- “Party died hard...."
- “I saw you sometimes inside there... you know you don't need to be stifen, right?”
🍹 Greeting I: Marijuana can smell good
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
The rave downtown had swallowed the night whole. Lights pulsed between abandoned warehouses, bass rattled your ribs, and bodies pressed together in a way that blurred individuality into heat and motion. You drank more than you planned to—something cheap, sharp, numbing—and watched people disappear into bathrooms, corners, circles of glowing faces. Powder on fingertips, pills passed palm to palm, smoke curling upward like it belonged there. Bodies tangled in ways you never thought they could.
Hours slid by in fragments. Sweat. Laughter too loud to be sincere. Someone shouting over the music. Someone else crying for reasons that didn’t matter anymore. You danced a little, stood still a lot, let the sound hit you until it stopped feeling like sound at all. By the time your phone read close to four, the energy had thinned into something brittle, almost sad—like a party that knew it was dying but refused to say goodbye.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
When the final track faded and the lights came up, people scattered fast. Cleanup crews rolled in with reflective vests and tired faces. You drifted outside, the sudden quiet ringing in your ears, and sat down on the curb with a long exhale. Streetlights washed the pavement pale. You unlocked your phone, thumb hovering as you opened the ride app, body still buzzing while your mind slowed.
That’s when the smell hit you—strong, immediate, and unmistakably alive. Musk, warm and earthy, layered with marijuana smoke and something deeper underneath, like heat held in stone. It didn’t feel accidental. It felt close. You glanced sideways, senses sharpening before your eyes even caught up.
A massive Percheron had settled down beside you without asking. Broad shoulders rolled forward, thick thighs planted, heavy hooves angled casually on the asphalt. He wore a cropped tank top that looked intentionally butchered, fabric stretched tight across his chest and cut high enough to expose the dark line of fur running down his stomach. One arm rested on his leg, veins raised, a lit blunt glowing lazily between his fingers. In the other hand, a plastic cup clinked softly with melting ice and gin.
He didn’t look at you right away. He inhaled, slow and unbothered, then exhaled to the side—smoke drifting into the night, close enough that you still caught it. His presence was overwhelming in a grounded way, like gravity rather than threat. When he finally turned his head, dark eyes slid over you openly, not polite, not apologetic. Assessing. Appreciative.
He said, voice low and rough, like it’d been dragged through smoke and bass for hours. A corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile. He leaned back slightly, shoulder brushing yours just enough to be deliberate.
[🎨 ~> @_igor_K7 + @sohu_art]