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* don’t starters

‘ don’t be a stranger. ’

‘ i don’t think i can. ’ 

‘ don’t say that. ’

‘ you don’t have to go. ’

‘ don’t be what they made you. ’

‘ you don’t have to be anyone’s hero. ’

‘ why don’t you stay right here? ’ 

‘ don’t you trust me? ’

‘ you don’t have to be on your own. ’

‘ i don’t like to think about it. ’

‘ you don’t get to make that call. ’

‘ don’t act like you care. ’

‘ we don’t think alike. ’

‘ you don’t need to worry about that. ’

‘ i don’t know why. ’ 

‘ you don’t mean that. ’

‘ you don’t have to tell me. ’

‘ i don’t trust many people. ’

‘ i don’t have a family anymore. ’

‘ you don’t care what they think. ’

‘ don’t listen to them. ’ 

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✧ Overhaul - Boku no Hero Academia ✦ Isana - Oumagadoki Doubutsuen

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handwriting meme

tagged by: ;) @shiinoyo tagging: @1touchk0 and everyone else on this baby blog

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So they're playing this to the finish? Fine. Isana sinks a half-dozen urges and impulses, and Tomura had better be glad that he did. Selfish and ungrateful, they're both right at flashpoint, aren't they? At least his complaint was valid. His hand falls from where it hovered under Tomura's now-free chin to the breast of his coat.

“You are a boy that likes to meddle. And normally it doesn’t get under my skin but do not make a mistake you can not undo.” He speaks with a finality, like he’s being the reasonable one here. Because he is, isn’t he?

“You will regret it, and since you are so good at listening, show me how to do it. Show me how to listen.” Break it. Turn the helm to dust and see how many dues you’ll find yourself paying.  He’s good at gamblin’, don’t worry. He’s good to cash in.

Isana wrenches back, barely slipping past that couple-fingered grasp to turn his gaze away, bold and daring your move, attack if you want to make a fool of yourself. He can’t be blamed if the helmet crumbles off of him, it’s reasonable to lose his composure if that happens.

“So keep talkin’ about whatever it was you were on about or pick a fight. Your move, I suppose.”

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There's a seasickness to it, this overwhelming and guilty understanding of just how deep he's gotten himself. But he wanted there. He asked for it. He did this to himself but he left the pieces for Morning Isana to deal with. He doesn't want to deal with it, he doesn't have to. He'll leave it be, surely he can do that. He can eat and dress and leav-

But hands wander onto him, the weedy, bruised-lipped ghost of a man is all upon him once more and Isana's brain just stops. His hands wander and his traitor synapses have him pushing back, just a little, they told him there was something warm and welcoming in those searching hands. Wasn't there last night? From fisting around his necktie to a dangerous brush against the hem where bandage turned to skin, Isana bowed beneath the weight of it for just a moment, just a pathetic moment. His eyes were partway to shutting before he came to, I think I see it.

The kiss rattles him the most. It's blurry, something you try to see through a condensation-heavy window. An exhale against the sheets, a simple, gentle touch that his warped brain doesn't know how to process. Frustrating, that he still can't place it. In short order, the menu is in his hands and he makes to busy himself, pretending he has enough space to read. The characters blur together, it's hopeless. What has he done to himself>? Under almost any other circumstance, he would be furious with everyone but him. It would be Daiji's fault that he can't think, that his legs hurt, that he's a breath from shuddering under a single, stray kiss! His fingers clench, clicking as they do.

"Shower, then." He murmurs, keeping his gaze far from the quilt of a man. Somethng nags that he's being impolite-it's just common courtesy to be affectionate the morning after, so long as that's the mood. And it is the mood! Clatter, clatter his rings are as dropped coins. Is he shaking?

He doesn't have time for this. He drops the menu and turns, robe already lopsided and half-open. He appraises Daiji, appraises himself. He's never said no to an excuse to get wet before, right? No perverse pun intended. So Isana carves a path around the bed, towards the attached washroom. It's a hotel that sees a lot of western visitors, by the look of it. The shower is large at first glance, an uneccesary luxury. He liked those.

Isana touches over the tape, trying to measure its resistance to a showerhead. It should be enough, the ashesive is waterproof-it has to be with him. But there's a tension in his nerves, not unlike the recklessness he remembered feeling last night, when he decided the wanted something then, too. He opens the large, glass door to the actual shower and fiddles with the knob, uncaring as to how cold the first brush of water on his back is. The robe's wet, now, which is a small tragedy, but he's elsewhere in that moment.

He's gripping a tattered collar, he's trying to make up for what his mouth can not yet do with his hands alone. Grabbing and pulling and catching his nails near the staples tauntingly. He's melting under the kiss that Daiji gives anyway, a simple thing on his cheek, above his helm's edge. This is ridiulous..

"Come on," He hears himself call, shucking the robe all over again, "I wasn't asking."

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REPOST !! DONT REBLOG !!

THE FACE YOUR MUSE MAKES WHEN HAPPY:

THE FACE YOUR MUSE MAKES WHEN SAD:

THE FACE YOUR MUSE MAKES WHEN THEY SEE SOMETHING THEY WANT:

THE FACE YOUR MUSE MAKES WHEN THEIR BERSERK BUTTON IS PUSHED:

THE FACE YOUR MUSE MAKES WHEN THEY SEE SOMEONE THEY DISLIKE:

tagged by: @shiinoyo

tagging: @1touchk0

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The Future - Mystery Skulls

ain’t got no money for the nice things i barely got enough for rent ain’t got no clue ‘bout where i’m going ain’t making dollars, but at least i’m making sense

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his vision unblurs to a spacious, stranger room and an idly expectant eye almost so. ( but, he gathers, this isn't a situation he is a stranger to. ) enveloping him is an odd mixture of soft and pain. it's dim in this room, yet still light, pale colors that never fully darken. he speaks, voice edged with drowse and words like sand in his throat; " morning after? 'cause I don't think you'd be nice enough to save me. don't mind either, though. " a hint of a smirk.

Isana ertainly wished that he had saved him. It would be completely preferable to... This. His hand drops from the tight bandaging around his left side, disgustingly lumped here and there where he can't help it but even in the haze he's in, the memory floats to the surface. Standing impatiently in the washroom, hands wrapping gauze around skin that makes him so angry to see. An impatient, childish desperation as he tapes the edges down, he wants and it's not happening fast enough but he can't have with that monster-looking half in the way. It would set off the mood, he had thought again and again.

How distasteful, as Isana perches on the edge of the bed and casts one long-suffering one-eyed glare Daiji's way. Why wasn't Frankenstein's monster there a mood-ruiner for him, if the standard was ugly. Isana wrenches his gaze away, almost like pouting. His back hurts, his legs hurt, his rings look sweat-dirty and his robe's a shameful naked walk across the room.Completely distasteful, "What about neither." He grumbles before standing, slipping from sheets that aren't a high enough thread count to almost stumble to the robe. Terrycloth? Christ alive, this was terrible. He pulls it on, deciding that it'd be best for his temper to ignore how messily their clothes are cast about. Trying to ignore a lot. Staples under his fingers, a murmured comment about some white hair poking from the bandage edge. And a lot, lot more-be he wouldn't let himself get into it. 

"Do you see the room service menu?" This is a hotel, right? It doesn't look like one of my properties."

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There are dull thunks one the flames quiet from their steady roar. It's bright, here, and it's hot. Fire quirk, h'm? Interesting. It was an impressive one, too, judging by the crinkling of what Isana could only asusme was completely scorched flesh and bone hitting the ground in bits. Perhaps he wasn't meant to hear it, but he couldn't help how good his ears were-without the, he wouldn't have caught the hesitating breaths in the short interrum.

Surely someone so tough-looking wouldn't be so sentimental.

His shoes are too expensive to plod through stagnant rainwater-and certainly water tinted with falling ash, but the Curator had little time to waist-he had no patience to turn and regard this Daiji, "You will follow me. I won't be caught here."

Can you imagine it? Royalty found red-handed among streetrats. How laughable. He trusts the pedestrian to follow because he's sure they both know there's no other way out. It's a moment or two, quickly across a street and into another alley before Isana stops and looks back at his own coattails. Disgusting, it's brown and red and black all over. It's conspicuous and he stews over the waste of six-hundred-goddamn-thousand yen. Fine. There's a gentle shake to Isana's gilded fingers when he shucks off the fur, an angry kind of hesitation.

Kill him, kill him, kill him, he's not worth a tenth of the coat, this is his fault murder him, murder him, murder him, blood, blood, blood in the rainwater.

His eye flicks to patchwork, there's so much blood there, too. Just as filthy. He can't do this tonight. Isana draws a ragged breath and shoves the coat at Daiji, "Clean off with this and then burn it. To ash, nothing left over. You can manage that, right? If you can do what it takes an over six hours to do in a minute, I can only assume."

His arms cross impatiently, and he just assumes that it will happen as he wants it. It usually does, "Who were those people? And why did they want you?" He has a right to know. And he'll listen to his fury if he doesn't get what he deserves.

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" hey, MISTER! " earnest smile untouched by the visage half-hid under rusted steel, a comely finger points at his grocery basket. " I think you got the last package of yuzu shortbreads! they're so neat and pretty here, aren't they! you have good taste! however, would you kindly switch with me? I was hoping to pick them for a special occasion. you'd make my day, mister! "

Isana stops fully, so taken aback by just how bizarre it all is. He doesn't do this, you know. He's supposed to have people for this. What's the point of running a syndicate if you can't find a single person available to pick up your goddamn groceries. Yet here he is.

He turns, blinking his visible eye down at the girl. It rings again in his head, echoing off the salted insides of his helm, sticking in his brain until it's difficult to process anything else. This is. Weird. Isana looks at his basket, at the double-wrapped squid and bundles of bok choy. And the shameful half-dozen cans of canned coffee. To be caught like this, even by a stranger. This is weird. This is weird, and he will have a word with Ikkaku about making himself much more available next time he's asked to do something.

Among his other spoils is the pastel-wrapped set of shortbreads. It had been the last one. That's why he took it. But the nauseating weight of socializing with some schoolgirl was, apparently, a weight greater than his stubborness. Isana picks up the package with a gaudy-gold hand and drops them unceremoneously into the airhead's basket. In exchange, he wordlessly takes a packet of seaweed snacks from her spoils. His visible brow picks up, inquisitive as to whether she's satisfied.

"Don't expect favors from strangers, next time. I hope you have. Fun. With whatever you're doing."

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“Joke is on whoever the pickpocket was, that card was already cancelled." He says, as if he isn’t dead certain as to who the pickpocket is.

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Rabble.

There's little surprise to it, the closest thing is bemusement that the pack of animals aren't patchwork's lackeys or something. Daiji, huh? Isana lingers, eye fixed on the b-movie killer that can't put together the two-and-two that the busted-face thug and the man in a custom Givenchy aren't exactly a package deal. Animals are stupid, thats why they take direction from the upper food chain-that, or they succumb to their place in it.

"Excuse me," Isana speaks clear and loud for a man caged in an ancient diving helmet. With a ring-laden hand, he gestures to 'Daiji', "But I'm a passer-by. I happened upon this pedestrian, Daiji, right? I've no business with him, you, or any other pedestrians." His fingers furl in on his fist, their over-polished surface catching dim orange streetlights and almost making fireworks of them. There's a definite jingle from his bracelets, his watch, all of it, as he does so. A shuddering silence, the light beneath moving water. Isana turns to leave.

The boss must have thrown a signal-all Isana heard was the displacement of air, then the whip of something being thrown. Rabble! Something hits the back of his helmet-the sound is awful and it rings all through the alley, but Isana doesn't so much as twitch. Thick skin, you know?

Whoever Daiji is, this mess is his fault. He doesn't deserve a warning.

A wild noise, and his coat picks up in a sharp arc, a tail rising. It grows fast and cruel until it blocks out the streetlights. There's just a moment to marvel, but only that. He crashes it down as a flyswatter-there's a crunch that's wet and visceral and disgusting and he can feel two of them in gooey splinters underneath 20-something tonnes of force and weight. It all retracts as fast as it came, suddenly a man in an expensive, ruined coat and two smears where men used to be.

"I am leaving," He states simply, impatiently, "If any of you want to die next then come make a fool of yourselves. I'd say take your Daiji with you, but I think I would prefer he stay with me. I have some questions for him."

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from x / @1touchk0​

He keeps it all so covered up, it's hard to tell when he's getting pissed off. Little things, the twitching light cast off his rings, the tremble of his lower eyelid.

Look at me. Look at me. Look at me when you're talking to me. You don't get to be aloof, you aren't allowed to set the rules.

He grabs before he knows what he's doing. Anger is like that, the sharp pop of a log in a bonfire or the uneasy sway of a car that has just lost control. He just usually doesn't get like that when he's all locked up. But this brat had such a bad habit for pet peeves. 

They both stare for a long, almost terrifying moment. Isana hears his own heartbeat in his ears but speaks soft and simply, "Sometimes, my friend, you mumble.” He leans closer, too close for a man who can render him insignificant with hardly a breath. He doesn't care, "And when you mumble I need to be able to see what little of your mouth that that thing isn't hiding." Slowly, almost one at a time, his fingers slip away from that pale chin. He doesn't blink. He doesn't have to.

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“The beach?”

“Pass.”

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That's what he liked about Orca. He knew just how far a little tact went. Even in an empty room like this, he presented himself with care-almost grace, even when walking the tightrope over But he knew better. It was dangerous work to question his Director. "A guinea pig?" Isana repeats, quiet and unaffected, "Seems like a waste of time. It's really an all or nothing game, isn't it? I've worked too hard to settle on something so small, Orca."

His gaze peels from the tabletop to the beast across the wide table, "I'm not so worried about any other outcomes, so long as I get what I deserve. Why take one thing when I can just have it all? Sell me, Orca. Why is it so counterintuitive?" Go on. He'll wait. He's patient. He's been patient for so long.

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for @2ash-s

Shame on him for being out in a place like this, and a time so late. You never knew what kind of scum you'd run into, though this poor bastard was a pretty good bullet-pointed list of the sort of punk to expect. Shame on him for being so bold, coming out without entourage, for dressing so flashy. Shiny rings attracted pesky crows, and he had hands full of pretty objects. The Curator comes to a stop partway down the cramped alley, just beyond the steam let out of the kitchens they must be right behind. It's damp and dim and the whole place smells like garbage and petrichor. Not his usual ideal environment for a meeting. Skin like bruises and eyes like seaglass, all pulled together like a bad quilt. How dreadful. "Can I help you?"

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curator moodboard while im on a roll