#sightless sounds

Grinning, Bohwie finished cleaning his face off and set the towel down, then shut the light off as he left the ablutionblock. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the low lights of the respiteblock.

Laid out on the bed was a lithe figure that was trying his best to move around, but that was damn near impossible.

“Hey, baby boy.” Bohwie purred as he approached the huge bed. Soft silk slid under his hands as he crawled across the mattress to his morail, discarding most of his clothes on the way.

Oliver turned his head at the sound of the cerulean’s voice, his tongue protruding between panting lips.

“BB...” The oliveblood whimpered. Bohwie reached out and cupped their cheek, rubbing his thumb over their soft skin.

“What’s our word?” He prompted.

“I don’t need it.” Oliver rasped.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“... Phoenix...”

“Good boy. Color?”

“Green, so fucking green, BB, please-”

Bohwie chortled, shooshpapping the oliveblood before he sat back to observe their setup.

Oliver was laid out on his back, his arms trapped under his body. His knees were pulled up, legs spread, and his olive bulge curling between his thighs. The only things he was wearing was one of his blindfolds- a pretty pink one Bohwie had picked out, exactly seven, gently vibrating bullets- one on each grubscar and one on his horn, and a shibari rig.

The ropes were a gorgeous cerulean hue, the same color as Bohwie’s blood, and forced Oliver’s breasts apart and out. The rockstar reached out and thumbed one of Oliver’s nipples, making her mewl.

She’d been on the bed, in her current condition, ever since Bohwie left the hive several hours ago. Oliver’s stomach and thighs, and the sheets beneath her, were stained with olive slurry from both her bulge and nook.

“How many times?” Bohwie asked, sliding his hands under his morail’s body and scooping them up. He sat down where they’d been laying, easily sitting them up and on his thigh.

“Seven-” Oliver croaked, before he twitched and whined at the feeling of Bohwie’s thigh pressing up against his nook.

Bohwie ran his hands over Oliver’s shoulders, tsking. “Seven? Just from these?” He pressed on one of the bullets, making her squirm. “You’re such a bucket slut.”

Oliver shuddered.

“Slut!” Bohwie hissed, and she outright whined.

Grinning, Bohwie pressed a quick kiss to their lips. “My slut.” He purred, his voice dropping into the gravely octaves he used when he sang.

“Yours.” Oliver agreed breathlessly, “Please, BB, I want you to-”

“Ah, ah, ah. You’re not in charge tonight, little bird.” Bohwie interrupted, cupping the oliveblood’s breasts and kneading their nipples with his thumbs, “If you want anything, you’re gonna have to earn it.” So saying, he jerked his leg up, pressing his thigh more firmly against Oliver’s nook. “Ride it, or you’ll get nothing, and I’ll leave you here all day, too.” He ordered.

Oliver stiffened, his head rolling back and spine arching from the feeling. But he didn’t argue against a direct order, beginning to roll his hips down, against Bohwie’s thigh, which was already slick with green preslurry.

“Good girl.” Bohwie praised, sitting back against the headboard to watch. One of his hands slid down, into his boxers, and he began playing with himself, his thick but nimble fingers teasing at his sheath and the edges of his nook.

There was an ache in his chest, his blood-pumper overflowing with bubblegum pink pale feelings for the troll fucking herself on his thigh. Heat pooled in his lower stomach as his thick bulge unsheathed and began to curl around his hand. Bohwie bit his tongue to keep from groaning, pleasure dancing up his spine.

Oliver groaned for him, though, long and loud and his voice quivering. He began moving faster, bouncing against Bohwie’s thigh; in return, the cerulean began rolling his leg up against him.

“Fuck-! BB- BB, baby, I’m-”

Oliver went silent as Bohwie pressed a knife to her throat, the cerulean having pulled the blade out from under the pillows, where he’d stashed it hours ago. The knife served a dual purpose- for playtime, like now, and for emergencies. If Oliver really needed it, the knife was within easy reach, and she could have sliced the rope around her wrists, which would have made the whole rig fall apart.

“I didn’t say you could talk, did I, little bird?”

Oliver swallowed, their breath hitching and teeth sinking into their lower lip as they shook their head. Bohwie hummed, dragging the knife oh so lightly down their collarbone, over one breast, before the knife tip circled the other one.

Down, over his belly, curled over one hip, then down across his waist, the knife skirting off the ropes that kept the oliveblood wrapped up like a 12th perigree present. It making just enough contact to be felt, just enough to make the thinnest, pale green lines on Oliver’s skin, but not enough to break it. Although, Bohwie could have plunged it into his chest and Oliver would have probably cum all the same. But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t, because this was his morail, who was literally putting his life in Bohwie’s hands.

The blind faith- no pun intended- that Oliver had in him was almost enough to make him cum right there, and they hadn’t even gotten down into the actual pailing yet. Instead, keeping the knife edge resting on Oliver’s thigh, he tugged her down into a kiss.

“Color?” He whispered when they parted, just to check.

“Green.” Oliver assured him, resting their forehead against his for a moment.

Nodding, Bohwie pulled him closer, effortlessly picking him up once more. Setting the knife aside, Bohwie discarded his boxers before he settled Oliver on his lap. Oliver made a gutteral, needy noise, falling forward to rest his head on Bohwie’s shoulder as their bulges tangled together.

Bohwie huffed out a breath, a low purr in his chest as he picked up the knife again. Oliver began to grind against him once more as Bohwie held her close and traced the knife over her shoulders and back, feeling her shudder and twitch as the cold metal touched her bare skin.

Bohwie grinned against their shoulder, adjusting his grip on both the knife and his morail, his free hand sliding around their waist.

Then, as he pressed the knife against her shoulder like he was about to plunge it into her, he bucked his hips up, and his entire bulge slid into her nook, all at once.

Oliver wailed, seizing up and arching backwards, olive slurry spilling across their laps as he came. Bohwie harmonized with him, groaning at the feeling of his boyfriend’s nook clenching around his bulge.

He gave Oliver a moment to come down, once again putting the knife aside and rubbing his hands over her body instead. His hands rubbed over her belly, which was protruding ever so slightly, the shadow of a bump, from Bohwie’s bulge. Oliver mewled when his hand passed it by, and Bohwie’s bulge twitched at the sound.

When the oliveblood’s breathing wasn’t so rough, Bohwie hummed. “I don’t think I said you could do that, Olly.”

“I... I didn’t-”

Bohwie tsked, shaking his head. “No excuses, baby girl. I didn’t give you permission to do that.” His hands slid down to their waist. “You know what has to happen now?”

Oliver made a soft, questioning noise.

“You’re gonna be punished.”

“B-”

Before Oliver could get any further, Bohwie, keeping the oliveblood on his bulge, bowled her over, slamming her down onto the matress and hovering over her. The sub sequential jostling and thrusts made Oliver keen.

Bohwie growled, pulling away as he changed his mind. Pulling out only momentarily, he flipped Oliver over so he was on his knees, before he pulled him close again and thrust back inside. Oliver yelped, tossing his head as his nook clenched again.

Bohwie loomed over them, nails digging into their hips. He hovered low, his lips near their ear. “Color?” He growled.

“Green!” Oliver practically shouted, writhing under him, trying to press back against his bulge.

Grinning wickedly, Bohwie sank his teeth into her shoulder as he thrust forward. Oliver’s cry was better than any song Bohwie had ever composed.

The block became filled with the sound of Oliver’s yelps, whines, and moans, as Bohwie fucked into him, thrusting as deep and fast as possible. Oliver was practically limp under him, struggling just to keep breathing as he was overwhelmed with stimulation. 

“Bohwie, Bohwie, fuck-!” Oliver’s chants of his name cut through the frantic, horny haze in Bohwie’s thinkpan, spurring him on.

“Good boy, Olly.” He grunted, releasing his teeth from her skin. He stopped thrusting, sheathing himself fully inside the oliveblood just to grind on her for a moment, before he resumed. “Good fucking boy. Fuck. How do you think our followers would react if they saw you like this? All trussed up for Neviserrath, on the altar? While I pailed your brains out?”

Oliver came again with a warbling cry, from his nook this time. It took everything Bohwie had to keep himself from cumming, too.

“Slut.” He snarled, biting at their other shoulder. “You like the idea of that? Want me to make you my bucket slut in front of our god and all its worshippers?”

“Yes!” Oliver keened, practically sobbing.

Bohwie made a guttural, damn near primal sound of pure lust. His hips had slowed while he was talking, but they quickly picked up the pace again.

His stomach tensed, heat pooling between his legs as he felt his own orgasm coming. Panting raggedly, his thrusts became frantic and erratic, one hand reaching down to play with Oliver’s bulge.

“Come with me.” He urged.

“C- can’t-” Oliver rasped, “I can’t, I’m tapped, BB-”

“You can.” Bohwie encouraged her, “Nine orgasms isn’t anywhere near your record.”

Oliver whimpered as Bohwie stroked their bulge in time to his thrusts. On the precipice of orgasm, Bohwie did something he never did outside the bedroom.

He plunged into Oliver’s mind, taking a stranglehold on the oliveblood’s will.

“Cum.” He ordered, and released his hold.

The sound Oliver made bordered on a scream as he came from both his bulge and his nook, Bohwie’s order overriding everything and propelling the oliveblood into realms of pleasure only Bohwie could drive him to.

At the same time, Bohwie pressed himself as deep as he could into Oliver’s nook and came, too, his grip around them like a vice and teeth sinking into the back of their neck, his vision momentarily whiting out. He stopped thrusting, and merely rocked into his partner, as their nook milked every drop of slurry from his bulge.

They could’ve been like that for mere seconds or several minutes, it was impossible to tell. Finally, though, the ringing in Bohwie’s ears went away, and his blood-pumper no longer raced to the beat of a coked-up hop-beast’s.

Oliver was limp under him, but Bohwie could feel her breathing. Slowly, he retracted his teeth from her neck and pulled away. Exhaustion, bone deep and satisfying, swept through him, and Bohwie sighed contently. He pulled out, smirking at the sight of Oliver’s thighs and nook stained in his hue.

“You still with me, Olly?”

The ice dancer made a noise vaguely close to a “yes.”

Bohwie hummed, squishing their buttcheek in one hand, before he went about undoing all the devices. He gently removed and turned off all the bullets, before untying the rig and tossing it aside. Oliver flopped onto their side once they were released.

Humming, Bohwie gently took one of Oliver’s limbs at a time and stretching it out, massaging and kissing up and down the stiff muscles. Slowly, Oliver really relaxed, enjoying the attention.

When he was done, Bohwie crawled over to the bedside table and grabbed the hydration cylinders he’d set out earlier. Returning to his morail, he pulled him into his lap and unscrewed the lid, before he held it to his lips.

Oliver reached up with a shaky hand to grasp the bottle as she drank. Bohwie began purring again, nuzzling into her hair. When Oliver pushed the water bottle away, Bohwie screwed the lid back on and set it aside.

“You alright?” He murmured, cupping the oliveblood’s face.

“Mm-hm. Stiff, sore, and sleepy, but I’m fine, darling.” Oliver leaned her head against his collarbone, sighing softly. “I don’t think I’ll be able to go to practice tomorrow night. If I can stand it’ll be a miracle.”

Bohwie giggled, pressing a kiss to her head. “Would a shower help?”

“So long as you grab the bucket, and don’t pail me while we’re in there. If I have to produce any more slurry I might pass out.”

Bohwie laughed again, picking them up. He felt a little shaky himself, but no more than if he’d gone dancing. He grabbed the bucket from where it sat near the bedside table, and carried both it, and his morail, into the ablutionblock.

One hot shower later, where Oliver simply sat on the bench and allowed Bohwie to do all the work- including helping him flush the slurry from his nook- Bohwie had them both in boxers, and back on the bed, as he gently rubbed a towel through Oliver’s wavy locks as the oliveblood began to doze off.

When that was done, he laid Oliver down and went about cleaning up everything else, before he finally crawled under the comforter to join him.

Yet, with the anticipation turning his blood hot, he’d never felt more alive. The music started with a burst of fanfare over the speakers, and Oliver shot off across the ice. One moment he stood near the wall, the next he was gliding halfway across the rink. The music thrummed in his ears as he spun about and leaped like a ribbon dancer, coming down cleanly on a practiced, one-footed landing, only to bend back further than should be natural.

She laughed, unbridled glee shaking her apart as she threw her arms up, reaching for the invisible audience in the empty stands. She went with the momentum she’d built, flipping onto her hands. A twist, jump, and she was back on her feet, dashing forward and spinning. The music swelled as she reached behind herself and grabbed her leg.

She stopped in place and spun, spun, spun, one hand up, palm raised to the ceiling. As the music crashed into its climax she crouched and threw herself skyward once more, arms spread like she was flying, before she rolled forward into a flip and landed once more on her feet.

She couldn’t see it, but she could imagine her cape flowing out behind her, glimmering like fire as the warm colored glitter caught the spotlights. The gems and sequins on her uniform sparkled, setting her limbs aflame like the wings of a phoenix.

The music began to fade as they soared in circles, until the track stopped completely. They stopped, too, panting, and lit up at the scattered applause to their right.

“Well done, master Maddel, as always!” One of Oliver’s entourage called; the goldblood, from the sound of it. Oliver flashed her a charming smile and skated towards her voice, one hand out. Their fingers tapped the low wall around the rink and they grabbed it, coming to a stop.

“Thank you, darling, did you like that?” He purred, leaning his elbows on the wall.

“Yes, ma’am, that was spectacular.” Another troll chipped in.

“Thank you so much, my dear. It’s a little more basic than the dance I did earlier, but it won me a competition a few sweeps ago. Could one of you hand me a hydration cylinder, pretty please?” Oliver purred, her voice giggly and sweet. She heard a flurry of movement, then the cool metal of the soda can was pressed against her arm.

She took it with another sugary, “Thank you, darling!” and cracked the tab before taking a sip.

“When’s your next performance, master Maddel?” The goldblood asked.

“I’m afraid it won’t be for a while, my sweet, I’m all tied up in some other business at the moment.” Oliver told her forlornly, setting his soda down. “Speaking of, what time is it?”

“It’s just past midnight, sir.”

“Ah, then I’m afraid I need to get going, I’ve been practicing since the sun went down, and I have a video date with my precious morail I don’t want to be late for.”

“How will you video date if you can’t-” The goldblood began, only to be abruptly cut off; by the ‘smack’ sound, Oliver could guess someone had covered her mouth.

“Can’t see?” Oliver finished for her, before he chuckled, turning and skating for the nearby gate, “I don’t need eyes to hear my beloved’s words, do I?”

“N- no, ma’am, I suppose not.” The goldblood said meekly.

Oliver only chuckled again. The gate beeped, signaling he’d arrived next to it, and he pushed it open. Stepping out onto the rubbery ground, he carefully and somewhat awkwardly walked to the bench across from him. He sat, easily untying and removing the skates.

She flexed out her toes, relieved, and felt around. On the bench next to her laid her cane and purse, both of which she scooped up, along with her skates. “Good night, my loves!” She said cheerfully, shouldering her purse and headed for the locker rooms.

When they shouldered their way into their VIP locker room, they tapped their way towards the showers, stripping down as they went and dropping their purse and skates on a chair. A quick rinse, and they stepped out, grabbing a towel from the waiting pile.

He toweled off as he headed for his locker, scooping up his uniform as he went. He pressed his thumb to the scanner and it popped open, and Oliver traded their skates for their street clothes.

Binder, jumpsuit, cape, and white band were traded for bra, a band shirt, and skinny jeans. He tied an olive green band around his eyes before slipping a pair of pumps on his feet and brushing out his hair.

She sighed, relieved to be out of uniform, and pinched the collar of her shirt, pulling it up to her sniffnub and inhaling deeply. The shirt smelled like her morail’s cologne and detergent; probably because she’d stolen it from him. With a laugh, she grabbed her purse and cane and headed for the door again. She slipped out the rink’s front door, in time to hear the scuttlebuggy pull up.

“Good evening, master Maddel.” The driver said as they emerged from the buggy and walked around to open the door.

“Good evening, darling.” Oliver replied, hand out. The driver took his hand and helped him into the carriage, before shutting the door and walking back towards the front seats.

“Where to, sir?” The driver asked as they got in.

“Home.”

“Yes, sir.”

The scuttlebuggy started up and began to move, and Oliver opened his purse and dug out his palmhusk and a pair of earbuds. He slipped them into his ears and turned the screen on.

“Home screen.” The buds informed him, “Two new messages, four missed calls.” With practiced fingers, Oliver pulled up Trollian and pressed a button. The buds promptly began reading out the messages:

-HeavymetalMeowbeast began trolling SightlessFirebird!-

HM: HEY BABE!!!! HM: GUESS WHAT?!?! I FOUND SOMETHING I THINK YOURE GONNA LOVE!! MESSAGE ME BACK ASAP!! LOVE YOU!! <>

-HeavymetalMeowbeast is idle-

Oliver smiled softly, thumbing the speech-to-text option. They raised the palmhusk closer and began to speak.

SF: Hello, sugargrub~. What is it you want to tell me~?

They waited, and were not disappointed by the swift response, which the buds quickly read out:

HM: OKAY OKAY OKAY SO!!!! HM: YOU KNOW YOUR ANCESTOR, THE DEADSCAR DUDE?!?! FUCKING EPIC NAME BY THE WAY!!! ANYWAY, I DECIDED TO DO SOME DIGGING ABOUT MY OWN BLOODLINE AND YOULL NEVER FUCKING GUESS WHO MY ANCESTOR IS!!!!!!!

SF: Hmm~. You’re right, darling, I can’t guess~. Do tell, though~.

HM: HIS NAME IS DMITRI “THE HIEROPHANT” AKSHAI, AND HE WAS THE FUCKING FOUNDER OF THE BLACK HAND!!!!! HOW FLIP FUCKING COOL IS THAT?!?!?

SF: Very 7lip 7ucking cool~. Did you 7ind out anything else~?

Oliver smiled softly to herself; she knew her morail’s ancestry already, she’d just neglected to mention it to him. Why else would she have chosen him as a morail? As her second in command at the Black Hand? Well… that’s why she chose him at first, but he’d grown on her exponentially since then. Not that he needed to know that.

HM: YEAH I DID!! I FOUND SOME CONNECTIONS OF HIS!! GOOD NEWS FOR US, MOST OF THEM ARE ALREADY BACK!!! MAYBE WE CAN TALK TO THEM, SEE WHAT THEY KNOW??? OR, I GUESS YOUD HAVE TO, SINCE IM ON TOUR!! YOU DONT HAVE TO THO!!

SF: Well, it depends~. Who are his connections~?

HM: OKAY GET THIS!! I FOUND RECORDS OF NONE OTHER THAN HOUNDING, BLUEGILL, SOME GUY NAMED BRIGAN, A DUDE CALLED THE IMPERIAL ENFORCER, AND A DUDE NAMED BLADEPEN!!!! HOW FUCKING COOL OF A NAME IS THAT?!?! HM: ANYWAY, COULDNT FIND MUCH ON THE LAST TWO, THEY WERE BARELY MENTIONED IN THE RECORDS I FOUND!!! SOME KIND OF COVER UP??? NOT TOTALLY SURE!! HM: ANY OF THEM RING A DONGSHOUTER??

SF: Hm~… Yes, I believe several o7 those ring a dongshouter~. Well done, BB, I’ll dig around and see what I can 7ind~.

HM: OKAY!! WE STILL ON FOR DATE NIGHT LATER???

SF: Absolutely, my love~. <> You’ll see me in a 7ew hours~.

HM: LMAO, OKAY!!! PALE FOR YOU OLLY!! TTYL!! <>

-HeavymetalMeowbeast ceased trolling SightlessFirebird!-

Oliver purred, raising his head as he felt the scuttlebuggy come to a stop.

“We’re here, sir.” The driver said, parking the vehicle and getting out. Oliver nodded, gathering his things and getting out of the buggy with the driver’s help.

“Thank you, dear.” They told the driver, pressing a few bills into their hand before they tapped their way to their hivestem’s front doors.

He pulled a card from his purse and took a moment to locate the scanner, before pressing the card against it. The scanner beeped, and he heard the doors swish open in front of him. He headed for the vertical ascension box, thumbing the button.

His fingers drummed against the head of his cane as he waited, humming to himself. When the box pinged, signaling the doors had opened, he ducked inside. He felt for the panel and ran his fingers upwards, until he felt the correct number under his fingers and pressed it.

The doors shut, and the box began to rise. As she waited, Oliver clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, thinking. Finally, the ride ended, and the doors opened. Oliver stepped out, into her own hive.

Oliver’s hive was a vast, penthouse apartment near the top of the hivestem. From what he’d been told, it had a lovely view of the city on one side, and the mountains on the other. He had everything, from a large mealblock to a hot tub on the balcony, to an entire block converted into an aviary for his pets and lusus.

After dropping his purse on the loungeplank, he headed to the mealblock and dug leftovers out of his mealvault. Thin slices of sashimi, cooked just enough to sear a crust of spices along the edges, and a bowl of sugar-glazed scarabs.

Oliver hummed, carrying his dinner to his studio slash office, and set it down next to his husktop, which he boot up. Popping a scarab in his mouth, he picked up a small remote and clicked it. He heard a beep, and his audio-crate began playing music at a low volume; it was thundering, screeching heavy metal, with intense bass and drums. A moment later, Oliver’s morail’s voice started howling out lyrics.

Smiling to themself, Oliver heard their husktop beep to indicate it was on and ready. With the screen reader as a guide, they located the desktop Trollian and opened it.

-SightlessFirebird began trolling TheDecaying!-

SF: Hello, my lovely dear Brigan~! You do not know me, but I am a 7riend, in dire need of your assistance~. I need in7ormation~.

There was a pause, before the husktop pinged.

TD: Wh_ is Brigan?

Oliver frowned.

SF: You are, my dear~.

TD: I am wh_?

SF: You are Brigan~!

TD: I am?

Oliver sighed, beginning to wonder if this was a good idea.

SF: Yes, my love, and I want to know- have you ever heard of a man called the Hierophant~?

TD: Wh_ are y_u?

SF: I am a 7riend, as I said~. Do you know the Hierophant~?

There was another pause, much longer than the first. Oliver began to get concerned after several minutes ticked by; he’d nearly finished his plate of sashimi by the time his husktop pinged.

TD: I d_ n_t kn_w y_u. Th- magg_ts whisp-r y_u ar- n_t t_ b- trust-d. A blind bird dr-ss-d in flam-s will _nly b- c_nsum-d by what mak-s th-m pr-tty. Fir-s di- wh-n th-y ar- suff_cat-d. Th- Hi-r_phant fl-w _n wax wings, t__ cl_s- t_ th_ flint and st--l that lit y_ur f-ath-rs, and n_w h- burns.* *(I do not know you. The maggots whisper you are not to be trusted. A blind bird dressed in flames will only be consumed by what makes them pretty. Fires die when they are suffocated. The Hierophant flew on wax wings, too close to the flint and steel that lit your feathers, and now he burns.)

Oliver sat back, surprised, before he scowled.

SF: So you *did* know him~?

TD: Knew who?

Oliver took a deep breath, a frustrated growl rolling in her throat.

SF: Thank you for your help, Brigan~.

TD: G__dbye, Blind Ph_-nix.

-TheDecaying ceased trolling SightlessFirebird!-

-TheDecaying has blocked SightlessFirebird!-

That was a waste of time, Oliver thought bitterly, mentally scratching Brigan off their list. They tossed another sugar-scarab into their mouth and chewed on it ruefully, thinking.

“An evil god nestled somewhere in time, A bloody spider- no warnings, no signs. Judgement day and the rotten child arrives, Eventually, laid bare are his crimes.

The records went up in flames, no turning back, ‘Cause I just had to see, was the spider’s bite watching me? In the mist, the facts twist, and bones do snap, as I lay on your altar, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.”

Oliver’s morail’s voice cut through their thoughts and they turned their head towards the radio, which was still playing one of their morail’s albums. Oliver knew that album; Spades of Revolution, their latest release.

“A bloody spider…” Oliver repeated aloud, tapping their claws on the desk, “And a rotten child…” A wicked smile crawled across their face and they turned back to the husktop.

Dismissing the failed conversation, Oliver pulled up a new chatroom.

-SightlessFirebird began trolling WacobaRanchOffical!-

SF: Hello, Mr. Bluegill~. My name is Oliver, and I am a huge 7an o7 your work~. I was wondering i7 I could ask you a 7ew questions~?

Oliver sat back and waited. Having cleared her bowl and plate, she picked them up and took them to the mealblock sink. She stopped by the aviary to feed her birds and lusus, giving them each a minute of attention- they’d get more later, before sunrise- before heading back to the office.

She tapped a button on the side of her mouse, but the screen reader only read back the message she’s sent. She frowned.

SF: Mr. Kappal~? Are you there~? I don’t mean to be a bother, my dear man, I’m just very curious about a 7ew things~.

Still, no response came. Oliver waited several minutes, which stretched onto hours. He went and showered, did his entire hair and skin treatment routine, and got changed into a comfy robe.

When he checked again, nothing, and the clock informed him it was nearly time for his video date with his morail. Nibbling on his lip, he sent a final message.

SF: Well, just get to me when you can, sir~! I hope to hear 7rom you soon~!

No response ever came.

Somewhere, far away, in a hive by the seaside, a husktop pinged three times over the span of several hours. Only one of the residents heard it.

He slipped inside, shutting the door. Every light was off, the curtains shut. It was pitch black other than the glow of a phone screen on the massive bed.

"Olly?" Bohwie whispered, making his way to the bedside as he tugged off all his bracelets and necklaces.

"BB." His morail whimpered.

Bohwie tossed his accessories onto the bedside table and crawled across the massive expanse of blankets, shucking his skin-tight pants as he went.

He found the body he was looking for, curled in a ball in the center of the bed. Bohwie reached for them, before he pulled back.

"I can touch?"

"You can touch." The palmhusk was tossed aside, leaving them in total darkness.

The bed rocked slightly as Bohwie dropped onto his side and pulled Oliver close. The oliveblood rolled over, pressing his face into the cerulean's chest.

He hummed, running his hand through her silky hair. "Talk to me, song bird."

"It's just..." Oliver began, before he sighed, pressing closer. Bohwie held him flush to his chest, large arms encircling his tiny morail. "A bad night."

Bohwie nodded slowly, pressing a kiss to their brow. His hands stroked down their back, until he felt something under their shirt.

"Are you still wearing your rumple compressor?" He asked sharply.

Oliver said nothing.

"Babe, you put it on this morning. Take it off."

"No."

"But-"

Oliver's hands fisted in Bohwie's crop top. "No. Don't make me, BB, please. I can't stand them right now." She whimpered.

Bohwie hesitated, torn. His morail's body needed a rest, but if wearing it was helping their mind...

"Will... If I give you one of my big shirts will you take it off?" He asked hesitantly, "You have a performance this weekend, baby bird, you can't be messing up your thoracic cage."

Oliver didn't answer for a long moment, before he sighed. "I want your jacket, not your shirt."

"Which one?"

"The one you loaned me the other night."

"Oh! The thick one. Okay." Bohwie gently pulled away, rolling off the bed and getting up. He fetched the jacket dutifully, and came back in time to see the compressor get flung across the block. He climbed back into bed, passing the jacket over. "Thank you, Olly." He murmured.

Oliver just grumbled, snatching the jacket and wiggling it on. She promptly flopped back over, clutching it tightly, before she reached for her morail.

Bohwie happily complied, laying down once again and pulling them close. "Is that better?"

"It's more comfortable." He admitted, tucking his head under Bohwie's chin, "But I don't like it."

"I know, baby bird. Is there anything I can do?"

"Just..." Oliver sighed, "Hold me."

That was certainly something Bohwie could do. Wrapping his arms around them, he pulled them as close as possible and gently squeezed for a moment before relaxing.

"Always, my diamond."

Oliver chirped, nuzzling against his throat. After a moment, she let out another, much more dramatic, sigh.

"This sucks."

"What?"

He waved a hand to indicate his body. "This. I couldn't make up my mind today, and things got bad."

Bohwie nodded in understanding. "I know. It's not fun sometimes."

The oliveblood grunted. "It's fun with you." They mumbled, and Bohwie felt his blood-pumper skitter over a few beats.

He couldn't help but pull back, only to dip down and kiss her softly.

Oliver's hands came up to hold his curly horns, thumb rubbing over the multitude of piercings.

When they broke apart, Bohwie smooshed his forehead against theirs.

"Pale for you, Olly."

"Pale for you, too, kitty." Oliver sighed, a low purr in his throat. Bohwie giggled, and saw the smallest smile on his morail's face. "Kitty. Kitten. Kitty cat." He hummed, stroking the shell of Bohwie's ear.

"I'm your kitty cat." Bohwie agreed, nuzzling close and cupping the oliveblood's cheek. "Just like you're my baby bird," He kissed them, "my song bird," another kiss, "my phoenix." a third kiss, "No matter what you look like or the form you take."

Oliver's purring grew louder, and Bohwie responded with his own gravely purr, his thumb stroking over her cheek. Oliver turned her head, pressing her lips to his palm.

What was their first impression of each other?

Oliver thought he was amusing, and Bohwie considered them a savior, because they helped him launch his career.

Did any of their friends or family want them to get together?

At the time, neither of them really had friends or family.

Who felt romantic feelings first?

Definitely Bohwie, he got a pale crush in like a week.

Did either of them try to resist their feelings?

Not really? Oliver just didn't have feelings at first, although he pretended to.

If you had told one of them that the other would be their soulmate, what would they think?

Oliver would laugh, and Bohwie would blush.

What would their lives be like if they had never met?

Oh, very different. Bohwie would have never succeeded as a musician, and Oliver might have never gotten the Black Hand together.

.

GENERAL

Who initiated the relationship, and how did it go?

Oliver did, as a way to keep Bohwie close. It went very well, seeing as Bohwie was already smitten.

Did they have an official first date? If so, what was it like?

They did! Bohwie took Oliver to the movies, and panicked when he remembered Oliver couldn't see. Oliver had laughed at him, but they still went. They saw Alien.

What was their first kiss like?

Oh, very passionate. They'd gone out clubbing, they both had a lot to drink, and then Bohwie got the courage to pull Oliver close and smooch him.

Were they each other’s first anything (kiss, relationship, etc.)?

Oliver was Bohwie's first everything! Oliver already had multiple partners under her belt before they met, though.

What’s their height difference? Age difference?

Oliver is 5'9, while Bohwie is 6'4. They're both 20, with Bohwie being a few months older.

What’s their relationship with each other’s families?

Oliver adores but also dislikes the Hierophant, and Bohwie is indifferent towards Deadscar.

Who takes the lead in social situations?

Eh, both. They're both rather outgoing extroverts.

Who gets jealous easier?

Oliver, easily.

Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear?

Both! These are some horny motherfuckers.

.

LOVE

Who said “I love you” first?

Bohwie.

What are their primary love languages?

Bohwie's is physical touch, while Oliver's is quality time. Snuggling on the couch while they watch a movie is the best.

Who uses cheesy pick-up lines?

Both!

How often do they cuddle/engage in PDA?

They'll straight up fuck in public. They don't care.

Who initiates kisses?

Both.

Who’s the big and little spoon?

Bohwie is the big spoon, Oliver is his very little spoon. <3

What are their favorite things to do together?

Anything and everything.

Who’s better at comforting the other?

They're morails, so they're both pretty good at it.

Who’s more protective?

Bohwie, definitely. He'd never baby Oliver, he knows how capable his morail is, he just likes to take care of her.

Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?

Physical.

What are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise?

Rumors by Neffex, Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry, Judas by Lady Gaga- they've got a few.

What kind of nicknames do they call each other?

Bohwie calls him Olly, Oliver calls him BB. In private, they call each other "Kitty" and "Little bird."

Who remembers the little things?

Both!

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DOMESTIC LIFE

If they get married, who proposes?

Dsfljsdfksdj sorry but I can't imagine them getting married. If they did, it'd have to be Oliver. Bohwie would be too shy.

What’s the wedding like? Who attends?

Dear god, no one would go home sober, or as a virgin. It would be an extravaganza talked about for months afterward. There would be a body count.

How many kids do they have, if any? What are they like?

No kids! Oliver hates kids.

Do they have any pets?

Oliver has a dozen or so birds.

Who’s the stricter parent?

IF they were parents, Oliver would be a helicopter parent.

Who worries the most?

Meh, neither.

Who kills the bugs in the house?

Bohwie.

How do they celebrate holidays?

They fuck.

Who’s more likely to convince the other to come back to sleep in the morning?

Hehe, Bohwie. He is not a morning person.

Who’s the better cook?

Bohwie.

Who likes to dance?