᵃʰᵃʰᵃʰᵃʰᵃʰᵃ
you are quite funny ¡!¡!!!¡!!! ¡!
even the cleverest of minds
Slip
*hands it a warm cup of tea*
you look like you could use some comfort.
comfort
is not something
meant for Creatures
Monsters Concepts
the cup is warm , , ,
it will perhaps keep it for its own selfish gains
I think I might’ve ‘effed up your recipe but I actually managed to make an apple pie! I figure’d you deserved a slice since you gave the recipe. It’s outside your door, but please return the dish-ware. It’s on one of my nice plates :(
this is very
Touching Sweet
Kind
it will return your plate , , ,
yes
so long as one does not mind it no longer
Matching the others
long term exposure tends to twist
things around it
Why does it seem to prefer the artist types so much? Like, it has the clayworker, that one person from before that was talking about their woodworking class… is that a preference that it had or was that from Michael?
, , , no
very few were allowed to be Artists
in the space and life
Michael Shelley
occupied
one of them
which one Soft Black Hair
like a crows feather a delano
would doodle about
he would draw the most inappropriate stick figure and leave it in places to make Michael laugh
one time he did
in front of wright or was it bouchard
he nearly got shouted at for giggling poor thing
eugh,,,
it does not care to think of things
like that
in short
artists are already
Half Mad
Desperately trying to make others understand
what it is they see
poor sweet things
they make it laugh
apple Pie
for the pastry: : :
200g plain flour
50g spelt flour
pinch of
Salt
175g unsalted butter
cubed and chilled
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
1 tbsp cider vinegar
2 tbsp ice cold
For the filling: :
5 large bramley apples
peeled
cored and thinly sliced
You will need: : :
20
22 centimetre pie dish
Sounds pretty good, not gonna lie.
Is that... eight eggs?
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
It's ten. Why did I think eight?
....Maybe that's a rabbit hole it would be best not to go down. Hi, by the way. I'm Marc.
1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8 , , ,
Eight
Eight
marc a prophet
but different then Its
I have my moments.
Sometimes I wonder if any two avatars or manifestations or whatever you want to call it actually serve the same purpose. Maybe we're all different. Or all the same!
I'm guessing that last one would probably not be a popular idea. Anyway, don't inflate my ego by calling me a prophet. I'm just an academic.
prophet is a term
Augur is more proper then
someone who attempts to
read the sticky
claims of Future and Past
and find meaning in the pit
I think you make what I do sound much more consequential than it is. And mystical. Not that I don't appreciate the mythologizing.
Anyway, what does that make you?
a mad man
who spits out words of
Destiny
and lives only a life of sorrow One he was born babbling
a true prophet
Now that sounds like what a prophet does.
What kind of futures do you see?
it once saw everything
before birth and after death
every moment of one single
Meaningless moment
echoed and shattered
Into infinity
it saw the ever how and where and what who and why
of a lamb turned star
I guess I'd post extremely fucked up apple pie recipes too if I saw all that. My condolences.
thank you
you are very Polite
I've learned that being polite significantly cuts down on the number of people and things that try to kill me.
that is very smart
some others could take a
Page From your Book
Yeah, probably. I can't exactly fault others in my position for being less than friendly, but I'm very motivated by self-preservation.
HM, , ,
yes very clever
many think they are
but are often curious
biting off more then they can chew
So sweet
Well, I am still an Archivist. There's only so much I can act against my nature.
You know other Archivists, then?
yes,,,
it does
though he is different
than you
tender soft sweet edible
Aw, I'm not tender, soft, sweet, and edible?
Just kidding. I'm going to count that as a good thing. Which Archivist? Maybe I know him. It's a small field.
he is still
quite fresh
so silly
so foolish so blind
but if he tries to see,,,,,
ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ
poor sweet thing
Oh, you're stalking prey, aren't you. That's... a shame to hear. I'd like to think I still have some solidarity with my peers.
Anything I can say to convince you not to?
he lives
that is better then most
Prey
is it not ⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？
That depends on the circumstances, doesn't it.
Alive
and half Sweet
Half Mad
it has been very Charming
Charming, huh?
Are you going to kill him?
kill
is such a Simple Term
it does not Kill
that is for humans and soldiers
What an... interesting way to frame things. What would you say happens to people who never return from your tunnels, then?
it Cherishes them
keeps them safe and close
they join infinity
as a moment passed
I'd almost call that romantic if it wasn't so horrifying. I guess it makes sense. Dead people can't fear anything. More sustainable to keep farming them for fear.
It's all very practical. I'm not sure I would have expected that from you.
oh no ,, ,
farming is certainly not a word
have you ever been
Lucky enough to
have a coma
Or Aneurysm
or dementia ⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？
No. I have been in the domain of something very like you, though. Not for very long. I think I'm... unpleasant to digest.
Yes it imagines it would have to
gnaw on you for quite a
bit
perhaps it would start simple: easy: slow
moving objects out of reach
Or perhaps a centimeter to the left
Or perhaps even completely out of view
always subtle
enough to convince you
that it's your own mind
slowly
starting
to fail you
after all humans are comprised of moments,,,
moments of before birth moments of during birth moments of life
then moments of after death after birth
all of it is one continuous cycle
they spiral in upon themselves
starting strong on four legs confident on two and then collapsing back into four
moments fractured
and yet oje would not ask if the moment ones memories slip from consciousness to unconsciousness
if they are being farmed
you cannot demand to farm the dreams of a coma patient
because there is nothing to farm
not a crop
a moment divided into Infinity
it is the moment when a mind
slips : fades : falls
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
apple Pie
for the pastry: : :
200g plain flour
50g spelt flour
pinch of
Salt
175g unsalted butter
cubed and chilled
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
1 tbsp cider vinegar
2 tbsp ice cold
For the filling: :
5 large bramley apples
peeled
cored and thinly sliced
You will need: : :
20
22 centimetre pie dish
Sounds pretty good, not gonna lie.
Is that... eight eggs?
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
It's ten. Why did I think eight?
....Maybe that's a rabbit hole it would be best not to go down. Hi, by the way. I'm Marc.
1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8 , , ,
Eight
Eight
marc a prophet
but different then Its
I have my moments.
Sometimes I wonder if any two avatars or manifestations or whatever you want to call it actually serve the same purpose. Maybe we're all different. Or all the same!
I'm guessing that last one would probably not be a popular idea. Anyway, don't inflate my ego by calling me a prophet. I'm just an academic.
prophet is a term
Augur is more proper then
someone who attempts to
read the sticky
claims of Future and Past
and find meaning in the pit
I think you make what I do sound much more consequential than it is. And mystical. Not that I don't appreciate the mythologizing.
Anyway, what does that make you?
a mad man
who spits out words of
Destiny
and lives only a life of sorrow One he was born babbling
a true prophet
Now that sounds like what a prophet does.
What kind of futures do you see?
it once saw everything
before birth and after death
every moment of one single
Meaningless moment
echoed and shattered
Into infinity
it saw the ever how and where and what who and why
of a lamb turned star
I guess I'd post extremely fucked up apple pie recipes too if I saw all that. My condolences.
thank you
you are very Polite
I've learned that being polite significantly cuts down on the number of people and things that try to kill me.
that is very smart
some others could take a
Page From your Book
Yeah, probably. I can't exactly fault others in my position for being less than friendly, but I'm very motivated by self-preservation.
HM, , ,
yes very clever
many think they are
but are often curious
biting off more then they can chew
So sweet
Well, I am still an Archivist. There's only so much I can act against my nature.
You know other Archivists, then?
yes,,,
it does
though he is different
than you
tender soft sweet edible
Aw, I'm not tender, soft, sweet, and edible?
Just kidding. I'm going to count that as a good thing. Which Archivist? Maybe I know him. It's a small field.
he is still
quite fresh
so silly
so foolish so blind
but if he tries to see,,,,,
ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ
poor sweet thing
Oh, you're stalking prey, aren't you. That's... a shame to hear. I'd like to think I still have some solidarity with my peers.
Anything I can say to convince you not to?
he lives
that is better then most
Prey
is it not ⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？
That depends on the circumstances, doesn't it.
Alive
and half Sweet
Half Mad
it has been very Charming
Charming, huh?
Are you going to kill him?
kill
is such a Simple Term
it does not Kill
that is for humans and soldiers
What an... interesting way to frame things. What would you say happens to people who never return from your tunnels, then?
it Cherishes them
keeps them safe and close
they join infinity
as a moment passed
I'd almost call that romantic if it wasn't so horrifying. I guess it makes sense. Dead people can't fear anything. More sustainable to keep farming them for fear.
It's all very practical. I'm not sure I would have expected that from you.
oh no ,, ,
farming is certainly not a word
have you ever been
Lucky enough to
have a coma
Or Aneurysm
or dementia ⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？
apple Pie
for the pastry: : :
200g plain flour
50g spelt flour
pinch of
Salt
175g unsalted butter
cubed and chilled
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
1 tbsp cider vinegar
2 tbsp ice cold
For the filling: :
5 large bramley apples
peeled
cored and thinly sliced
You will need: : :
20
22 centimetre pie dish
Sounds pretty good, not gonna lie.
Is that... eight eggs?
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
It's ten. Why did I think eight?
....Maybe that's a rabbit hole it would be best not to go down. Hi, by the way. I'm Marc.
1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8 , , ,
Eight
Eight
marc a prophet
but different then Its
I have my moments.
Sometimes I wonder if any two avatars or manifestations or whatever you want to call it actually serve the same purpose. Maybe we're all different. Or all the same!
I'm guessing that last one would probably not be a popular idea. Anyway, don't inflate my ego by calling me a prophet. I'm just an academic.
prophet is a term
Augur is more proper then
someone who attempts to
read the sticky
claims of Future and Past
and find meaning in the pit
I think you make what I do sound much more consequential than it is. And mystical. Not that I don't appreciate the mythologizing.
Anyway, what does that make you?
a mad man
who spits out words of
Destiny
and lives only a life of sorrow One he was born babbling
a true prophet
Now that sounds like what a prophet does.
What kind of futures do you see?
it once saw everything
before birth and after death
every moment of one single
Meaningless moment
echoed and shattered
Into infinity
it saw the ever how and where and what who and why
of a lamb turned star
I guess I'd post extremely fucked up apple pie recipes too if I saw all that. My condolences.
thank you
you are very Polite
I've learned that being polite significantly cuts down on the number of people and things that try to kill me.
that is very smart
some others could take a
Page From your Book
Yeah, probably. I can't exactly fault others in my position for being less than friendly, but I'm very motivated by self-preservation.
HM, , ,
yes very clever
many think they are
but are often curious
biting off more then they can chew
So sweet
Well, I am still an Archivist. There's only so much I can act against my nature.
You know other Archivists, then?
yes,,,
it does
though he is different
than you
tender soft sweet edible
Aw, I'm not tender, soft, sweet, and edible?
Just kidding. I'm going to count that as a good thing. Which Archivist? Maybe I know him. It's a small field.
he is still
quite fresh
so silly
so foolish so blind
but if he tries to see,,,,,
ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ
poor sweet thing
Oh, you're stalking prey, aren't you. That's... a shame to hear. I'd like to think I still have some solidarity with my peers.
Anything I can say to convince you not to?
he lives
that is better then most
Prey
is it not ⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？
That depends on the circumstances, doesn't it.
Alive
and half Sweet
Half Mad
it has been very Charming
Charming, huh?
Are you going to kill him?
kill
is such a Simple Term
it does not Kill
that is for humans and soldiers
What an... interesting way to frame things. What would you say happens to people who never return from your tunnels, then?
it Cherishes them
keeps them safe and close
they join infinity
as a moment passed
apple Pie
for the pastry: : :
200g plain flour
50g spelt flour
pinch of
Salt
175g unsalted butter
cubed and chilled
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
1 tbsp cider vinegar
2 tbsp ice cold
For the filling: :
5 large bramley apples
peeled
cored and thinly sliced
You will need: : :
20
22 centimetre pie dish
Sounds pretty good, not gonna lie.
Is that... eight eggs?
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
It's ten. Why did I think eight?
....Maybe that's a rabbit hole it would be best not to go down. Hi, by the way. I'm Marc.
1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8 , , ,
Eight
Eight
marc a prophet
but different then Its
I have my moments.
Sometimes I wonder if any two avatars or manifestations or whatever you want to call it actually serve the same purpose. Maybe we're all different. Or all the same!
I'm guessing that last one would probably not be a popular idea. Anyway, don't inflate my ego by calling me a prophet. I'm just an academic.
prophet is a term
Augur is more proper then
someone who attempts to
read the sticky
claims of Future and Past
and find meaning in the pit
I think you make what I do sound much more consequential than it is. And mystical. Not that I don't appreciate the mythologizing.
Anyway, what does that make you?
a mad man
who spits out words of
Destiny
and lives only a life of sorrow One he was born babbling
a true prophet
Now that sounds like what a prophet does.
What kind of futures do you see?
it once saw everything
before birth and after death
every moment of one single
Meaningless moment
echoed and shattered
Into infinity
it saw the ever how and where and what who and why
of a lamb turned star
I guess I'd post extremely fucked up apple pie recipes too if I saw all that. My condolences.
thank you
you are very Polite
I've learned that being polite significantly cuts down on the number of people and things that try to kill me.
that is very smart
some others could take a
Page From your Book
Yeah, probably. I can't exactly fault others in my position for being less than friendly, but I'm very motivated by self-preservation.
HM, , ,
yes very clever
many think they are
but are often curious
biting off more then they can chew
So sweet
Well, I am still an Archivist. There's only so much I can act against my nature.
You know other Archivists, then?
yes,,,
it does
though he is different
than you
tender soft sweet edible
Aw, I'm not tender, soft, sweet, and edible?
Just kidding. I'm going to count that as a good thing. Which Archivist? Maybe I know him. It's a small field.
he is still
quite fresh
so silly
so foolish so blind
but if he tries to see,,,,,
ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ
poor sweet thing
Oh, you're stalking prey, aren't you. That's... a shame to hear. I'd like to think I still have some solidarity with my peers.
Anything I can say to convince you not to?
he lives
that is better then most
Prey
is it not ⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？
That depends on the circumstances, doesn't it.
Alive
and half Sweet
Half Mad
it has been very Charming
Charming, huh?
Are you going to kill him?
kill
is such a Simple Term
it does not Kill
that is for humans and soldiers
apple Pie
for the pastry: : :
200g plain flour
50g spelt flour
pinch of
Salt
175g unsalted butter
cubed and chilled
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
1 tbsp cider vinegar
2 tbsp ice cold
For the filling: :
5 large bramley apples
peeled
cored and thinly sliced
You will need: : :
20
22 centimetre pie dish
Sounds pretty good, not gonna lie.
Is that... eight eggs?
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
It's ten. Why did I think eight?
....Maybe that's a rabbit hole it would be best not to go down. Hi, by the way. I'm Marc.
1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8 , , ,
Eight
Eight
marc a prophet
but different then Its
I have my moments.
Sometimes I wonder if any two avatars or manifestations or whatever you want to call it actually serve the same purpose. Maybe we're all different. Or all the same!
I'm guessing that last one would probably not be a popular idea. Anyway, don't inflate my ego by calling me a prophet. I'm just an academic.
prophet is a term
Augur is more proper then
someone who attempts to
read the sticky
claims of Future and Past
and find meaning in the pit
I think you make what I do sound much more consequential than it is. And mystical. Not that I don't appreciate the mythologizing.
Anyway, what does that make you?
a mad man
who spits out words of
Destiny
and lives only a life of sorrow One he was born babbling
a true prophet
Now that sounds like what a prophet does.
What kind of futures do you see?
it once saw everything
before birth and after death
every moment of one single
Meaningless moment
echoed and shattered
Into infinity
it saw the ever how and where and what who and why
of a lamb turned star
I guess I'd post extremely fucked up apple pie recipes too if I saw all that. My condolences.
thank you
you are very Polite
I've learned that being polite significantly cuts down on the number of people and things that try to kill me.
that is very smart
some others could take a
Page From your Book
Yeah, probably. I can't exactly fault others in my position for being less than friendly, but I'm very motivated by self-preservation.
HM, , ,
yes very clever
many think they are
but are often curious
biting off more then they can chew
So sweet
Well, I am still an Archivist. There's only so much I can act against my nature.
You know other Archivists, then?
yes,,,
it does
though he is different
than you
tender soft sweet edible
Aw, I'm not tender, soft, sweet, and edible?
Just kidding. I'm going to count that as a good thing. Which Archivist? Maybe I know him. It's a small field.
he is still
quite fresh
so silly
so foolish so blind
but if he tries to see,,,,,
ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ
poor sweet thing
Oh, you're stalking prey, aren't you. That's... a shame to hear. I'd like to think I still have some solidarity with my peers.
Anything I can say to convince you not to?
he lives
that is better then most
Prey
is it not ⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？
That depends on the circumstances, doesn't it.
Alive
and half Sweet
Half Mad
it has been very Charming
The view from over 3,000 metres above sea level was dizzying, the promise of a free fall only stopped by large, vast windows and wooden floors. It was cold, a small snow having fallen on the gondola ride up the mountain to the restaurant.
That was its own journey with the tour guide, a family, and Mike crammed together. The tour guide cheerily rattled off facts and the mother looked pale faced every time her son rocked in his seat.
The restaurant itself was lovely, upscale and modern with a gentle warm lighting to compliment the beginning of the lowering sun behind the mountain peaks.
Most patrons sit bundled in coats and climbing gear, but for once, Michael was dressed casually. Its heavy snow jacket and scarf traded for just its under sweater. And its hair is pulled back, in an intricate coiling shape that makes anyone who looks feel a bit ill when examining it too closely.
It looks mostly human, but the window behind it betrays the truth, cascading its reflection in a twisting shape across the sky.
The table it picked was set in a quiet nook in the back, pressed cleanly across the glass and allowing for the most expansive view.
When it seems Mike, a smile breaks across its face and it gives a small wave.
🌀 @lightning-bastard
The creature wants to collapse in on itself again and again, even more flustered by the overwhelming combination of embarrassment and shame. How can it explain the torment of not having a body and yet having one and the pleasure of experience for the first time and yet not the first time. The impossibility of experiencing new again and again when you are so very old and alien. Like pleading with the moon to understand the importance of dreaming, whimsical, but perhaps in the end pointless. It cannot sulk. It cannot collapse. It cannot focus on anything but the hot red of its cheeks. How human, flushing like a rose.
"It apologises, , , it, , of course , it would like that." The taste of truth on its tongue makes it ill. Another impossibility, the mouth of madness vomiting sweet truthful wants.
Mike feels dejected, though doesn't let go of Michael’s hand. The experience is still worth a lot, even if it doesn't end the way he wante- oh.
He looks back up, his eyes brightening up at Michael's words. Maybe he should've been a little more patient with it. "Oh, amazing. You'll love the soft sheets... and the painting hung up on the wall. It looks like a broken mirror."
Michael itself feels a bit like a broken mirror, pieces crumbling tinier and tinier, but growing ever more sharp. What use does shattered glass have amongst silk sheets except to shred and harm? It supposes that is part of its purpose.
But Mike looks so brilliantly radiant, sparkling and sparking with his off electricity and subtle breeze. If it were less coherent and more understanding of its lovesickness, it would wax poetry about him. The more coherent and less understanding part of it wants to swallow him whole.
"It does not know,,, if it would stain your sheets. Ruin them," the tablecloth beneath them, once pristine white is now rippled through as if subtly embroidered with twisting fractals of a pattern, the pattern changing ever few beats, like a snowflake, asked to repeat itself again and again. "But it certainly trusts your taste in art and finer things,,, it cannot wait to see this side of you."
Mike traces the patterns on the tablecloth with his eyes, feeling a light swoop in his stomach after a moment. He wonders how it will feel when he can taste more than the pale echo of it.
"Oh, I trust my taste in the finest things too... and it just so happens to fit my wants perfectly." He grins. "I don't mind the stains at all, so it shouldn't worry about that. What matters most is that it is by my side."
For the first time in what feels like eternity, but surely must have only been a scarce few seconds, it smiles, a bit more bashful and a bit more genuine. What a silly, silly creature it is, comforted and tamed by human soothings of soft smiles and softer words.
Whatever cryptic gushings or rambling romance it has to babble is interrupted as their food makes an appearance. The trays noticeably are carried by a waiter who was not their own, the mousey haired petite woman now replaced by a tall dark man with even darker features. The distortion cannot hide its snickering, as the man introduces himself politely as Claude, and mentions Marie was feeling a touch ill. The polite honey of the man's voice tasting sweet to the creature with a white lie. Seems they'd unnerved their waitress a bit too much.
Mike looks up when the waiter comes over, struggling to hide his amusement upon hearing the flimsy explanation. "That's a pity... still, thank you." He nods politely as the food is set down on the table. His eyes are still just a touch too bright as he looks over Claude, looking for possible weaknesses. He keeps his hand entwined with Michael's, feeling a bit scarier with it by his side.
Yes, Michael quite likes this. Two peas in a pod, monsters bolstered in monstrous actions. For a man who seemed so determined to ignore its pull, he seems very content beside it. Broken thing. Emboldened with the other by its side, the impression the pair creates is a bit of a rabid dog and a leash, though it's unclear which is acting as which.
"Of course, enjoy your meal, gentlemen." The man politely nods, not quite enjoying the dip in his stomach under Mike's eyes. It reminds him of rollercoasters as a child, nervous anticipation . Michael shudders, its form shuffling like playing cards, leaving it jagged and pale like a sliver of the moon. Claude startles a bit himself, not even bidding his farewell before he turned on his heel and departed the couple. The distortion smiles, like a pleased cat left with its cream.
Their roles might seem obvious at first, Mike acting as the limit, the voice of reason, but with the way he's looking at the waiter it just might be the other way around. He likes to think he keeps himself looking normal, but sometimes he has something of a rabid animal in his appearance.
He chuckles as Claude leaves, his attention finally turning to the food. It looks well made, served elegantly. "Smells amazing." He comments, picking up his utensils.
The Distortion found satisfaction in its own rabidness, of course, but it found even deeper satisfaction in the crack in a perfect porcelain mask. The taste of blood creating a noise that even one so poised must drool. It was content enough in letting Mike take the lead, bare his teeth, but something about how he watched the waiter leave made it prickle sharply.
The meal did look excellent. But it cannot remember the last time it ate a person's food, let alone hot cooked meat. Red and cooling, it wonders if the meat inside it was still edible. Or if adrenaline had spoiled the lot long ago.
"it looks delicious,, , yes, , very well made. Very nice." It politely agrees, struggling to find the balance of its utensils for a moment with its long fingers. When it does, it carves into the steak with the determination of a butcher.
Mike raises his own utensils, graceful and easy in his movements. It's far from the first time he's doing this, and it shows as he elegantly cuts a small bite off his own steak. He takes a breath, savoring the scent before he even tastes the meat. It's almost enough to get his mind off tonight's plans. Almost.
"Tastes delicious, too." He adds after tasting his food, nodding approvingly. "Flavorful... this place gets it right. Some don't." He says with no small amount of disgust.
Michael watches him eat, for a bite or two, wide enraptured eyes. It's unclear if it is fascinated simply with the elegant way his partner moves or simply the way humans eat. It is a fascinating process to it, teeth grinding solid to paste and then consumption. So very different from the intricacies of breaking a mind.
It takes its own bite, chewing and grinding with unnaturally sharp teeth. The taste of the meat is warm and iron, settling on the back of its throat, and it swears it can taste the acrid after taste of fear. Somewhere in the centre of it, it feels sick, whether from the taste or thought it cannot tell. It chews another bite, swallowing before smiling pleasantly.
"Michael was a vegetarian, , it thinks." And that thought makes the creature giggle, folding in on itself twice, before unraveling back into the slightly looser form of Michael. Its stomach, what stomach it is a concept, hurts, and it cannot tell from the laughter or the taste of scared meat. "It does seem well cooked,,, though you might look prettier eating something. Bloodier."
Mike doesn't mind the staring too much, perfectly content to cut one of the small, herb covered potatoes on his plate and eat a half. The flavors mesh together well, causing him to hum contently.
He looks up when Michael speaks, smiling in amusement at the comment. "Michael was missing out. That's what happens when you worry about morality a little too much." He hums, raising an eyebrow at what comes next. "Oh? It'd like to see me with a little blood in my teeth?" He pauses, considering. "It must have some blood in its neck..."
The Distortion, upon seeing Mike cut his own potatoes, does similar, amused by how easy it was to spear the little thing. It gnashes its teeth down on it, the soft flesh a more recognisable texture, something between the memory of biting skin and eating chips with--somone. Someone late at night. Eric, it thinks. Or Emma--
It isn't sure if it's Mike's next words or the sharp shard of a memory, that send it coughing. But it certainly does: an odd display of shaking and the sound of coughs, air catching in lungs, however, it's mouth doesn't actually open. Finally, it seems to catch itself, its skin left stained red furious sunsets and shards of pink gold. It's voice when it comes out again sounds intertwined, one word behind the other, the time dissonance between one and a next creating the impression it is speaking over itself.
"it is uncertain,, it does not know, , blood is so,,, a human thing. Humans bleed and cows and sheep and lambs,, and blood freezes at -3,, it is,, was,, was at least -7,, it is uncertain if its blood is even still warm." It spills out these words, yet it is uncertain if this was true, especially as it placed a fork against the next piece of meat, only able to focus on its hands. Its hands were still warm. Michael's had been cold. Does that mean its blood is indeed still flowing or perhaps it means in another sick, twisted fashion, it is once again an antithesis forced to occupy the name of Michael Shelley.
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apple Pie
for the pastry: : :
200g plain flour
50g spelt flour
pinch of
Salt
175g unsalted butter
cubed and chilled
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
1 tbsp cider vinegar
2 tbsp ice cold
For the filling: :
5 large bramley apples
peeled
cored and thinly sliced
You will need: : :
20
22 centimetre pie dish
Sounds pretty good, not gonna lie.
Is that... eight eggs?
Egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg egg
It's ten. Why did I think eight?
....Maybe that's a rabbit hole it would be best not to go down. Hi, by the way. I'm Marc.
1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8 , , ,
Eight
Eight
marc a prophet
but different then Its
I have my moments.
Sometimes I wonder if any two avatars or manifestations or whatever you want to call it actually serve the same purpose. Maybe we're all different. Or all the same!
I'm guessing that last one would probably not be a popular idea. Anyway, don't inflate my ego by calling me a prophet. I'm just an academic.
prophet is a term
Augur is more proper then
someone who attempts to
read the sticky
claims of Future and Past
and find meaning in the pit
I think you make what I do sound much more consequential than it is. And mystical. Not that I don't appreciate the mythologizing.
Anyway, what does that make you?
a mad man
who spits out words of
Destiny
and lives only a life of sorrow One he was born babbling
a true prophet
Now that sounds like what a prophet does.
What kind of futures do you see?
it once saw everything
before birth and after death
every moment of one single
Meaningless moment
echoed and shattered
Into infinity
it saw the ever how and where and what who and why
of a lamb turned star
I guess I'd post extremely fucked up apple pie recipes too if I saw all that. My condolences.
thank you
you are very Polite
I've learned that being polite significantly cuts down on the number of people and things that try to kill me.
that is very smart
some others could take a
Page From your Book
Yeah, probably. I can't exactly fault others in my position for being less than friendly, but I'm very motivated by self-preservation.
HM, , ,
yes very clever
many think they are
but are often curious
biting off more then they can chew
So sweet
Well, I am still an Archivist. There's only so much I can act against my nature.
You know other Archivists, then?
yes,,,
it does
though he is different
than you
tender soft sweet edible
Aw, I'm not tender, soft, sweet, and edible?
Just kidding. I'm going to count that as a good thing. Which Archivist? Maybe I know him. It's a small field.
he is still
quite fresh
so silly
so foolish so blind
but if he tries to see,,,,,
ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ ₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕₐₕ
poor sweet thing
Oh, you're stalking prey, aren't you. That's... a shame to hear. I'd like to think I still have some solidarity with my peers.
Anything I can say to convince you not to?
he lives
that is better then most
Prey
is it not ⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？
Michael's laugh is an ice pick to the frontal lobe, the cloying, metal taste of a nosebleed. He lifts his free hand to his nose, and there isn't any of the blood he feels like there should be. He is afraid to move the hand that Michael touches, afraid that the sharp fingers will find a way into his skin again.
"You could," he says. He can still feel blood on his face, the way it would fill his mouth, stick along the crease of his lips. He looks up to catch Michael's eyes (and thinks sea glass). "You could lie to me, but… but I don't think you would."
Which seemed a foolish thing to say. absolutely was a foolish thing to say. Of course Michael would, could, and probably had lied to him. But, Jon hadn't been sleeping much, and not well when he has managed a few hours. He wakes remembering the squirming, cold bodies of larvae on his skin, the sharp bites and wriggling wrongness of the insects forcing their way into his skin.
He couldn't close his eyes for too long, even in the shower, for fear of there having been one missed. His own hair brushing against his neck has sent him into a panic attack.
There were other people he could have gone to about this. Tim would… understand, maybe. Even Elias may have been able to help. But…
Jon didn't want to discuss this with either of them. Relations were strained when it was almost assured that someone in the institute had killed Gertrude.
"In Sasha's account," which, he reminded himself, was still missing, "you didn't seem to be such a fan of the… flesh-hive?"
If Michael's laugh was a lobotomy, that brief eye contact with the Archivist was a press to the lips before pushing the pick in. His eyes are sharp, green and cold, like a knife's edge carved from jade. They're not quite the silver bullets Gertrude used to level against unwitting souls, he was still too soft for that. But, baby rattlesnakes were often more dangerous than their mothers –unable to control their venom properly.
It hides its sharp discomfort by slowly tracing a spiraling shape on Jon's hand, touching so light it feels like the scurrying feet of loyal insects. A tickling caress it must cease when the Archivist speaks as his words genuinely surprise it.
It isn't often surprised.
It certainly likes something as unexpected as that.
Being Surprised.
The Archivist trusted it would not lie. His voice is desperate, the foundation cracked through with sleepless nights, each acting as another hammer blow to his clearly fragile psyche.
(It momentarily grows lost, thinking fondly of the idea of standing over the smaller man's sleeping form. Curled up and fragile, like a babe in womb, it would lean closer and closer. Till their faces would barely touch. And maybe that close, Michael would be able to taste the sweet wicked dreams that keep Jon tired. Learn their wicked ways so it too can worm its way in)
Jon was expecting it to lie, expecting it to do as monsters did, that much it could guess.
And what would twist and twirl and curl his mind and alter it in ways he could not understand is that the creature spoke the one thing that was not expected.
Oh, how terrible would it be for him if the creature were to tell the truth. To become a foundation of trust in the midst of the maddening paranoia.
Its fingerpad runs over one of the newest scars on Jon's hand, over and over, like a worry stone.
It speaks carefully.
“It is true,,, it does not like creatures that interfere with its own,,, wants. Goals. Thus the rivalry it had. Perhaps if the Flesh Hive had picked better prey, , , it would not have earned such ire.” A sharp grin with teeth too big and gums too wet, it looks more carnivorous than anything else.
Michael tracing patterns on his skin raises goosebumps, some ancient instinct from when humans had more fur, to fluff up and look larger than he is. His grandmother used to trace patterns along his forehead if he were struggling to sleep; that was soothing, this wasn't. His eyes go from Michael's to the hand on his, to the finger tracing along his skin, eyebrows pinched in worry and unease. Jon wanted to pull his hand away (really, he wanted to jerk his hand away and perhaps leave), but he doesn't. He doesn't want to risk that, in whatever game they are playing, giving in to his own discomfort would make Michael not help him.
His fingers twitch when Michael brushes over one of the marks left by the worms. The marks on his hands and forearms have scarred worse than the others. They're too within-reach, too easy to pick at when he isn't paying attention.
He's taken to wearing long sleeves in the Archives; he'd always brought a jacket before, because it could be chilly down there, but now he's wearing sweaters and long-sleeved button-downs to hide the scars. To try to thwart his own attempts to pick and scratch at them.
"Your goals?" It's with a sudden, sharp curiosity that he asks, eyes flitting back to Michael's, and then to his teeth. Jon has always been curious, wanting to know everything he can. Now, though, after everything, it feels like that curiosity is life or death. The need to know versus the fear of knowing. He makes the same choice every time; he'd rather know than not. "What are your goals?"
Whatever game it is, it seems both are playing separate games. In a checkmate, Michael watches the flesh goose skin and then twitch, fingers pulsing and coiling away from its touch, its cheeks push painfully upwards, a widening of its smile the only indicator of its amusements.
Its finger had faltered, but now resumes its steady, endless, unknowable patterns. Loops and loops and loops again, like dna spilling over itself. Jon is wearing a sweater, a cloying wool thing, no doubt warm and sweltering when combined with Michael's warm touch. Its hands, despite their long, unnaturally blue appearance, like icicles, are hot, burning almost. The archivist would have believed its hands were scorching, if not for the lack of burn mark left behind.
It's an ugly brown wool, itchy. Itchy and hot and irritating. Irritating. Hiding thin, darling little limbs, it knows are marred with marks that are not its own. Irritating. Irritating at best. It wonders if his bones are as hollow and changeable as Michael Shelley's little bird limbed form once was.
The Archivist asks it a question and usually the prickling of being known would accompany it. There is a dull bee sting of human curiosity with the half fed fledgling of Something Else. Not enough to compel it to speak the truth, of course. Nor enough to properly sting.
It is disappointed.
It always prefers its prey biting back.
How irritating.
When it looks at Jon again, its maw looks almost as sharp as a spider's. That runny egg pupil seems to whirl, moving with the vague swaying of its body, sickly left liquid.
“Its goals are to amuse it,,, ,
And to feed happy.”
It giggles all static and improperly wound tape.
“Thus, it is lucky, that you are so amusing,,, Jonathan.” The words end in a wild birds coo and the scars on Jon's hand burn. It drops its attention to the book again, nail tracing similar indiscernible patterns on the book cover.
“Have you read any of it⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？ Curious little thing, ,, hungry little thing,,,”
There is a phenomenon wherein a temperature is so extreme in one direction that it feels like the other; something so hot suddenly feels cold, something so cold feeling hot. A temperature so extreme that the body's neurons have no idea how to interpret it--hot or cold, cold or hot?
Michael wears winter clothes, therefore it must be cold. Michael's tracing finger feels like he's taking a hot blade to Jon's skin, therefore it must be hot. There are not marks, when Jon looks to his hand. It both hurts and doesn't.
Between the patterns and the hotcold pain-not-pain, Jon gets lost in the looping movements of Michael's hand on his. The searing pain is what finally breaks the spell, making him finally (finally!) jerk his hand away and out from under Michael's.
When he pulls back, when he tears his eyes from Michael's fingers and up to its face, he notices how empty the shop has become. He couldn't have been staring at its hand on his for longer than a minute, maybe two, but… would he know? It makes his heart rate. The entire point of a cafe had been to have people around (not that that seemed to matter). It felt dangerous now. He couldn't even see a batista.
Jon pulls his eyes back to the monster in front of him. He's holding his hand to his chest, rubbing his fingers over it to try to get rid of the feeling of Michael's fingers.
"No," he says. "I'm not an idiot. Do you want it or not?"
It seems something about Michael had finally struck a nerve in Jon. Not a literal one, of course, otherwise it would have dedicated hours to playing with the little thing, watching how it would make the flesh around it crawl and which sharp tug would make Jonathan's fingers curl shut. Tendons and nerves and muscles acting as an intricate violin,,
What lovely music he might make.
Either way, the Archivist is snatching his hand away. And Michael almost mourns the loss of contact–of soft, warm skin, promising warmer and warmer beneath.
It occupies itself in the moments of Jon's panic with its tea cup, taking three too big sips. The liquid burns, stinging the inside of its tongue and throat, heat distracting it from biting. It was certainly a challenge, not biting when such a lovely little snack was present.
The shops emptying, the ridding of human babble, it makes Michael's natural buzzing noise more prominent. Like a record left on for dead air, it hums, steady and unending. When Jon stares too close at it, the light seems to catch on snowflakes, stuck in its hair, and caught half falling in the air. Michael watches Jon’s hands, his clever steady fingers, and it occupies another few agonising moments while obnoxiously sipping its tea. Several loud, purposeful gulps later, the tea cup is set down, porcelain clattering loudly in the mostly empty shop.
“Very well,, Jonathan, , , yes, , , it will take your book. And in exchange, , , it will look and see , , , what could be crawling around inside you.” It giggles, as if it had said something so utterly charming, tucking a hair behind its ear.
Jon nearly deflates with the relief of knowing that Michael would help him. It felt better that it wasn't helping him for nothing. If it had been, that would feel too much like debt and owing favours, and Jon wouldn't be able to stop the suspicious thoughts from ruining any chance of accepting the help. This way, he got what he wanted, and it got something it wanted.
If only it would stop phrasing it as things crawling, squirming, living in his skin. The imagery brings back too many memories of the worms wriggling over, into, his skin.
Still, at least he had something.
Hopefully, he would find out that there was nothing wrong, and it could be one thing he wouldn't have to worry about. One less from his pile of so many concerns.
"Thank you," he says, a bit belatedly, following the movement of its hand with his eyes. Hot hands and snowflakes, he thinks. It's pieces to a puzzle that he has no reference picture of.
He rubs his eyes as if that would do anything at all to help. "The book is yours. Can you just… tell? If there is something… there?" In him, he doesn't say.
The book would make a lovely gift, it decides. Perhaps it would leave it somewhere far, hard to reach, to give that sweet bookburner something to do, or perhaps, it would scrawl sweet nonsense on the inside and leave it for its lightning strike to find. It runs a thumb over the cover, again and again, amused by the way the patterns on it warp and shift under its touch. Wriggling and squirming about.
“There is a traditional technique for catching earth worms. Worm charming, it is called,,, where one would insert a stick into the earth and twist it. The vibrations mimic rain,,, and the worms are called. They stretch and squirm and slink to the surface,,, only to be met with eager fleshy hands. Picking them away.” It giggles, all nitrous oxide and nails on chalkboard. The Distortion turns its attention back on Jon, meeting his eyes. His gaze is sharp, emeralds and jade, cold and cool stone, sharp and sharp and–It drops its eyes, swooping to focus on his hands again. Unable to admit defeat to those eyes.
“There is no longer anything squirming in you,,,” Its long index finger trails down the book's spine, nail dragging on the table wood, till it hovers just above the Archivist’s skin once again. “There are no worms,,, but I am afraid you are still,,,hmmm,,,,charming.” Michael titters at the choice of words, stuck in compliments made of threats and threats sewn of sweet compliments. “So charming,,, it worries creatures with sharper teeth than worms will bite.” An angering thought. An irritating one.
When he was little, he'd been told not to look directly at the sun because it would damage his eyes. He had recently read a book about mithridatism; about how taking in little bits of poison could, over time, make someone more resistant to that poison. Being a child, he had thought that if he looked at the sun, directly, just a little each day, over time, it would become easier to do so. It hadn't.
Looking at Michael is like looking directly at the sun, leaving his eyes feeling achy, wanting to close, to look at something else. He looks away when Michael does, picking up his tea to take a long drink from it.
He has a moment of relief, knowing that there is nothing left of the worms in him. Nothing living, nothing he needs to worry about eating him from the inside. Then his brain catches up with Michael's words and grinds to a halt.
Jon is back to staring, a bit wide-eyed. Charming? It isn't a word he's had applied to himself before. Irritating, annoying, frustrating, know-it-all, bossy. But, charming? He has dated people who he's pretty sure still wouldn't have applied it to him.
"I, ah," he stammers, gives a short laugh. His face feels hot, and he hopes it doesn’t show. "I'm... definitely not charming."
Jon's eyes are like jade or emerald, green and catching the light, glowing like a cat. The effect is only increased when he returns Michael's laugh with wide eyes. A darling reaction, in its opinion, the way his pupils dilated, almost as if he were startled. Yet, his face is flushed as if he had been running, and the hair on his arms seems settled. Certainly not frightened, but something else. Something equally as charming as the sickly sweet taste of Jon's fear, the taste settling on Michael's tongue like fruit gone bad.
"You are entirely too charming,,, it will be a problem for you, it imagines. You are Charming and sweet. It will attract many things to you."
Worms would be the least, it is certain, after all, it was here. Meeting with him. It very rarely indulged people like this, finding most of them rather boring. Not Jon. Nor his clever friend, Sasha...
Another piece of food, left to marinate, and instead was eaten by another. A pity . An irritation. A nuisance. It certainly would not let that happen to the sweet little archivist, after all, it had many plans for its food. And it hated to have a meal interrupted.
"It imagines a great many things will want a bite of you,,, and perhaps, you will want them to bite back. After all, you're terribly nosy. Your type always is,," The blonde grins, a mouth of broken glass and dew slicked stone, a drooling predators maw. Which it hides away easily enough sipping its coffee (was it always coffee? Jon could have sworn the scent of peppermint was in the air, but now it smells of coffee beans and oddly enough ozone), when it does, its skin ripples and shifts, like a stone tossed into a still pond.
