7 Works in Peste Noire (Band)
Listing Works
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疑似奶哥不官宣cn的后果
#非传统
#abo
#纯爱（？我在写之前没有查太多资料，有捏造的部分不要较真～
粥粥要求的、
浴室play -
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There’s no orchids this far out. There’s no singing thrushes, nor polecats nor squirrels, but little yellow scorpions rest on stones, and orbweavers sway in their webs: a lizard lies motionless, like a jadeite brooch, weighed down by the warbling air—small and torpid things, like space debris, unshielded from solar radiation.
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“Don’t fucking complain if I treat you like a woman.”
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Spring is sudden. Swaths of kermes oak erupt into bloom; thick tufts of green and golden blossoms—almost amber—billow rich like golden gorse or summer sunset clouds, and a warmth has settled into the day’s soil that no gust can pierce. They’re boisterous trees, a hardy little sister to the Palestine oak, lending a vivid timelessness to the landscape. The citrine spectacle of a Mediterranean spring feels like triumphant, hagiarchical laughter.
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There isn’t anyone to answer to. In some way, the move cemented his dependence on Ludovic (Jean told him as much, and he couldn’t find the heart then to forge a rebuttal), but liberty, Stéphane thinks, is about going unseen between trees, about burdock and chickweed being left to grow unplucked, about being granted rest and solitude, something he never quite got when he had his own place to live. This new dependence is a technicality, as much fiction as traffic laws where no police bother to go.
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The weight of all his spiderlimbs and a black pit for a stomach has sagged into stickiness, into strings of cold coal tar, he is held up and together only by Ludovic. He is then, on wooden heron’s legs, guided past the seashell-splintered wash margin and onto powderdry sand. It coats every inch of his damp shoes.
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This is where the guilt sits and belongs, still, concentrated and drawn tight into a ball the way migraines coil neatly behind one brow: the guilt of having believed.