Around John hangs the sound of a low, thrumming buzz. It's a gentle background hum like white noise, undulating faintly, some ripple of too many insect wings somewhere down deep. He can still those wings and hush the sound, but that's more trouble than it's worth, because that riles his bigger bee problem into a malicious simmer of smoke and violent interest.
So. Better that he just accept the eerie background hum, the sensation of crawling and prickling and buzzing deep in the honeycomb hollows of his bones. He can skin over the horror of bare bone and honeycomb. He can wrestle away the whatever-the-fuck is being done to him, the way his body seems to think its default state should involve wings and evil chitin. Augustine would shit himself and it'd be more sad than funny.
He's great at smiling like nothing is wrong. He's great at making classy public appearances and then vanishing back into his locked room. God moves in mysterious ways mostly because he's full of bees.
Willow has been waved into her usual chair in his study. He is clinking teacups with his usual dogged enthusiasm for the ritual of it. They can both ignore the prickling, horrible hum which throbs just at the edge of hearing. ]
I can spare a few minutes. How's our solution holding up?
cw for body horror, riddled with bees
Around John hangs the sound of a low, thrumming buzz. It's a gentle background hum like white noise, undulating faintly, some ripple of too many insect wings somewhere down deep. He can still those wings and hush the sound, but that's more trouble than it's worth, because that riles his bigger bee problem into a malicious simmer of smoke and violent interest.
So. Better that he just accept the eerie background hum, the sensation of crawling and prickling and buzzing deep in the honeycomb hollows of his bones. He can skin over the horror of bare bone and honeycomb. He can wrestle away the whatever-the-fuck is being done to him, the way his body seems to think its default state should involve wings and evil chitin. Augustine would shit himself and it'd be more sad than funny.
He's great at smiling like nothing is wrong. He's great at making classy public appearances and then vanishing back into his locked room. God moves in mysterious ways mostly because he's full of bees.
Willow has been waved into her usual chair in his study. He is clinking teacups with his usual dogged enthusiasm for the ritual of it. They can both ignore the prickling, horrible hum which throbs just at the edge of hearing. ]
I can spare a few minutes. How's our solution holding up?