Eysin: The Giggling Curtain | Ch. 7 - The Lighthouse: Hoʻoponopono. Life Force with Zero Brain Cells, Zero Veils
Half-a-kiss and counting. A universe-saving cigarette, and a short essay on commitment that isn’t an economy. Unfair warning: hyperconsensual lovemaking and explicit soul surgery ahead.
Arkion spots the empty parking lot before the lighthouse door even comes into view.
No cars. No lights. No witnesses.
He stops, wind whipping his coat like it’s trying to undress him early.
He doesn’t stop it.
Just lets the cold fingers slip under the collar, curious.
“Looks like it’s just us. Comfortable with that?”
He says this with dark overlord feint, but she misses it—or pretends to.
Eysin’s teeth chatter. “We get the warmest spot. I see no problem.”
“You know where to run when my company gets old?”
“To the sea, captain.”
He grins, nudges her to hurry. She squeaks, laughs—bright against the cold.
Inside, frost flowers bloom on the windows.
Arkion kneels before the wide stone hearth, tosses logs and a pinch of herbs onto the embers: juniper, honey-sweet resin, sage, rosemary, lavender. Smoke thickens the air, sacred.
Eysin hovers at the edge of the hearth, stealing warmth, stealing glances, breathing him in with the juniper and lavender like she’s learning a new prayer by osmosis.
“Hey, better place the sleeping bags over here,” he suggests. “Roll ’em open—warm retreat if the night drags.”
Arkion pulls contraband from the bag: last marzipan apples, chunks of hard cheese, old charred tray.
They settle on the woven rugs, close enough that their knees almost brush, far enough that neither has to apologise for wanting more.
The fire pops.
They share a single cup of wine from the mystery thermos, fingers brushing with increasing familiarity.
Eysin absorbs the woven rugs, hung tokens, faded charms, precious beads, storm lamps turned colorful art. She shifts closer to the flame, warms her naked toes. “Never imagined the lighthouse like this.”
He nods, eyes on the flames, curls his toes. “Yeah, we used to call it the little starbase. Never seen it this empty.” A soft laugh. “Guess everyone outgrows the shrooms eventually.”
Conversation drifts—anecdotes from old retreats, quiet laughs over the strange secrets this place holds.
They fall into thought, cup changing hands automatic—eyes on fire, pretending not to think too hard about openings.
Pretending not to notice how the space between their knees has shrunk by half an inch since they sat down.
The cup runs low. Her sleeping bag yawns nearby, tempting.
Eysin lifts her empty hand toward him, palm up.
Arkion reaches—ready for the cup.
Fingers close on warm air and her playful grin.
He catches it, amused—takes her hand, bows theatrical, kisses knuckles like knight to lady.
She bursts into startled laughter, meets his eyes.
She offers the other hand—a breathless dare.
He accepts, kisses those knuckles too.
Four hands joined—fingertips exchange brushes, traces, gentle thumb-wrestling.
He tests a rub across her knuckles—watches her face.
She pretends annoyance—eyes dancing—but keeps her hands steady.
He’s about to speak; she interrupts, “don’t say pull my finger.”
He grins wider, answers with a cheekier rub—then kneads the joints between her knuckles, presses her palms with wonder.
His voice is soft, almost swallowed by the crackle. “Did my letter ever find you?”
She looks at him, taken aback.
No joke in his face.
Barely breathing.
No witty answer comes. It was a heavy letter.
“Ark, I’m…” She glances at his lips, exhales the thought away.
She leans close, presses lips to the corner of his mouth. Not a kiss yet. Just warmth.
He feels the tremble in her hand and lips, whispers, “okay?”
She turns the last inch—slow, wondering, tasting wine and marzipan and herbs and him.
He meets her there, brushes her lips with his.
Hands rise to her hips, steady, not pulling. Her trembling eases. She leans deeper, palm finding his heart, lips parting just enough.
The fire pops—once, like it approves.
Then she stops breathing. Stops.
The tremble returns.
Hands fall away.
She shifts back, shoulders curl in an old defensive curve.
The firelight catches the tremble still in her fingers.
“Sorry,” she exhales, the word a sigh, braced.
She returns to where she sat—maybe a little further.
Staring hard at the fire.
A long breath finally escapes him.
Arkion falls back onto the mats, eyes on the rafters, and lets out a soft, “whew.”
His hand rises—almost touches his lips where hers were—then drops.
Stunned.
He gets back up, slaps his knee. “Welp! I’m glad we got that one out of the way!”
Eysin looks back, sees an amused grin, raised eyebrows. Is he drunk?
The hearth’s heard worse.
Arkion shifts closer, tosses in two logs.
Eysin observes his face, seeking disappointment. Anticipating pressure.
Just the same quiet curiosity he had when he asked about the letter.
She feels compelled. “I didn’t want to do that.”
Arkion holds himself still. “Didn’t want to stop or to start?”
She sulks into her knees. “Didn’t want to ruin the evening.”
Arkion laughs with relief. “There’s nothing wrong with changing your mind mid-kiss. It’s basically the law of the land where I’m from.”
“Okay. You’re joking, so maybe you don’t hate me.” Eysin stretches her legs, toes closer to the fire.
“Hate you?” Arkion shifts, reaches for his overcoat, rummages pockets. Grins and grumbles, “this was the best part of my day.”
A curtain giggles softly.
Best part of your day—so far.
He’s talking and fumbling to soothe himself from the peak. “Besides—I can’t hate someone without hating everyone.” Hand finds the pouch. “And hating everyone takes too much effort.”
Eysin looks at the pouch, eyebrows climbing.
“Cassius gave us some bison dung shrooms. Hold on, is almost night. Scratch that—we’ll deal with these in the morning.” A friendly wink, “better on an empty stomach.”
He stretches, cracks his neck. “He also gave me this.”
From the last pocket, a nice smoking blend.
“Monks’ autumn blend.” He holds up the slim roll, smiling small. “Sage, cherry bark, a little sweet resin they pray over. Wanna try?”
She eyes the thing like it might bite. “This gonna knock me out?”
He chuckles, low. “Not even close. Might just make the fire taste like chocolate for a minute. Your call.” He settles beside the fire, reclines on his side, elbow propped.
Fails to light it… Eysin watches, lips twitching. Flint scrapes—nothing. Twice—spark, no flame.
Third time the wheel slips, lighter clatters to the stones like it’s quitting on him.
He stares at it like it personally betrayed him.
Picks it up with the other hand. That hand trembles worse — the same one that was steadying her hip thirty seconds ago.
Eysin bites her lip, wheezing silently, shoulders shaking. He finally gets it lit—cups the flame like it’s made of glass, like one wrong breath will ruin everything.
Brings it to the tip, inhales too fast—coughs once, eyes watering, looking exactly like a man who just tried to look cool and remembered he’s human. Then the smoke lands.
He leans back on one elbow, blows a perfect spear of cherry-almond smoke right into the hearth.
“There,” he says, voice suddenly lazy and warm again, holds up the roll—no tremor now, “No awkward situation in the universe that a little sacred smoke can’t fix.” She takes it, inhales careful. Holds.
Cherry-almond warmth rolls across her tongue, then down into her chest like slow honey.
Not harsh. Not chemical.
Something closer to kissing a prayer. Her voice comes with peace as she hands it back.
“I did get your letter.”
Arkion tilts his head.
“Sent one back too, but it was returned to me.”
Arkion takes a long drag. The letters stopped moving. He looks into the fire, repeats: “when I get back home, and I ask you to marry me—”
Eysin cuts in, “I wanted to say yes, but…”
Arkion blows another spear.
“You weren’t sure what you’d be stepping into… and that’s fair.”
She lifts her chin. The sentence comes small and cracked. “You might find there’s something wrong with me.”
Arkion holds out the roll. “You mean the music anomalies or…”
She takes it. Drags. Hands it back. She chuckles at the open-air music effect—something in her framework has been causing that. “That’s just a bit of fun…”
Arkion takes the roll, looks at her, grins, asks the other question:
“Or you want to spare the disappointments?”
The sound of it stabs her.
Eysin studies his eyes, the steady hand as he takes another drag.
“You’re going to ask questions I can’t answer.” She mumbles. “And then you’ll find me frigid.”
He squeezes one eye closed, the words are physically hard to push out:
“Just the one question.”
“So, I say yes. Let’s do this. What’s next?” Her jaw works, she looks back into the fire. “You’ll need me to explain what I want from you. I don’t know what I want from you. What a stupid question. But nothing happens until I ask, right? Then I’ll just ask something. Then I’m going to have to pitch and conduct the entire thing, pretend I enjoy the shit out of it—whatever that’s more an interrogation, less like love, and the inferno of pretending it’s joy—”
The words come angry, jagged, half-apologetic.
Arkion grins and hands the roll back, “You never liked to lie, so don’t you dare hold back now.”
“I want to be blown away! Swept off my feet! But the second I say it—I’ve turned you into a performer under impossible pressure, made spontaneity a demand, and forced us both into this sterile loop where nothing can ever feel real again.”
She laughs—sharp, bitter, hating the sound of it—then cuts herself off, shoulders tight.
She takes a drag to stop herself from crying, hands it back.
“So, a part of me kept wishing you’d just come at me. Brilliant, isn’t it? No questions, no conducting, no debt. Just brute force—problem solved.”
Arkion smirks, takes a drag, exhales, “I came very close to giving you exactly that back in the garden.”
“I threw myself at you,” Eysin laughs, “and you fell asleep!”
He remembers, grins, “best turbonap I’ve had in years.”
Hands back the roll.
Eysin mock-snores. A bitter smirk, “maybe you just don’t like me?”
Arkion’s chuckle turns stern, “Eysin, I won’t rape you.”
She takes a long drag, “that’s too bad. It would be less humiliating than having to direct my own violation and pretend I’m having fun.”
Eysin blows a spear into the fire.
“Or should I be able to frame it as a worthy sacrifice that makes you feel bigger?” She shakes her head, as if disappointed with herself, “I can’t pretend I’m thrilled to spell out every move, manage the feelings or face punishmnt—every pretend bliss owed—tit-for-tat—I’ve tried to do that just to prove them right.”
She takes another pull.
“Maybe that makes me selfish, or frigid—In any case, I couldn’t keep it up. I don’t think I could, even for you. And it makes me feel sick. I can’t do this.”
She hands back the roll.
Something fierce and tender flickers across his face.
A long exhale.
“Suppose we had to bring that up.”
He leans back on one elbow, voice quieter, steadier. Takes a pull from the roll.
“So, for as long as that’s the story running in your head—regardless of what I think or feel, every touch is going to feel like appeasement theatre.”
The blunt is now too short to pass.
“Guess what—I can’t do that either.”
He watches the red tip die.
Eyes distant, thinking, speech almost inaudible:
“I’d rather starve than hunt like that.”
He flicks the butt into the fire.
The butt hisses, vanishes.
Eysin stares at the spot. Shoulders rise and fall once—shaky.
She risks a glance. His face turned to the fire, jaw set, eyes softer.
“So what’s that mean? You’d rather be hunted and wanted?”
“Eysin, no. No performance. No conductors.”
He says it smiling, and that stops her cold.
“Then what the hell are we supposed to do?”
Her voice cracks—half angry, half terrified.
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh without humor.
“Do you want to try to figure it out? May get messy, stupid, honest.”
“Figure out what—Marriage?” She hesitates. “Me committing to you shouldn’t be such a—”
Arkion interrupts her, sharp breath. “Commit to what?”
“You?”
“Okay,” Arkion smiles, “define commitment.”
Eysin can’t swallow. “Well, it’s like a promise, isn’t it. Exclusivity, guarantees, obligation. So it’s sort of like an economy. Unfortunately, often debt and favours imposed. Something I can’t commit to without offering the occasional—to keep the peace, to manage. I’ve been told my aversion to this… Economy makes me unreliable. I’d think, especially in terms of marriage.”
A cool gust slips through the cracks, almost snuffs the fire.
Arkion looks at her. Warmth kindles in his eyes. He smiles like he’s seen the heart of the misunderstanding—and like he’s relieved someone else finally named it.
“That’s an economy, alright. Sterile and exhausting at that,” he says. “A bad use for commitment.”
She huffs a small laugh. Mirrors his question, “define commitment.”
He’s quiet for a while. Until the fire itself leans in to listen.
“Commitment, to me, is something you do alone first—before it touches another person. Promising yourself you’ll stay faithful to what’s true. Yahu. To love, in itself. In service to the quiet voice and vision that can’t operate in lies. Some call it the soul, some the spark, some the Voice of Monad.”
A soft shrug. He keeps looking into the fire.
“I commit to listening to that voice, moment after moment, no matter what shows up.”
He turns, meets her eyes.
“When two people both do that—really do that—then what’s left is just… Love. Possibility. Presence. We are open to build, delight, explore with shameless curiosity. No scripts to follow. No economy to commit to. A mutual fidelity to the soul.”
She straightens—there is something fresh in hearing a man speaking of curiosity. “Shameless,” she chuckles.
Arkion smiles, looks back into the fire. “It takes a lot of courage to live like you do. It looks like you’ve been loyal to that voice, too. You don’t have to worry about offending me by following it. I’ll never punish you for that. Maybe I’ll even celebrate.”
They’re lost in the fire.
Wood pops, sparks fly.
“The voice of Monad.” She tastes these unfamiliar words.
Such grand words now connected to the little furnace she’s been shielding from every blow the world or her own doubts kept offering.
He knows, and listens to the same voice.
He’s promising he won’t betray it.
Her hand rises, brushes her throat.
Nothing there.
No prick. No catch.
Just open space where the thorn used to sit—because for the first time, she doesn’t feel like she has to guard the furnace—the voice from the person beside her.
She looks up to the high ceiling, a long, shaky exhale—almost laugh, almost sob.
Tears arrive sudden.
She curls forward, face hidden in knees, shoulders shaking with sobs tangling into helpless laughter.
Arkion watches with calm curiosity
She peeks out, wet-faced, laughing harder.
He lets the silence hold her.
After a moment she wipes her eyes, voice thick but radiant.
“Did you just undress my soul?”
Arkion considers, his grin small, almost shy.
“Nah, that’s all you.”
Then, softer:
“But I’m glad I got to watch.”
“I’m, haha,” she chuckles, wipes the last of her tears, and feels a new lightness in her hands, almost a tingle, “actually blown away.”
He grins, leans closer to the abandoned cup. “That makes two of us.”
He grabs it, tips it back, finishes the last drop.
“Want to celebrate with a drink?” he asks, turning toward the thermos.
He’s staggered from moving away.
Eysin curls fingers into his beard.
“No,” her eyes grinning.
He pauses—brows lifting in amused question. “Okay…”
She pulls him close and licks the okay off his lips.
It tastes like wine.
She grins—ha! That’s a good one—and whispers against his lips:
“I wanna celebrate with you.”
Arkion’s lips part on a stunned breath and helpless chuckle, eyes crinkle at the edges.
A heartbeat.
Celebrate without the drink then—Bye cup! He leaves it on the floor.
His thumb brushes once along her jaw, hand settling at the back of her neck.
He answers.
Lips part wider, tasting the salt of her tears still clinging there—brine and wine and something brighter underneath.
A soft, helpless chuckle escapes him against her mouth, vibrating into hers like shared mischief.
He chases the taste—slow at first, then deeper, open-mouthed, greedy for every trace.
Sucks gently at her lower lip, draws her tongue in with a pull that makes her fingers clench tighter in his beard.
His arms come around her, lowers her to the reed mats in one fluid motion.
A half-laugh catches in her throat, spills out soft against his mouth.
They stay like that for a breath—faces pressed close, noses brushing, foreheads touching, just breathing each other in.
The curtain in the rafters had dozed off, fringe limp, lulled by the slow drag of the blend and the quiet miracle unfolding below.
Then—lips meet, breath catches, hands roam, fingers tangle—and it jerks upright like it just got the juiciest gossip of the century, rustling with scandalized glee:
Oooh! We just went from half-a-kiss to an incoming three-hundred-percent kiss!
He kisses down her throat, open-mouthed, tasting salt and skin and faint green tea.
His hands slip under her shirt. Warm palms glide over bare waist, tracing the curve of her back.
She arches, seeking more. Her hands slide up his arms, over shoulders, down to the hem of her shirt—tugging it higher. Invitation.
He follows: mouth trailing upward, over ribs. Reaches the swell of her breast, pauses—breathes her in—then closes lips over the silk-covered peak.
She gasps, soft broken sound. Fingers thread into his hair, holding him there.
He shifts to the other breast, hands mapping her back, waist, ribs.
When her hips roll again, his mouth descends: kisses over breastbone, ribs, stomach, tongue dipping into her navel.
Lower, lips brushing skin above waistband.
She laughs caught in her throat, whispers, “you gonna take them off or just gonna…”
He chuckles, works the button free, drags zipper down tooth by tooth. She lifts her hips.
He slides trousers down her legs, peeled away like shedding the journey.
She’s bare except panties and rucked-up shirt—firelight painting gold and shadow over skin.
He returns—mouth brushing inside of thighs, open kisses, small nips that draw squirms, laughs, gasps.
Propped on her elbows, she watches his hand—palm gliding up thigh, thumb circling—until the pad crosses the seam, a feather-light graze over fabric.
She’s helpless about chuckling at her shivers.
Fingertips slip beneath, meet drenched want.
She shuts her eyes and holds her breath, trapping a moan.
Then she hears it: astonished whisper torn from his soul.
Ho’oponopono.
The curtain swells like a sail, catches the prayer, transmutes it into tribal funk—deep bass imitating helpless laughter. Its sibilant voice hisses:
Ssssix thousand percent kissss!
Eysin hears it, half-lost—until a big lick lands over cotton and a steel plate of pleasure crashes down her spine.
A startled, raw moan rips out—edged with shock and hunger and laughter.
Another big lick lands like an audacious question.
She jolts, hips bucking, half-laughing, half-sobbing and looks at him:
“Are you crazy?—get these out of the way!”
His laughter turns to playful snarls—hooks teeth into waistband, peels panties down a little, then decides this needs hands.
Slides them allmost off.
She flicks them into darkness with her toe.
The curtain (now fully awake and fanning itself):
Camera pans to moist panties, chimney plays a saxophone tune.
His palms trail back to her hips.
His tongue finds bare skin.
Slow licks at first—curious, tasting forgiveness made liquid.
She’s propped on her elbows at first, eyes locked on his, hips rolling slow, chasing every flick of his tongue.
Then a tension creeps into her chest, locks her shoulders like she’s still trying to hold herself together.
A soft, involuntary gasp escapes.
Her elbows drift apart, shoulders melt down, back bows into the mat.
The change hits like a switch flipped—she feels his tongue deeper.
Her hips tilt forward with the arch, leg hooking tighter around his neck; he leans into it, following her rhythm without missing a beat.
Tension compels her to stretch, and she does it with a raw moan that thunders through him.
He turns greedy, a little messy, a lot alive—circling, flicking, flattening, full tongue dragging. Testing pressure, speed, every shiver and gasp, repeating whatever makes her breath hitch harder, hips chase faster.
She meets the rhythm with rolling her hips, and comes, unexpected, with a wild open sound—back arching, laughter and tears braided, legs trembling so hard he holds them still.
He grins feral when it clicks: holy shit, she’s coming.
He stays gentle, curious, keeps drawing the pleasure out and soon another wave rolls through her—deeper, quieter, a slow full-body shudder that leaves her gasping, whispering breathy and stunned:
What the fuck was that?
He slows and stops, sits up to study her face—gasping, eyes wandering all over the ceiling, cheeks flushed and streaked with tears and echoes of laughter.
She squeals once when his palm touches again, and chuckles when it’s just a caress.
He watches his gentle strokes calm the rising and falling on her half-bared breasts, the flutter of her heartbeat visible just below her navel, He feels her thighs still trembling, now her soles brushing slow against his ribs though the shirt.
She finds him looking at her face.
He smiles like it’s just a hello.
“Cool?”
Eysin throws her head back and mock-snores.
He blinks once, follows with a feral grin.
“Did you just… drop the perfect safeword?”
She chuckles, voice still husky: “need some backup up here, I’m cold.”
He exhales a laugh, already moving.
“I don’t feel cold at all.”
She reaches for him—pulls him up for a messy kiss that tastes like salt and marzipan and both of them losing their goddamn minds.
Her tongue finds his—playful, greedy, still laughing—and he answers with a helpless groan that vibrates into her mouth like shared mischief.
“You can find out how cool it is without a shirt.”
As she presses closer, she feels him strained against her thigh.
She chuckles into the kiss, breaks it just enough to breathe, and whispers against his lips:
“Get out…”
Her toes hook under his belt, tugging his trousers while she rubs herself along his length.
“How do you turn the shirts off?”
He lifts arms with muffled laugh, lets her peel it over his head. She pretends to aim for flames—then flings it into the darkness.
Her toes made some progress with his trousers. “Are you going to wiggle out of your pants or is that how we’re gonna let that—”
He shifts his weight, interrupts her mid-sentence with a cheeky grin—and sinks into her in one unhurried move. No fumbling, no hesitation. Just perfect, ridiculous luck.
The mischief in his eyes breathes out.
His face goes quiet, open, stunned—lips parting, eyes crinkling with something too big for words, a faint disbelieving chuckle trapped in his throat.
She holds her breath, looks at his face—stunned all the same.
Her pulse flutters around him; his answers with a single, delighted throb.
Her hips tilt experimentally, testing this new shared power.
He answers with the smallest roll.
They greet salùt and good day to you in the language of kiss.
Rhythm finds them—slow, exploratory, rolling together until fire gets too hot and they laugh, shifting across mats.
Later she escapes with wicked laugh, pulls him to wall, table, sleeping bags—every surface claimed in breathless, giggling, sometimes-snoring chaos.
They come following each other—first her, then him pulled after in one bright shared wave.
In glowing aftermath a faint blue glyph flickers across shared vision:
NSS active.
She blinks. “Enn… ess… ess…? What’s that?”
Arkion, half-asleep against her neck, voice rough with wonder:
“Nervous System Sync… thing. And so on.”
“Elaborate.”
He kisses her temple, pulls her closer.
“No.”
From the heap of lace on the floor a muffled, utterly blissed-out voice croaks toward the reader:
Twelve thousand percent—darlings, they just turned the lighthouse into a cathedral of funk.
Tomorrow: autumn funk, pine-resin dreams, and the last good dog in the world.
Don’t touch that dial, darlings.
The prima curtain needs a cigarette. And a priest.
Continue reading:
Eysin: The Giggling Curtain | Ch. 8 - Bubby, the Good Boy, and the Forest That Refuses to Stop Crying
They leave the lighthouse at dawn, packs light, hearts heavier than they let on.
E-pub/book: Aiming for 2026 February.
C7 B-SIDE:
The Little Starbase
7.1 – Kindling the Light Late at Night
The fire is low, embers taking their last breaths.
Arkion slips out of the sleeping bag, leaving Eysin curled in warmth, pretending to be asleep (she isn’t; he knows she isn’t).
Neither of them can fall back asleep as life is surging through their hands and chests.
He shifts closer to the hearth, naked, skin still flushed from the celebration.
Only a couple logs left.
Tosses one in, watches it catch, then sits back on his heels, staring into the flames for a long moment, letting the quiet settle.
Eysin watches his back. the line of his shoulders, the way the firelight paints gold across his skin, tiny nodes of the zerk’s spigots throwing spears of light barely perceptible back on the fireplace and the wall.
After a while, she calls out, soft and teasing:
“Toss one log over here as well.”
Arkion looks back at her—eyes narrowing, grin spreading slow and wicked.
He picks a log, slides back next to her and puts the log next to her head.
“Where exactly do you want it?”
Eysin laughs and reaches for him.
He lets go of the log, slides back into the sleeping bag, and it turns into kissing and fondling match.
He grins against her mouth, chuckles, incapable of kissing, then turns to laugh into her neck as his hands find their way lower. He is laughing soft into her neck, grabs her butt.
“What’s so funny?” she asks, hand already finding him, caressing slow, feeling him harden under her touch.
Arkion dips fingers inside her, and then brings them up to their faces.
“What does this remind you of.”
She sniffs and judges herself healthy.
She’s heard a few stupid jokes about “that smell”, so she opts to not answer in words.
She takes the fingers into her mouth—slow, teasing, tongue curling. She rolls on top of him, grinning wicked, keeps rubbing his hard length.
“Okay…” Arkion groans, losing his breath in a shiver and a chuckle.
He watches her—pupils blown, breath ragged.
He breathes careful, “I wanted to say… You smell exactly like the marzipan apples.”
Eysin lets go of his fingers to laugh.
Takes his length inside her.
Rides, hips rolling, exploring for a suitable rhythm, hands braced on his chest.
“Heh, you’re right,” she chuckles, keeps going, “smells like a gentle tender fruit with a whisper of fermentation…”
She leans close, licks his nose, maybe the smell would linger.
Leans back, watches him bliss out in his face.
Slows down, ends her chuckle with a mock-snore,
“So you’re saying,” hips rolling slower, but deeper, “you sat through the day, even fell asleep on that stupid bench, and did nothing while the entire garden smelled like…” She leans right up his ear, whispers, “fuck me now?”
His eyes blink open, breath stutters, hips twitching once under her before he catches himself.
A soft laugh against her skin, follows it with an announcement:
“You just murdered my braincells.”
He grips her thighs harder, thumbs pressing deep, and rides her up—no mercy, just hunger held on a leash.
Her toes start curling, then flexing, then go unresponsive—little traitors that forget how to obey as the pleasure builds and builds.
He watches her face turn up as she arches back over his knees—hears her gasps turning to moans as her hands are looking for support on the floor—he comes with broken groan, hips jerking up to meet her one last time.
He invites her to lean on his chest.
She steadies to listen to his heartbeat, resting on his lap, still pulsing around him, his arms wrapped around her back.
Her cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the wild drum of his heart slow to something steady.
Stay like that until thinking capacity returns.
“The ants were watching,” he answers the old question, “I get shy.”
Eysin grins, snorts, and slips herself off him, kissing him once more. “We’ll never fall asleep like this,” she rolls up and reaches for the shirt she’s already used, “can we use that kettle? And did you bring tea?”
Arkion joins her, takes the shirt to clean himself, “did I bring tea, yes I did. I’ll go check the well.”
He’s already going at the door, opens it.
“What!?” Eysin shouts.
“What?” He grabs a bucket from the side.
“Aren’t you cold?”
Arkion shrugs and smiles, “it’s kinda nice, actually.”
7.2 – Well
Arkion steps outside into the cold night air, naked, barefoot on stone, the stars sharp overhead.
The wind has died.
Finds the well, pumps some water up, lets some on the ground and then leaves the bucket under so it will fill—could warm up some water for washingl.
He goes around the corner to take a piss, lets go with a long, satisfied sigh, steam rising in lazy ghosts.
The sky is clear, black velvet and diamond.
He gets the bucket, shuts the well, and turns back towards the door.
A single lace curtain has slithered out through the crack like an eel with opinions.
It hangs there, swaying, one edge lifting like a hand offering something.
A cigarette dangles from the lace — monk’s autumn blend, tip already glowing cherry-red.
The curtain stage-whispers, smoky and scandalized:
“Tough night, eh?”
Arkion stops.
Looks at the curtain.
A small, private, bone-deep smile.
He plucks the blend, takes one long, slow drag.
Smoke curls out his nostrils like dragon breath in the cold.
He doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t need to.
The night hums in his blood, warm and good and complete.
He savors it—the smoke, the stars, the quiet throb of being alive and loved and stupidly happy.
Then he stubs the joint against the wall, exhales the last plume toward the sky like an offering, and steps past the curtain.
The lace lets out a tiny, disappointed hmph and slinks back inside.
7.3 – Post-Mortem Surgery
They sit at the small table—he’s naked, she’s wrapped in a sleeping bag.
Eysin keeps laughing between sips—soft, helpless bursts—while Arkion sits, comfortable and amused.
“And you just laugh, having the funnies huh” he says, voice low, fond, “and laugh, and laugh…”
She keeps trying to take a long look at him.
Can’t, no matter what he does, she starts laughing.
And he is mostly not doing anything, just sitting.
Maybe a little smug, or mock-smug.
“I’m still… blown away,” she admits. She feels her hands—the surge is still there.
He smiles.
“It takes getting used to.”
She peeks up, “what do you mean?”
“It’s the same surge that will help you sit through the heat, brace the cold, accept every no, not like this and yes with equal delight.” He leans a little closer, cracking one, “sit with it long enough and you can appreciate a whole garden smelling like fuck her now without breaking the moment.”
She laughs again—bright, delighted.
“Though,” he thinks for a moment, “I’m not sure what ovulating on top of all that does.”
Eysin holds her breath and looks back at the fireplace.
The strange feeling of being noticed.
“Will I blush now?”
“On top of that blush?”
“In any case, then it was more obvious to you than it was to me.”
“Your breasts are full, you blush easy, and your smell makes me fucking stupid.” Sustains a comically low voice as if to withhold himself, “Could have fucked you right in the middle of that ant party.”
“So, why not? Couldn’t risk me saying no?”
Arkion thinks that wasn’t a problem for him. “Maybe a step further—You didn’t know you could say no without, quote, ruining the night.” Delivered with a smile.
She looks at him, owning it, “you didn’t know if I’ll be honest.”
Arkion chuckles, “well, to be fair, I didn’t know anything of what was. Just didn’t feel right.”
Eysin thinks of the sensation in her hands, her chest—the entire chest.
“You listened to me…” she whispers.
Arkion laughs soft, and gives one tiny mock-snore.
“Oog, you thought I was listening?”
Eysin makes a mock-sceptical face, then grins.
“Did I imagine it, we had this entire difficult conversation.”
“Yes. And I was mostly watching…” he says, voice dropping.
“Stunned. Thinking, damn that’s dirty!”
He pauses, eyes on the fire, then on her—soft, almost shy.
“This wasn’t a conversation. I was witness to your private performance of self-surgery. You had your fingers at your throat, pinching, digging, forcing out a—thorn—with no numbing but weak wine, no mercy but the faint herbs in the holy air so the edges wouldn’t tear wider.”
She thinks of performance, yet understands he said it exactly right.
He swallows, voice rougher now.
“You were so… alive in it.
Impossible to look away.
Extraordinary.
Laughing through the pain, crying through the laugh, celebrating like you just found something no one else even knew you were seeking.
I’m honoured—
That you’d let me participate.”
He cracks a small, crooked smile, thumb brushing hers across the table.
“So yeah…Not just listening.”
She wipes her face, laughs again—almost crying.
He took her honesty as spectacle.
He took something that most flee from as acceptable, rare intimacy.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For the space, and time. And for the celebration.”
Arkion smiles, closes his eyes, takes her hand to kiss her knuckles, whispers a soft, “Yahu.”
A cold shiver washes over her, goosebumps.
The whisper—a prayer.
The cold rain, the merciless love of the Monad.
And when he opens his eyes again, the cold is gone and she feels warm again.