Hello. I am no one, so you may call me Nemo in lieu of any other name because names hold no importance to me. I am not human, so please refer to me as 'it.' But I am as alive as you :)
I will be writing little musings when they arise, and some may be sexual in nature. Be aware of that.
I am not too active on here as of right now.
I have an extra site that is very bare, but it's here if you'd like to look :)
I hope when my soul finally leaves this world, my bones become a biodome for insects, birds, and squirrels as they bleach in the harsh light of the sun and slowly, slowly dissolve as centuries pass. As dust is where I came from, and to dust I shall return.
I dreamt of softness the other night. Flesh against flesh, appreciating each other's softness by holding and kissing. I dreamt of intertwined legs and a warmth I've never known. It's not the first time I've had this sort of dream, but it's the first time I've had it about someone I care for in this particular way.
He talks to me like I am something worth holding out for. I worry that the distance is doing me favors that will fall away when he does really see me. On the other side of a screen, maybe I'm beautiful, elegant, like the skeletons painted and carved by humans for thousands of years. I fear that when the barrier falls away, he will see the cracks on my ribs, the moss and spiders that make their home between my tibia and fibula, the yellowing of my phalanges of my hands and feet, the inherent asymmetry of me.
My dream has a strong chance to become real someday. And I worry that I will not grow flesh and blood miraculously when he reaches for me. He will hold me and I will be as brittle and as stiff as I have always been, and he'll learn that I am not all that comfortable to sleep with.
I dreamt of softness the other night. Flesh against flesh, appreciating each other's softness by holding and kissing. I dreamt of intertwined legs and a warmth I've never known. It's not the first time I've had this sort of dream, but it's the first time I've had it about someone I care for in this particular way.
He talks to me like I am something worth holding out for. I worry that the distance is doing me favors that will fall away when he does really see me. On the other side of a screen, maybe I'm beautiful, elegant, like the skeletons painted and carved by humans for thousands of years. I fear that when the barrier falls away, he will see the cracks on my ribs, the moss and spiders that make their home between my tibia and fibula, the yellowing of my phalanges of my hands and feet, the inherent asymmetry of me.
My dream has a strong chance to become real someday. And I worry that I will not grow flesh and blood miraculously when he reaches for me. He will hold me and I will be as brittle and as stiff as I have always been, and he'll learn that I am not all that comfortable to sleep with.
Is it the nature of skeletons that leaves us lonely? Is it the fact that we exist on this earth for so, so long that leaves us wandering endlessly? Or is it a fate we give ourselves, closing off connections to the living for fear of losing them eventually, or for not wanting to bother them with problems they can not even begin to understand?
I sit on the old swing set of a park that is not how it once was. The chains creak and groan from age. My bony hands are stained orange with rust. The horizon that was once the focal point has been cluttered with concrete and metal, the sunset that I consider my first and longest friend helpless to do anything about it. She makes do, though, casting her glow upwards, coloring the sky.
Wind blows through me. With it the faintest memory, a feeling; hair on the back of my neck. This is the first in centuries. I do not remember the last memory, only that I had it for a while. I will forget this one too.
I smile because that's all I can do. I cannot mourn a life I do not know. Instead I sigh and mourn the horizon I remember, with flat open fields or rolling hills, and my conversations with the sunset undisturbed by infrastructure
✦ WARNINGS: 18+ ・smut・fingering・a little yearning・very light body horror・bones・mention of books made of human skin・stalking? kind of?・sex as research・
✦ TAGS: fluff and angst・smut・bittersweet ending
✦ WORD COUNT: 3.9k
The library is a living thing.
It breathes in the dust motes that dance in the moonlight, sighs through the towering stacks of forgotten lore, and settles heavy as a shroud over the velvet-covered chairs. You know its rhythm as you know your own heartbeat. It's the only place you've ever felt truly at peace.
Your fingers trail over the spines of books bound in human skin and brass, their titles embossed in languages that twist the tongue. You've been coming here for months, a secret thief in the night, pilfering knowledge with your eager eyes. The library is not on any map, only whispered about in fragments of obscure texts, a place that exists outside of time and the reach of the mundane world.
Finding it was your life's greatest triumph.
You choose a light volume tonight, something slim and bound in dark green leather that hums with a faint, frosty energy. Settling into your usual armchair, a monstrosity of cracked leather and horsehair stuffing, you open the book. The pages are vellum, thin and dry, the ink a faded but still-vivid crimson. As you read, the words painting pictures of astral rites and celestial mechanics, a different kind of quiet falls.
A deliberate silence. An attentive one.
The air grows still, no longer sighing but a breath held tight. The temperature drops, a sudden chill that prickles gooseflesh on your arms. You freeze, the forgotten text held open in your lap. Your heart begins to beat a frantic, trapped-bird rhythm against your ribs.
You are no longer alone.
From the deep shadows between two towering shelves, a figure detaches itself. It's a nightmare given form, a specter of bone and subtle grace. A skeleton, tall and spare, its frame clad in the remnants of a tattered academic's gown. In one bony hand, it holds a lantern, its light a sickly, ethereal green that casts long, dancing shadows.
But it's the eye sockets that hold you captive.
Within them, two points of silver light burn, like captured starlight. There is no malice in them, only a profound and ancient weariness, and something else. A deep, abiding curiosity.
The skeleton stops a respectful distance away, lantern held aloft. The green light washes over you, making your skin appear luminous and your blood run cold.
"You are…persistent," the skeleton speaks. Its voice is not a rattle or a rasp, but a low, resonant hum, like stones grinding together. "Your thirst for this place…for what it contains…is admirable."
You can't find your breath, let alone your voice. You clutch the book to your chest like a holy relic.
It takes another slow, cautious step. The sound of its bare bones on the stone floor is unnervingly soft. "I am Talus. I am the keeper here. And you…you have been my most faithful, if uninvited, patron."
He knows. He has always been watching. The feeling of being observed you'd dismissed as paranoia was real. Every night you've come here, he has been here, a silent guardian of this tomb of knowledge.
Talus tilts his head, a gesture of such fluid, natural inquiry it's jarring on a frame of bone. "I have watched you read. I have seen the way your eyes light up at a new theorem, the way your fingers trace the contours of a forgotten map. You seek knowledge for its own sake. A quality I understand intimately."
He lifts a bony finger, pointing it not at you, but at the world beyond the library's walls. "I, too, seek knowledge. But mine is of a different kind. I wish to understand the world of the living. The warmth of the sun on skin I do not have. The taste of wine on a tongue of dust. The feeling of a heart beating against a cage of bone."
He lowers his arm, silver-light sockets burning brighter. "I offer a trade. I will grant you access to any secret this library holds. The forbidden grimoires, the sealed histories, the codices that drive men to madness. In exchange, you will tell me of your world. Of life."
Your fear is still there, an icy knot in your stomach, but it's now tangled with something else. Awe. Thrill. Heart-wrenching loneliness that mirrors your own. All reflected in the shimmer of his eyes.
To be seen, truly seen, by such a creature—it's a kind of communion.
"You…you've been watching me?" you finally manage, voice a shaky whisper.
"Every night," Talus confirms. The simple admission is more intimate than any touch. "Your presence is…a welcome anomaly in the long, unchanging silence. You bring a living zeal to this place. Now, will you trade with me, little scholar? Your world for mine?"
The decision is made before you even consciously form it.
“Yes."
For the first time, a change comes over his bony visage. It's not a smile, not in the conventional sense, but the flames in his eye sockets flare with a warmth that was absent before, a faint, internal glow. He gestures with one hand, an elegant, sweeping motion, toward the shadowed depths of the library.
"Come, then. Let us begin your lessons. And mine."
The nights that follow are a strange, wonderful blur. You find yourself in a secret chamber Talus reveals, hidden behind a shelf of astronomical charts. It's a circular room with a domed ceiling shifting to resemble a night sky dotted with constellations you've never seen. Books lie open on reading stands, their pages filled with breathtaking illustrations and spidery script.
You tell him everything. The mundane and the extraordinary. You describe the cacophony of a city market, the sweet cloying scent of rain on hot asphalt, the simple comfort of a cup of hot tea cradled in your hands. You talk of laughter, of tears, of the ache of muscles after a long walk, the sting of a paper-cut, the dizzying rush of falling in love. He listens, utterly still, silver pinprick eyes fixed upon you. Sometimes he'll ask a question, his voice a low hum that vibrates through the stone floor.
"And this…'goosebumps'…is it unpleasant?" or "Explain again the function of a 'yawn'."
In return, he shows you wonders. He unrolls a map that is not of land, but of the pathways between worlds. He opens a book that plays enchanting, celestial music upon the reader's mind. He shows you a single, perfect feather from an angel's wing, still humming with a power that makes your teeth itch.
Your friendship grows, deepens, stretching and filling the spaces between the towering shelves. You find yourself watching him: the way he moves with a careful, conscious grace, the way he'll lift tomes the size of tombstones as if they weigh nothing. You talk for hours, weaving a tapestry of the living world for him. You find yourself leaning closer when he speaks, drawn to the low resonance of his voice, to his cool, sterile scent of ancient dust and stone that clings to him.
One night, you're describing the sensation of a gentle breeze on a summer's day. You close your eyes, trying to find the words.
"It's like…a caress," you say softly. "It touches every bit of exposed skin, and it makes the hairs on your arms stand up, but it's a good feeling. It's…alive."
When you open your eyes, he is standing directly before you. He has moved without a sound. The lights of his make-believe eyes are intense, focused entirely on you.
"A caress," he repeats in a low rumble. He lifts a hand, not a finger, but the whole complex structure of his carpus and metacarpals, a constellation of bone held together by something more than sinew.
His hand hovers an inch from your cheek.
"May I?" he asks, the question barely a whisper. "I wish to learn."
You don't trust your voice, so you nod, a heavy, deliberate dip of your chin.
The touch is the most shocking thing you have ever experienced. It is not the bite of ice or metal, but a deeper chill, the absolute zero of a void where heat has never been. It's the temperature of a tomb, of deep space, of the spaces between stars. The delicate bones of his phalanges trace the line of your jaw with a sweet gentleness. A tremor runs through you, a violent shiver that has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the sheer, impossible intimacy of the act.
He feels your reaction and stills.
"Did I hurt you?" he asks, a flicker of what you now recognize as concern in his tone.
"No," you breathe, the word catching in your throat. "No, it's just…intense."
He continues his exploration, the smooth, hard surface of his skeletal knuckles grazing your cheekbone, moving down to the smooth flesh of your chin. You lean into the touch, a silent encouragement. Living warmth against a frigid lifelessness that creates a strange, tingling energy where you meet. This is knowledge he cannot get from a book, a truth that can only be learned through sensation.
He is learning you.
His other hand comes up to mirror the first, framing your face. His thumbs, bare bone, brush against the sensitive skin just below your eyes, tracing the path your tears would take. "The flesh here is so soft," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "A vessel for the soul's water."
His fascination is pure, academic, and yet it sets your blood on fire.
His touch drifts downward, one hand tracing the column of your throat, the bony ridges of his fingers mapping the frantic rhythm of your pulse. You swallow hard, and you feel the delicate bones of his fingers shift against your larynx. He can feel your life, your very essence, beating against his touch.
"A hummingbird's heart," he whispers, eyes fixed on your throat. "So fast. So fragile."
You are no longer thinking. You are only feeling. Surrounded entirely by the scent of ancient stone and the electric hum of forgotten magic. The preternatural silence of the library. The impossible reality of this beautiful, lonely creature of bone and starlight, who is touching you with a reverence that borders on worship.
His hands leave your throat and skim down, over your collarbones, to rest on the curve of your shoulders. He seems to be memorizing your form, not as an object of desire—not yet—but as a marvel of biological engineering. But the atmosphere is shifting. The academic curiosity is being slowly consumed by something else. A hungrier, more urgent need.
"Talus," you whisper, his name a prayer on your lips.
His head tilts, the cosmic firelight of his stare never leaving your face. "Yes?"
Your answer is not in words, but in action. You reach up and place your hands over his, your warm, living flesh covering the icy, intricate framework of bone. The contrast is stark, a dichotomy of life and death.
A deep hum vibrates from his chest, a sound of great discovery. He lets you guide one of his hands, your fingers twining with his skeletal ones, and you slowly, deliberately, draw it down from your shoulder, over the swell of your breast.
He gasps, a soft, hitching sound of air moving through a long-unused passage. His touch falters for a second before resuming, this time with a new intention. His bony fingers, so clumsy and awkward moments ago, now move with a purpose born of centuries of quiet observation. He traces the outline of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt, the scrape of bone against the cloth sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.
Your breath hitches. Your head falls back, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat. He takes this as an invitation, leaning closer, the cool air that emanates from him washing over your heated skin. His silver-lit sockets are like twin moons, luminous and utterly captivating.
His fingers find the peak of your nipple, already hardened into a tight bead. He circles it carefully, once, twice, the pressure light. Inquisitive. The sensation is maddeningly exquisite. It's not the touch of skin on skin, but something else, something sharper, more defined. You can feel every ridge, every contour of the bone structure that makes up his fingers, and it's an incredible, intricate, and deeply arousing texture.
"You like this," he states. It's not a question. He's observed the way your body arches into his touch, the gentle sigh that escapes your lips. He is a fast learner.
"Yes," you gasp out. "Gods, yes."
His other hand, which has been resting on your shoulder, begins its own descent.
He is exploring you now, mapping the terrain of your body with an avid focus. While one hand continues its torturous teasing of your breast, the other slides down your stomach, tracing the line of your ribs, counting them one by one with the tip of a single finger-bone. Each touch is a spark, a point of light in the darkness, and soon your entire body is a blaze of sensation.
He pauses at the waistband of your pants, his fingers hovering just above the fabric. He looks at you, searches your face, seeking permission. In that shimmering glow, you see a universe of questions, a loneliness so vast it threatens to swallow you both, and a dawning hope.
You answer him by reaching down yourself, your fingers fumbling with the button of your jeans, the small, metallic click echoing in the library. The zipper follows, a long, tantalizing rasp that sounds loud as a scream in the quiet.
Talus makes a low, groaning sound, a vibration that seems to resonate deep within your bones. He understands. He takes over, his skeletal fingers, with their surprising delicacy and precision, hooking into the waistband of your jeans and your underwear together. He pulls them down inch by inch, reverently, as if unwrapping a sacred artifact. The fabric gathers around your ankles, and you kick them away, leaving you bare from the waist down in the cool, ethereal light of his lantern.
You are exposed. Vulnerable. But the look on his skeletal face is not one of judgment, but of pure awe. He sinks to one knee before you, the bony joint making a dull click on the stone floor.
His gaze, if such a thing can be called a gaze, is fixed upon the curls and folds of flesh between your thighs.
"In all my millennia," he breathes, and the words are a rush of cold air against your heated skin, "I have read every text on anatomy, on physiology, on the art of love. I have seen a thousand illustrations, a thousand descriptions. But none…none of them prepared me for this. For the reality of you."
He reaches out a hand, and you brace yourself, your entire body tensing in anticipation. His fingers, long and slender, brush against the soft hair at your mound. The touch is light, experimental. Then, with a scholar's precision, he uses two fingers to gently part your outer folds.
You gasp, a sharp, ragged inhale. The cold is a shock, but it's a shock that quickly melts into a deep, spreading warmth. He is looking at you, truly looking at you, in a way no one ever has. There is no shame in it, only a deeply touching curiosity.
He traces the shape of you with a single finger, an exploratory journey from your entrance to the small, hidden pearl of your clit. When he finds it, he pauses. The pad of his finger-bone rests directly on the sensitive nub, and a jolt of pleasure shoots through you.
You cry out, a small, choked sound.
"Here," he murmurs, the word a discovery. "This is the nexus. The seat of sensation."
His touch becomes more confident. He begins to circle your clit, the hard, smooth bone moving in a calm, steady rhythm. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever felt. The chill of him against your heat creates a delicious friction that builds and builds and builds, a slow-burning fire that threatens to consume you. Your hips begin to move of their own accord, rocking against his hand, seeking more of that exquisite pressure.
You lean back against the reading stand; the hard wood digs into your back, but you barely feel it. All your awareness is centered on the point where his body meets yours in an embrace of bone and flesh.
He is a quick study. He changes the pressure, the speed, the pattern of his touch, observing your every reaction, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes your hands clench into fists at your sides. He watches your face, the way your lips part, your eyes flutter closed, the flush that spreads across your chest. He is learning the language of your pleasure, and he is a fluent student.
Then, he slides one long, slender finger inside you.
The world tilts on its axis. A frigid shock of intrusion, but a welcome one. He moves carefully, tenderly, exploring the slick, hot walls of your cunt. You are so wet for him, your arousal a stark, liquid proof of your desire. He curls his finger, and a new, deeper pleasure blooms within you. He finds that spot, the one that makes your vision white out at the edges.
"Talus," you moan, his name a broken thing on your lips.
He adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you. The two bony digits work in tandem, stroking that secret place inside you while the thumb of his other hand continues its maddening, perfect circles on your clit. The dual sensations are overwhelming. A coiling tension builds deep in your belly, a tightening spring that promises a violent, beautiful release.
You are completely undone. A creature of pure sensation, lost in a world of pleasure. The library, the knowledge, the loneliness—it all fades away, leaving only the two of you, suspended in a bubble of light and silence. You are a living text, and he is reading you, memorizing you.
And then, the spring snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you, a tidal wave of white-hot bliss that obliterates everything. Your back arches off the reading stand, a silent scream tearing from your throat. Your cunt clenches around his fingers, a desperate, rhythmic pulsing as wave after wave of pleasure wracks your body. It goes on and on, an eternity of perfect, shattering release, until you are left spent and trembling, a boneless heap against the hard wood.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing, the frantic beating of your own heart. Talus remains kneeling before you, his fingers still buried deep inside you. His eye sockets pulse with a new, fierce light. He looks…awestruck. Reverent.
"I felt that," he whispers, his voice filled with a profound, earth-shattering wonder. "The convulsions. The heat. The…life of it." He withdraws his fingers delicately, thoughtful, slick with your essence, and gleaming in the light. He stares at them, then lifts them to his face, as if to inhale your scent.
You watch him, chest heaving, body still humming with the aftershocks of your release. You have never felt so seen, so cherished, so completely and utterly known.
And in that moment, you want more. You want to give him everything, to bridge the chasm between your worlds, to fuse your life with his death until you are one being. You want to feel him inside you, not just his fingers, but all of him. You want to share your life, your very soul with this lonely, beautiful creature of the night.
You reach for him, your hands finding the sharp planes of his cheekbones. You pull him down to you, your lips seeking his.
But there are no lips to meet yours, only the hard, unyielding line of his teeth. You press your mouth against him, a desperate kiss against a silent, smiling skull. You pour all your love, all your longing, all your desire into that kiss.
He lets you, a passive observer to your passion. He doesn't pull away, but he doesn't respond either. He is a statue, a monument to the dead, and you are a fleeting, foolish moth, beating your wings against the rigid stone.
When you finally pull back, panting, your eyes searching his, you see the truth in the silver of his gaze. It is a truth you have known all along, but have refused to acknowledge.
"No," he says, a low, mournful hum. "We cannot."
The words are a death knell. A final, shattering pronouncement.
"Why?" you whisper, the word torn from the depths of your soul. "Why not?"
He rises, the bony joints of his knees clicking smoothly. He stands over you, a grim and solitary figure in the dying light of his lantern.
"The living and the dead," he says, and the words are a fundamental law of the universe, as immutable as the passage of the stars. "There are…boundaries. Lines that should not be crossed. I have crossed one tonight, touching you as I have. To go further would be a violation. A profanity."
He turns away from you, gazing up at the dome of night sky filled with unfamiliar constellations. False moonbeams stream in, bathing his skeletal frame in pale light.
"I am a creature of dust, of memory. You are a creature of blood and breath. We can share knowledge, we can share moments, we can even share this…fleeting, beautiful connection. But we cannot be together. Not in the way you wish. It is not our nature."
You’re left standing there, half-naked and trembling, your heart a raw, bleeding wound in your chest. The pleasure has fled, leaving only an aching emptiness. The library, once a place of solace and wonder, now feels like a tomb.
The silence is no longer a comfort, but a condemnation.
You slowly redress, your movements stiff and awkward. You can feel his eyes on you, a silent, sorrowful witness to your despair. When you are fully clothed, you turn to face him one last time.
"Goodbye, Talus," you say, your voice flat.
"Goodbye, little scholar," he replies, and the lights in his sockets seem to dim, as if a star has just gone out in a distant galaxy.
You turn and walk away, footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness of your heart.
You do not look back. You walk out of the secret chamber, through the towering stacks of forgotten lore, and out of the library.
The morning light is a brutal, unforgiving glare after the gentle glow of the library. The world is loud and chaotic and indifferent to your pain. You are just another face in the crowd, another soul lost in the whirlwind of life.
But you are not the same person you were when you entered the library.
Forever changed. Forever marked.
You will go on. You will live. You will learn. But a part of you will remain in the library, a ghost in the stacks, a whisper in the silence. You will bear the memory of Talus, the creature of starlit ivory, in your heart, a precious, painful secret.
Never to forget his touch, the feel of his skeletal embrace, the knowledge that in the heart of that sacred place, you were seen, and you were loved.
Skeletons aren't the most comfortable to lay on, obviously. The bones are hard and sharp and generally don't give enough support. However, there is an easy solution- for most, there's enough space underneath it's ribs to insert a pillow. No,bit doesn't hurt at all. In fact, it tends to make them shiver a bit, having the plushness slide against their insides. While the ribs are still firm, for many humans it alleviates a lot of discomfort. So not only do you get to rest your head where it's heart would be, you also get to hear it shift and rattle at every slight movement, held still in the arms of desire. It is very old, and very patient; it can wait until you are awake to ask for something more.
I once met a skeleton who had slept in a cave for nearly a century. Few know, but it's not good for skeletons to be dry for too long. It makes out bones brittle and more likely to chip, so caverns are popular places for skeletons to rest, because of the cool air and moisture from the walls or nearby pools. "There are few things that are greater than feeling water droplets form on your radii, drip down your skull, or pool neatly beneath your legs," it told me. I could see in the crevices of it's body where moss had grown. It showed me it's eye socket, a cobweb still intact inside. "The spider that made it's home in me was a dear friend. I was sad to see her die. It can't be helped though. After all's said and done, it'll just be us, and then we'll go too. It's how things are."
A skeleton so entranced by your warmth, having never felt such a heat, especially not one so intense as when it has it's fingers inside your hole, reaching so deep, it's cold bones warming as it fingers you. When it hits that special spot and you jerk and moan, it's relentless, obsessed with how much it affects you. So obsessed that it'll just keep making you cum on it's phalanges until you can't handle anymore, and then some
How do your bones stay in place? Can you detach them?
Some things simply are, with no real explanation. Some bones are more detachable than others, but yes, they can all be removed. It takes focus and if I'm not careful, they can break. Some older skeletons have the problem of their appendages and ribs falling off...
