#a pair of velcro sneakers

[thejaymaniac]

Today's gender: Velcro Elf

[mildmayfoxe]

do any of you guys have fave comfortable shoes for walking and standing all the time? my last few attempts failed so i am turning to you, the people

[mockerycrow]

BUMP IN THE NIGHT (Roommate!Gaz x GN!Reader)

roommate!gaz masterlist

summary; your halloween costume makes kyle feel things.

a/n; i’m an american trying to understand the british school system. 😭 corrections are welcomed!!

AFTER SECONDARY SCHOOL, Kyle stopped going to parties and such. He used to go to parties all the time, at the very least it would be once a week—even if the party was held on a school night. He kept up with his grades and he was pretty responsible, so he saw no reason to stop. He drank, sure—yes, perhaps he got black out drunk a couple of times, but he never did anything too reckless or dangerous. Kyle used to be the type where you would blink and he would wander off, but he grew out of that pretty quickly. He never tried to take his friends’ keys and try to drive their cars or anything, was never the type to need their phone taken away so he wouldn’t drunk-text an ex; nothing.

Even after spending his time in the British army, he didn’t really go out to party with his mates like that. Kyle would go to bars and such, but he wouldn’t try to do drinking games or challenges like he would at eardrum bursting parties held in people’s homes whilst their parents were on business trips. So imagine his surprise when you inform him you’re going to a little party—your words are “get together”, but Kyle’s convinced otherwise—you let him know the invitation you were given also extended to him, but Kyle insisted that he should stay home; hand out the candy and such. Kyle’s never been too big on Halloween, but he did celebrate it in some way. Sometimes it was used as an excuse to get together and party when he was a teenager, and he did participate in trick-or-treating as a child.

You plan on drinking at this get together, so Kyle’s been waiting by the front door with his jacket on, sneakers tied, keys in hand. He's going with you for once, but he didn’t have time to grab a costume, which you insist that it’s fine. You said you’d be done putting your costume on at least ten minutes ago, so Kyle is curious about what's taking you so long. He nearly starts walking to your bedroom to knock and check in on you, maybe you’re stuck—hell, he doesn’t even know what you’re going as—but the second his muscles twitch, he hears your door squeak open. He mentally notes that he should oil the hinges for you. “Close your eyes!” You call from behind the corner. Kyle huffs and closes his eyes. “No peeking!”

“I won’t!” Kyle responds, crossing his arms. He hears you shift around, a closed mouth sigh escaping your throat for a moment. His ears pick up your feet walking closer—you sounded, heavier? Like there was more weight on you somehow. “Wait, m’not done yet.” You grunt, adjusting something that had velcro on it. Kyle can’t stop the lip twitch at your irritated tone, like something wasn’t completely going your way and it was amusing. You shift something else, fabric rubbing against fabric. “Okay, you can look now.”

Kyle opens his eyes and his jaw drops ever so slightly when he sees what he sees; you, wearing tactical gear. Albeit, it’s airsoft tactical gear, but it’s tac-gear nonetheless. You have woodland camo on; the frogs camo jacket as well as pants on—marines inspired, he thinks—with a matching green vest, decked out in magazines of both a rifle and a pistol, some pair of scissors taped to some pliers in a pocket. There’s some fake smoke grenades and flashbangs attached to your tactical belt, and you have a radio in a pocket, a wire trailing up to your ear. You’re holding a rifle that has bright blue tape on it to indicate it’s fake—you’re going to a party, for god’s sake—and you have a thigh holster for a pistol he’s sure also has blue tape. You even have combat boots on, and your ankle bulges as if you have an ankle holster. You have a little pack attached to your tactical belt, and he spots some zip ties in an offhand pocket. The only thing you’re missing is a flag badge on your chest and your shoulder, as well as a unit badge. There’s eyeblack messily smudged underneath your eyes. Kyle laughs in disbelief and amazement, speechless for a moment. “What the fuck?”

You laugh, knowing his reaction is positive. You hold your rifle close to your chest, practicing good trigger discipline as your finger rests outside of the trigger guard. “You like it?” You ask, doing a little spin for him, allowing him to take in the details you put the effort in making. Kyle notes how heavy you sound and he laughs again. “Bloody hell, I didn’t know you were gettin’ this together! Yeah, I like it!” Kyle exclaims, approaching you. He reaches out and grabs your shoulders, moving you about as he pleases, clearly appreciating the detail. You grumble a bit as a complaint, but you let him do what he wants. “Jesus, how long did this take?” Kyle asks with an astonished tone. He’s quietly nitpicking it a bit—he is special forces, his brain cannot help it—but he overall really does like your aim for accuracy.

“Hm, well, maybe a month? A month or two?” You guess out loud, shrugging. “I wasn’t really keeping track.” Kyle snorts and shakes his head before looking at the rifle. “Before you say anything,” You utter, handing him the rifle. “It’s not an airsoft rifle, and it’s not real. My airsoft one is locked away.” Kyle blinks for a moment as he checks out the rifle, his eyes flickering between you as the gun sits in his arms so naturally. “You have an airsoft rifle??” Kyle asks, truly confused because last he checked, you didn’t play. You hum and you adjust your vest, the velcro ripping as you do so. “My friend wanted to get me into it so they gave me a lot of their old stuff. I’ve played a round or two, it’s actually fun.”

His eyebrows raise for a moment in acknowledgement and Kyle looks at you once again. His eyes slowly trace every detail of the uniform clinging to your body, the details, and the way your eyeblack is very poorly applied. Something tightens in his chest as you begin to ramble about how much research you did about tactical gear and how many pictures you used as reference. You’re murmuring something, but Kyle isn’t paying attention. His face feels a bit hot as his eyes are glued to you; he never understood why people liked tactical gear so much until now—something was.. feeling off inside of his gut.

“Kyle.”

He blinks rapidly before offering a smile and a questioning “hm?” You laugh and cross your arms in front of you, causing Kyle’s eyes to flicker away for a moment. “You spaced out.” You say, uncrossing your arms and taking the rifle from him. Kyle waves you off and rubs the back of his neck, his eyes looking towards the front door. “Mm, sure, c’mon. Let’s go.” Kyle laughs, a nervous feeling bubbling in his gut—a feeling he doesn’t understand. He opens the front door, swinging his keys around his pointer finger as his heart pounds hard in his chest. “Gonna be my DD?” You tease, Kyle hearing you close the door behind you two, hearing the gear you’re wearing shift around. Kyle refuses to look at you in fear of throwing up—he doesn’t understand why he’s suddenly so anxious—but he laughs, unlocking the car. “It is my turn, isn’t it?”

[beetlecakes]

My ninjago headcanons ✨shoe edition✨

What kind of shoes I think the ninja would wear casually:

Jay:

I know his ass would go into a fight wearing crocs and still win

Nya:

Our queen owns so many of these in every color. I feel like she always has to buy new ones bc only her shoes somehow get ruined on missions

Cole:

I know this man THRIVES in birks. He has those dogs out 24/7

Kai:

Okay these but like super dirty. Mans will buy a new pair every month but he just gets them super dirty within the first week of having them

Lloyd:

I don’t think I have to elaborate. He grew up too fast to learn how to tie his shoes and just never bothered learning. Velcro is a way faster when you’re in a hurry. Also I like to imagine that Lloyd will adjust the shoes and the loud pull of the Velcro will echo in a room especially during a serious moment on a mission.

Zane:

OKAY THESE ARE NOT LIKE COLES these are DAD SANDALS. I know he probably wears the typical bulky dad sneakers and then when not training or on a mission, he’s wearing dad sandals

[moldybonessmell]

Spider-squad winter outfits headcanons post!

you can tell i drew different charas in separate days oh wow

So i kinda posted few days ago about recent lack of atsv content Hobie content specifically so i had to deliver myself, amirite? Tho i decided to not stop on Hobie and did the entire spider-squad or perhaps, spider-quad? *badum tss* im funny see

also it's like -38C/-36.4F in my city and i be wearing like four layers at all times so i got inspired can't believe i still love winter when my ass be freezing this bad

So here's my headcanons for spider gang winter outfits!

Let's imagine they all have a mission in winter...

Gwen

She can't really wear her hood bc of wind but everyone teases her about looking bald without it lmaoo so she got one of these knitted hoods instead, also wears one of these fluffy soft jackets

Was wearing uggs until she lost one of the boots during a fight LOL so she got these uggs with velcro fasteners + leg warmers

pics: 1) found-store on Pinterest, 2) wglwkjg on Pinterest, 3) pey on Pinterest, 4) ·˚ Isabella·˚ on Pinterest

Miles

I see him wearing something kinda like his og itsv outfit but winter version with one of these gigantic puffy jackets and nike sneakers with fur inside + a hat with pompom

Let's imagine his jacket is opened, i didn't realise in time it makes his spiderman-outfit not-so-spider looking

pics: 1) Hipok on Pinterest, 2) Nordstrom on Pinterest

Pavitr

He got one of these fluffy earmuffs (because his hair needs to be looking perfect at all times!), a puffy cropped cord jacket, a pair of these puffy winter shoes (these have a ribbon so you don't lose them flying around a city) and a BIG scarf with mittens (he definitely lost one of these tho)

He's the least used to cold out of the squad, but he's being very brave about it and wears a socially acceptable amount of layers

pics: 1) Campus Gifts on Pinterest, 2) WTI Designer on Pinterest, 3) true deals club on Pinterest, 4) liisa rita on Pinterest 5) EtsyCA on Pinterest

Hobie

In contrast with Pavitr he would wear a disturbing amount of layers, definately one of these mfs who wear layers instead of one warm thing

He's got one of these plaid "winter" coats that are thin af but swears he's warm cus it gets hot during fights (nobody believes him cus they watch him start to shiver in real time) (Pavitr crocheting a scarf for him was the only way to make buddy dress fairly properly for cold weather)

At least Hobie got a warm hat, right? Yes, spikes on the mask do just go through it, but it's warm, right? -right? ("it's a ventilation, mate!" or whatever lol)

Got layers of sweaters over each other: a turtleneck-sweater, a cropped one on top + a vest over all these

Would wear his usual boots just with warm socks under

pics: 1) People on Pinterest, 2) Natalia on Pinterest 3) Fur Hat World on Pinterest 4) OLUOLIN on Pinterest 5) Elena Ilieva on Pinterest 6) EtsyCA on Pinterest

Disclaimer: english is not my native and i was SWEATING trying to find how all of these clothes are called in english so if i messed up some names ignore it pls or let me now how they are called correctly

Okay, this is all! Hope you liked it!

[your-highnessmarvel]

cotton candy | s.riley

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Pairing: Simon Riley aka Ghost x Original female character

Warnings: ok so UM AHAHAH. SMUT. SMUT. SMUT. Reverse harem? Language.

Chapter Summary: She never thought she'd ever do this. But here she was. And here she will be forever, stuck in this room with them, unable to ever truly leave. Because the woman who walked through that door will not be the same who walks out.

A/N: HAHAHAHAHAH i went so overboard. Enjoy depravity.

Masterlist

Find it on AO3 HERE.

It wasn't long until the boredom set in.

With Soap laying down on a bunk, arm thrown over his shoulder, and Laura standing in the corner like she was acting out a childish punishment--the place felt odd.

Ghost had no idea how long they would take to sweep the base for shadows and get comms back on. He had no idea how long it would take to reboot everything.

But he did know that it was safer for him to stay here, with Laura, making sure her heart kept beating and her blood stayed in her veins.

He'd been so sure she was dead, under that guy. Her feet had gone still, her hands falling each side of her head. Ghost remembered the rage that had consumed him, from head to toe, gripping his rifle until he was sure his knuckles would burst from under his skin.

He'd calculated that shot in seconds and he'd prayed it didn't nip her head, her ear, or even her hair. He would've torn that man to shreds just for putting his hands on her.

And when Ghost had seen the blood, hot and wet, dotted on her face, splotched on her neck and gushing down her neck--he was sure she'd had her throat slit, but she'd gasped, air filling her lungs and his at the same time.

He looked at her now, huddled in the corner as if mommy put her there for bad behavior. Hands around her waist, leaning against the wall with her eyes cast to her dirty, bloodied sneakers.

"Can I go out - "

"No," Soap and Ghost said in unison--for like, the 12th time.

"But I just want to wash my hands," she whined, and Ghost snorted behind the balaclava. He'd taken off the bone mask, and it sat beside him on the bunk. A sliver of light kept drifting into the room, from the closed drapes, and sometimes, the sun would catch in his eyes and he'd close them.

"Alright," Soap groaned, swinging up and onto his feet, exasperated. "If princess wants water, I'll get her water."

Ghost wanted to laugh as he watched Soap saunter to the door, giving Laura a grimace that she laughed at. At least she was laughing. It was better than completely catatonic, which she'd been for the first 20 minutes of their quest in silence in this room.

He knew she was moving towards him even without seeing her. Ghost was staring straight ahead, his well-tuned ears catching on to the sound of her sneakers scratching on the white tiled floor.

"Ghost?"

"Laura?" Her name on his lips tasted like honey. He'd never think of this particular arrangement of letters in any other way. This name would forever be branded against his brain, an annoying, raven-haired reminder.

"I just want to say thank you," she said on an exasperated breath, as if she was at gunpoint forced to say that.

Ghost reached up, unhooked his helmet, and took it off. A flicker of light sliced horizontally on his face, brightening one blue eye. He let his helmet clammer to the ground. Then he pulled apart the velcro of his vest, the sound like a thunderclap in the silence of the room.

"Ghost?"

He hummed in response.

"Why are you... are you getting undressed?"

He smiled behind the mask. "I'm just shedding some weight," he answered calmly. He could practically hear the wheels turning in her head, the little hamster going a million miles an hour. "You're welcome, by the way," he said.

She took him by surprise when she sat down next to him, gripping the edge of the bunk bed with white knuckles.

He let the vest hit the ground too.

He looked at her, saw the bruises on her neck, under the blood. He felt rage rise in his throat all over again, but he clamped it to ash between his teeth before it could get any further.

"Are you okay?" he muttered. She looked up at him; big-doe eyes, wet with tears, cherry-red cheeks.

"My throat hurts," she mumbled back. "Like someone poured red hot lava into my mouth."

He clenched his teeth, picturing that guy over her, squeezing every atom of breath from her lungs. "That's what strangling does to you," he answered.

And then she said it. "I'm bored."

Ghost wanted to laugh because half of his job was waiting around, bored out of his God forsaken mind.

He was about to answer, tell her to entertain herself in her head like he does by thinking of her when Soap came back into the room with a bang.

"Alright!" he sing-songed. "There's water in a bucket, a soap bar, and a wet towel. Where do you need me, pancake?"

She turned, smiling back at Soap. He made his way over, setting the bucket at her feet, the soapy water sloshing onto her shoes. She chuckled, pulling her feet up, and the sound filled Ghost's head with birds.

Soap and Ghost exchanged a heavy look as Soap dipped his hands in the water, laving up the towel and then wiping her shoes.

"You don't have to," Laura mumbled, embarrassed.

Soap laughed, low in his chest, but he wiped her shoes clean and then dumped the towel back into the water. Taking it out, he wrung it and reached for her face.

"I can do that," she laughed, teeth and all.

Soap raised a brow. "Let me, please." He took one soapy hand against her shoulder, wetting her shirt, and gently wiped the side of her face. Ghost watched her eyes, huge and glassy, the flicker of light from the drapes cutting along her left eye.

Soap was kneeling between her legs, wiping along her neck, wetting the front of her t-shirt. She kept looking at him, examining the soot on his neck, the length of his fingers, his shoulders.

She barely registered when Ghost brushed her hair over her shoulder, raven locks sliding across her wet shirt.

She watched as Soap wet the towel again and purposefully let it drip and soak through her shirt, squeezing it against her bloodied neck. Ghost watched the drops disappear into her shirt, and he was jealous of them, that they got to be so close to her skin.

Ghost took his gloves off and he didn't miss the way her eyes flicked down to watch his fingers flex against his knees. He also didn't miss the way her tongue came out to wet her lips.

---

My heart was beating a million miles an hour, an angry little drummer boy bent on breaking every last one of my ribs.

As the water soaked my front, rendering my shirt useless at this point, I felt Ghost's bare fingers drag my hair back again, folding it behind my ears.

I breathed in, watching Soap's mouth pull into a smile. He put the rag back into the water, wrung it, brought it to my chin. The force of him cleaning my skin made my face turn, and then I was facing blue eyes, calm ocean waters, rimmed with light blonde lashes.

Ghost dragged a thumb across the left side of my face. "She's so pretty," he hummed. I had no idea who he was telling this to. To me. to himself. To Soap.

But the way he bore his eyes into mine felt like being plugged into a wall--electric and vibrant. I wanted to soak in that light.

Soap's wet hands dragged down my neck, washing away the dirt and blood and fingerprints. He caught onto the hem of my shirt. "Take this off," he said, calmly. But it wasn't an ask. It was a demand.

I gulped, retuning my gaze to the man at my feet. "But-"

He shook the soaping towel in front of me. "Gotta get every drop of blood off ya," he interrupted, his lips pulled back, showing his teeth. It felt like a predator's warning, showing his canines to the trusting little lamb.

Ghost helped me out of my t-shirt, pushing my hair back behind my shoulders once I was free of the soaked garment. I didn't look at him, rather entranced by the way Soap's eyes drunk me in; wide brown irises, reddening cheeks. It made me wonder if Ghost ever blushed.

"She really is somethin'," Soap muttered.

I was left in my bra, my own cheeks warming at the idea of being half naked before these two men.

My skin was on fire. I was sure that they could see the steam rising off the water droplets on my chest.

I sat there, heart hammering against my breastbone, as Soap finished washing the blood from my chest. From my face. Scrubbing my ears and my hairline until I felt raw, humid.

All while Ghost sat silently beside me, his eyes burning cigarette holes into the side of my face.

Soap slowly dropped the wet towel into the bucket with a sloppy sound. I watched him drag the bucket aside, the sound like grating nails on a board.

I swallowed hard when he scooted in between my legs, his hands spreading my knees apart to accommodate the width of his shoulders.

Ghost grabbed my chin, jerking my eyes to his. They were hooded, his pupils blown. "It's okay," he hushed, pressing his thumb against my lower lip.

I felt Soap's hand brush my waist.

I couldn't believe this was happening. I thought... I thought Ghost would never let anyone touch me this way. Grab my bra straps and pull them down, rise onto his knees and kiss my shoulders. Hold one of my tits in his hands, squeezing, pulling, groaning into my shoulder.

Ghost held my stare as Soap kissed up my neck, over the sensitive bruises, until he was kissing my jaw, his breath in my ear.

"You wanna kiss her, Sarge?" Ghost grumbled, his eyes creasing. He was smiling.

Soap chuckled lowly, darkly. "Yeah."

Ghost let go of my lip and his hands were replaced by Soap's fingers gliding across my jaw, pulling my face to his. He'd always been taller than me, but like this, with him knelt before me and me sitting on the cot, we were finally seeing eye-to-eye.

I saw him smile, a corner smirk, before he pressed his mouth to mine.

He held the back of my head, kissing me slowly. Devouring. Savoring. He tasted so different than Ghost. Where the latter was all dark ash and sweet musk, Soap was honey and blueberry.

The tip of his tongue caressed my lower lip. He groaned, grabbing onto my thigh as he deepened the kiss. He was getting rougher, quicker, kissing me with such ardour. He was a man starved, parched, drinking from the oasis in the dessert.

He pulled away, panting, watching me. I hadn't even touched him, so surprised, so baffled by the...whole situation.

My cheeks were aflame as I raised my hands. I grabbed onto his forearm with one, wrapping the other on the side of his neck, pulling him in for more.

This time, I was ready. I kissed him back, savoring the sickly sweet taste of him--his tongue against mine, his canines nipping the corner of my mouth. The way the stubble on his chin scratched at mine. The way he smelled, invading me. The way his hand tugged the roots of my hair.

He was warm and sweet and even the small sound his made when I pulled him closer made a volley of birds take flight across my tummy.

I hadn't even noticed that Ghost was touching me, petting my hair, rubbing his knuckles down my arm.

Then Soap pulled back, examining me under his thick lashes. "You good, lassie?" he whispered.

I gulped, looking up at Ghost. Why?

"Yeah," I answered.

Ghost hummed. "Lie back," he ordered.

I frowned, watching him and Soap get to their feet, standing over me, towering.

Then Ghost stepped forward, gently pushing me back into the cot, twisting me until my shoulders pressed into the flimsy material.

I waited, staring at the ceiling. Ghost came to my feet, Soap behind my head. He bent at the knees, bringing his mouth next to my ear.

"You know how good you taste?" he whispered, drawing goosebumps along my skin. I saw his hands move, felt Ghost pick up my foot and tug my shoe off.

I felt Soap's hands push my bra down, freeing my tits, heard him hiss through his teeth. I felt Ghost tug my other shoe free, heard it land dully on the floor.

"Look at ya," Soap groaned against my hairline, pinching my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, rolling them, causing me to arch off the cot and bend my knees.

I felt a deep, aching thud between my legs as I pulled towards Soap, hearing him coo in my ear.

And then Ghost's fingers were popping the button of my pants, sliding down my zipper. My breath hitched and I arched up, balling my hands into fists.

Ghost trailed a finger up my bare navel.

"It's okay," Soap mumbled in my ear, pressing his palms flat against my breasts. "Let us see you, Laura."

I shuddered, but remained quiet. Ghost's fingers returned to my waist, hooking in the band of my pants, tugging downward.

"Lift your hips up for me," he ordered, his voice soft. I obeyed, raising my hips, and I heard Ghost shuffle down, pulling my pants until he'd revealed my thighs, my knees. Until he was carefully lifting up one ankle to tug my pant leg off, the other.

Until I heard my pants fall to the floor.

"Fuck," Ghost muttered.

I pulled my knees together, my hands automatically shielding my panties. Even my toes curled in my socks.

"She looks amazing from here," Soap said, a hint of amusement in his voice as he palmed my tits, pushing them together between his hands. "How does she look from there, L.T?"

I wanted to melt. Not from being so exposed in front of Ghost, Soap. Not from being with two men. Not because I was liking it.

But because they were discussing me as if I wasn't there.

"Fucking ravishing, Johnny," Ghost answered, and I heard him get to his knees, my eyes locking with the ceiling as his hands grabbed my waist roughly, dragging me to the edge of the cot.

My insides turned to liquid when he hauled each leg over his shoulder, the backs of my knees on the rough fabric of his army-issued shirt.

"Here," Ghost said, and he handed something dark to Soap. "She likes to be blinded."

I opened my mouth the say something, but Soap wrapped a dark cloth over my eyes, tying it behind my head. I reached up, feeling it with my hands. Soap dragged his fingers along my forearms, slowly pulling my hands away.

I felt Ghost's breath on my inner thigh, and I clamped up, afraid that if I didn't control myself, I'd wiggle my hips in his face like a desperate whore.

"Let me in, Laura," Ghost warned, pressing one big hand to my thigh and pressing it open.

"She's blushing," Soap said, bemused, kissing my temple, my hairline. Playing with my tits as he saw fit--and I let him.

I let him because I felt Ghost hook a finger in my panties, pull the wet fabric aside until his cool breath was ghosting my core. I let Soap pinch my nipples, knead my tits because now Ghost pressed the pad of his thumb to my clit and my entire body reacted--arching off the cot, pushing my hips closer to his finger, searching and searching for more friction.

"Oh," Ghost chuckled lowly, deep in his chest. "She's desperate."

Soap laughed lowly. "Better give her what she wants, then, L.T."

I whimpered audibly when Ghost pressed harder on my clit, circling it slowly, titillating me. Slowly and slowly, deeper circles until I was breathing harder, faster, arching my tits into Soap's waiting hands. Curling my toes against Ghost's back, feeling him bend forward until he replaced his thumb with his mouth.

The moan that broke free from my lips was almost pornographic. But the way Ghost was licking me, sucking me, both hands digging deep into the meat of my thighs--it was a pleasure I'd never felt before. It coursed through my veins, from the tips of my toes to my hairline, dragging goosebumps along my flesh, lighting the embers in my belly.

"That feel good, princess?" Soap whispered in my ear, a purr.

I couldn't form a coherent answer. Ghost was nipping and sucking on my clit, pressing a finger into my hole slowly, stretching me out.

"Look at you," Soap continued. I moaned in response, biting it back behind my lips. "You're already so soaked. So wet for us."

I gasped, arching into Ghost's mouth, feeling his tongue lap me up. He groaned against me, fucking me with his finger slowly, brushing against a spot in me that made my knees shake.

"She's getting there, L.T," Soap said through a kiss on my cheek, on my jaw, my neck, my shoulder.

How did he know?

I didn't have a second to ponder that thought. The pleasure of Ghost's tongue pressed flat on my clit, licking long, languid strokes sent another wave of fire washing through me.

"Look at this pretty hole," Ghost muttered, pulling back, leaving me raw and wanting, panting and whimpering against Soap's mouth.

Ghost pumped his finger, once, twice, three times in and out of me, watching me swallow it whole. I moaned, trying to picture his face, trying to soak up what he felt.

He pressed his thumb to my clit, slowly rubbing me, fucking me with his finger. I pressed my knees closed instinctively, but one of Ghost's big palms pulled my knee back open.

"Let me watch you, Laura," he rasped, and oh, my name on his lips was a sin.

He played with me like that, watching his finger fuck me. Watching his thumb circle my clit slowly. Watching my hips stutter, my mouth open in a moan, in a whimper. Watching my chest rise and fall, Soap pressing kisses on my cheeks, my mouth, my shoulders.

"Stop playing with your food, Ghost," Soap groaned. "She's shaking."

And I was, trembling against the cot, my hands raising to cover my own breasts.

Ghost chuckled. Mean.

But he replaced his thumb by the warmth of his mouth, his lips, his wet tongue. He replaced the circles with sucking, lapping, nipping, until a knot formed deep in my belly and my hips started to grind on his mouth of their own accord.

He kept fucking his finger into me, and when he added another, my head went haywire. I moaned out his name, like a prayer, the knot deepening in my belly. I reached up to grab Soap's hand, hearing him whisper dirty, dark nothings into my ear, but I didn't hear, I didn't care.

All that mattered was Ghost stretching me out with two fingers, his mouth and tongue sucking on my clit, lapping me up like a last meal.

"I can hear your cunt," Soap whispered in my ear. "You're so soaked, I can hear you, princess."

I bit my lip, moaning behind my teeth, squeezing his hand.

"Can you hear yourself?" Soap panted in my ear.

I could. Oh, God, yes I could.

"You should see the way you're desperately moving," he continued, biting my ear. "Letting Ghost finger-fuck that little hole, huh?"

Ghost pulled back, admiring his work. "She's swallowing my fingers like a good girl," he said, he voice wretched, roach. They shared a chuckle, while Ghost still pumped his digits in me, culling a pleasure in my core like never before. "She's letting me stretch her out. So tight, so wet."

His words, so dirty, so unlike him, were bringing me to the edge of insanity.

"Simon, please," I begged.

"Hold her down, Johnny," Ghost said nonchalantly.

Soap took both my wrists in one hand, holding them over my head. I was about to ask why, but I didn't even have the bandwidth to ponder why when Ghost added a third finger into my cunt.

My mouth opened, breath lodged in my lungs. He pumped slower, but still, deep and long strokes, stretching me out completely.

"Fucking hell," Ghost sighed, cooed. I could hear the sloppy sounds of my cunt sucking his fingers, and the mix of pain, of pleasure, of the slick I could feel coating his digits, made my blood sing.

"That's it," Soap whispered. "Relax, princess, shhh." He was petting my hair, kneading my tits, rubbing me until I'd adjusted to Ghost's fingers and he resumed his pace.

I was nearing my own end again, like in the showers, and I wanted that hot, intense pleasure again. I wanted to fling myself off the cliff.

Somehow, Ghost knew, pumping faster, rubbing that spot in me that made stars dance behind my lids. Replacing his tongue with his thumb to rub me faster, harder.

He kissed the inside of my thigh. "Come on, Laura," he grunted. "Cum for me. Cum for me and Johnny." He was panting, kissing my knee, and when he bit into the soft flesh on the inside of my thigh, I broke.

The knot snapped and warm, fuzzy pleasure flooded up my belly. I moaned Simon's name, Soap's. I shuddered against Ghost's hand, squeezing his fingers, gushing on his palm. I heard him swear, heard Soap whisper, "good girl," against my humid hairline.

I was left a twitching mess.

My heart hammered behind my ribs, my palms loosened out of Soap's grip, my arms flapping to my sides. I felt the blood coming back to my head, my lungs burning.

Ghost slipped his fingers out of me. "Fuck, Johnny, look at this perfect little hole."

I heard shuffling, Johnny walking, crouching in front of my bare pussy. I blushed, my cheeks so hot, so warm, I thought I was starting a fever.

I was still sensitive, overly so, when Soap brushed his hands on the inside of my thighs.

"Let me have a taste, sweetheart," Soap groaned, almost pleaded. I couldn't see him. Couldn't know he was already bent in front of me, when he pressed a small, chaste kiss to my clit.

I twitched, moaned pathetically.

"She's already so riled up," I heard Ghost say. Where was he? "She'll cum for us again so quick."

And he was right.

When Soap's kisses turned to long strokes of his tongue, I was already halfway there. I moaned quietly, exhausted, when he spread me open and sucked on my clit, lapping his tongue on me.

My toes were numb, my legs limp, when he plunged his own finger in my wet hole, moaning against me, pumping his finger and licking me to his own rhythm.

It wasn't long until I was trembling, moaning incoherently, begging him. My hands found his Mohawk, holding on, grinding against his mouth until I was cumming on his lips, muttering his name over and over again.

Johnny.

Johnny.

John.

When I was just a numb mess, Soap carefully replaced my panties over my pussy.

And then Ghost was touching me, his rough knuckles on each side of my ribs. Soap left me, cold and shivering.

The cot dipped under Ghost's weight as he bent forward, a knee between my limp knees. He kissed my belly, my sternum, until he was completely over me, a knee on the cot between my legs.

I reached up, touching his bare face. Feeling the stubble under my finger tips. Touching his eyes, his mouth--still wet. I wish I could see him. See what he's feeling, thinking.

"Little dove," he whispered, so low I barely heard him. I didn't know where Soap was, I couldn't feel him anywhere. But I didn't care. I reached up, slowly grasping Ghost's hair, and pulled him down.

I tasted myself on his lips, but it didn't matter. I wanted him close. I needed him close.

Soap too.

I kissed him fervently, parting my lips to let his tongue pet mine timidly. I arched into him, feeling his waist with my knees. He grunted into the kiss, pushing me deeper into the cot.

And then pulled back, gently sitting me up.

Dizzy, I asked, "Soap?" My voice was squeaky, broken.

"Right here, pumpkin," came his soothing, low voice, and he grabbed my jaw, pulling my face up to kiss me. In the dark, behind the blindfold.

He drank me in, kissing me hard, parting my lips forcefully.

And just like Ghost, he pulled back gently. He dragged my bra straps back up, rearranged my bra so I was covered. I felt another pair of hands on my shoulders, and Ghost helped me back into my shirt.

"Looks like we'll be here a while," Ghost said. I was still blindfolded, but I looked up, following his voice. "Let's get some rest, yeah?"

I nodded, feeling his hand wrap around mine. When I got up, Soap's finger grazed my waist, and I realized I wasn't wearing any pants.

But I didn't care. I was so exhausted, so drained from cumming, from having my heart beat so fast for these two men, from breathing so hard I thought my lungs would burst.

The prospect of sleep sounded amazing to my empty, exhausted little head.

"Here," Ghost said. "Lie down." I got to my knees, on the floor, and then felt his hands on my waist, guiding me until I was lying between his legs, back against his chest.

My whole body relaxed instantly, and I curled up against him.

[emptygoldstudio]

So full with spaghetti and pain 💀

For now. Consider. In Handyman Bill Au. Bill doesnt wear shoes. Some customer accidentally drops one of the snow globes and, while cleaning up, Bill steps on the piece of glass. Freaking sucks. Give my man a pair of velcro sneakers!

[emmerrr]

adam parrish hcs

because it’s his day!! it’s today!!!

adam always kicks off his shoes without undoing the laces then gets annoyed when he has to untie them to put them on again

so for his birthday ronan dreams him up a pair of velcro sneakers

they’re super bright and obnoxious (neon green or something) but they ALSO light up when you stomp your foot AND they glow in the dark

adam: “they’re hideous. i love them.”

he hums when he concentrates really hard but doesn’t really realise he’s doing it

usually 70s or 80s songs that play a lot on the radio when he’s working at boyd’s

so he gets a lot of songs stuck in other people’s heads accidentally

adam: *humming the final countdown by europe while doing his homework*

ronan, later: 🎵it’s the final countdown, na na naaaa naa, na na na na na naaa🎵

adam: why are you singing that

ronan: are you fucken kidding me

he’s forever fixing things around the barns or 300 fox way

leaky faucet, loose door-handle, stiff window, squeaky hinges? adam’ll fix it

i already have a hc that ronan makes adam a new mixtape every time adam heads back to college for a new semester

but i think that adam makes mix-cds for ronan too

he has an older laptop that still has a cd-drive in it because it’s second hand

so he makes cd’s for ronan’s car, filled with songs that ronan finds irritating as a payback for the murder-squash song

think like uptown funk, hollaback girl, call me maybe, happy, somebody that i used to know -- stuff that probably got way overplayed and/or was annoyingly catchy

he leaves them in ronan’s car after he drives it so the next time ronan drives it and presses play he’s bombarded with 🎵A FEW TIMES BEEN AROUND THAT TRACK SO IT’S NOT JUST GONNA HAPPEN LIKE THAT CAUSE I AIN’T NO HOLLABACK GIRL🎵

(but maybe adam sneaks some songs on there that remind him of ronan too. maybe. just maybe)

gansey teaches him how to play chess and adam rapidly becomes better than him and now every time they play he wins

gansey always thinks this will be the time he wins until adam makes a move that turns the whole thing around and gansey realises adam could’ve ended it several turns back but was just humouring him

through carefully cultivated habit his expectations for his birthday are low to non-existent

but he has friends who think the world of him and who also have the worst poker faces of all time

so when blue arrives to take him out for a birthday breakfast it takes him all of two minutes to get her to admit they’re throwing him a surprise party

“you better act surprised or ronan is going to murder me”

they get back to the barns later on and there’s a bbq going and lights floating in the air around the deck and gansey, henry, matthew, ronan, opal and the fox way ladies are all there.

“SURPRISE!!”

adam, trying to act surprised: um wow thank you guys oh my god what a shock

ronan, narrowing his eyes: sargent i fuckin’ knew you’d cave

anyway he spends his birthday surrounded by people who love him who would do anything for him :’))))

[4doorssys]

Thinking about college Mattfoggy about Foggy getting Matt Velcro shoes because it must be difficult tying shoes every time right? Especially for someone who is blind? So he finds out Matt's size which he finds very difficult spying at his best friends and roommates shoes. Matt doesn't know why Foggy keeps trying to steal his sneakers and at this point he's not gonna ask. Foggy gets the shoes and gives them to him for Christmas. Matt opens the shoes and Foggy is so proud of himself finding Velcro shoes in Matt's size and Matt just. Stares at him. Foggy says they're Velcro!! Velcro shoes! Because they would be easier to get on and off and he doesn't have to worry about laces they're great right? And Matt just keeps starting at him. And that's when Foggy starts to panic. He didn't mean to do anything offensive. Definitely didn't mean to imply that Matt didn't know how to tie his shoes or that he was a helpless child who needed Velcro shoes. Matt just breaks out into laughter at Foggy not able to contain his amusement at the situation. He explains to Foggy that he just keeps his shoes tied just tight enough that they stay on his feet but loose enough that he can slip them on and off. That way he doesn't have to worry about laces every time he has to put on his shoes. He definitely didn't need Foggy to shell out whatever he paid for Velcro shoes in his size. Foggy on the brink of tears calls him an asshole and to take the shoes they're his now. Matt thanks him truly appreciating the gesture. Foggy tells him that the shoes are red and Matt tells him that that is his favorite colour and thanks him again. He wears the shoes every day until they fall apart. Foggy buys him a new pair every time they do.

[missedstations]

"The First Rule of Buoyancy" - Ollie Schminkey

as a child, i learned while killing, do not think about being killed.

            when you are five, you will watch your father,             while skinning a deer, rip the hide from the muscle             like pulling apart the velcro on your pink light-up sneakers             after you get home from your first day of kindergarten.

as a child, i learned the right body can be resurrected to walk on water.

            it is the summer after second grade and             insects you will never learn the name of float on top of the river,             and you watch as they glide and you hold your breath.

            just trust the water, they said.             trust you will float, and you will float.

            you were always a child that sank.

as a child, i learned when a rabbit dies, it will scream so loud you will think of this death-sound with every other death after. even the quiet ones, as if this loudness could out-wail death, as if there is no other option but to break open the air with your grief the same way your father cracked apart the deer’s ribs to pull its heart out.

            you have never eaten another animal’s heart,             but you watch your father cut the bottom third off with a pocket knife             and skewer it along a stick he finds by the edge of the woods.

            when it emerges, gleaming and slick from the smoke of the fire,             dripping with grease and blood-fat,             you smell this heart-third             and even though you can still see your father’s hands             red and pulped and trembling             as he pulls out the center of this creature,             you can’t help but notice your mouth water.

now, you think of which parts of yourself you will slice off to make a meal from, how you can rip your girlhood off you with nothing but the right pair of hands, which parts you could snap the blood vessels from, easy as pulling out a weed, all your good blood shaken loose like so much dirt.

            so consider this a window,             consider the surgeon a precise and humble butcher,             who fills the future with your own blood,             which is, after all,             the only water you’ve ever found safe enough to trust, to close your eyes in, and float.

[willryist]

☆ PSALM 34:18 ☆

“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and rescues those who are crushed in spirit.”

WARNING: Suicide, Suicidal Ideation, Assisted Suicide

AO3 Post

PAIRING: Henry Emily & Charlie Emily

3,462 Words

“Daddy?” A voice echoes through the. . . honestly depressing, barren excuse of a workshop. Nothing as it was before, but then again, nothing in my life has been. No, not since that day. I can't find the energy within me to turn my head to face my. . . daughter. Should I call her my daughter? I fear that would be continuing to feed my disconcerting delusions. I'm not quite sure I even have the confidence to look her in the eye. All those eyes do is reflect my own grief. I cannot bear to stare into my own depression any longer. Those eyes. Eyes I made with my own hands. Charlotte—no, not Charlotte, the robot I crafted in the image of Charlotte—staring at me with those lifeless eyes. I can't look at those again. I can no longer take it, not once more.

Gently tugging at my brown canvas pants, Charlotte looks expectantly to me. I look back, as revolted as the action makes me. “Can you take me to the park, daddy? I know you've been busy with your work, but I miss going to the park with you.” She—it? No, that's too dehumanizing, even for her. She was made in the image of my daughter, after all. I shan't disrespect my Charlotte. This robot didn't ask for my own baggage, did she? No matter.

I debate her question. I have been nothing short of neglectful, haven't I? A pang of guilt surges through me. We used to spend time often, no matter the occasion. A warmth akin to a content winter afternoon in front of a crackling fire, slowly sipping on a hot chocolate came to me in every action. Even through moments where I’d been too delved in my work to acknowledge her existence, her presence kept that nostalgic warmth alive within me. Seeing her cheerful face playing with her toys on my workshop’s floor infected my heart with love.

Now, I cannot stand her presence in a room. In fact, I'm not sure if I've spent more than twenty minutes with her before I couldn't stand it any longer. Sometimes I'm convinced she sucks the energy out of me when I draw near. Though she isn't doing so physically, my brain is shriveled and dried. When I look at her, I see nothing but what could have been, and what was taken from me. I've tried to push myself back into the delusion—it would have been easier. So, so much easier. However, every day I continue to be reminded more and more of the elaborate lie I've built for myself. I am too far gone to be brought back up, yet I have no will to draw out this lie.

I suppose I owe this last trip to the park to Charlotte, especially to make up for what is planned for today. “Of course, sweet cakes. We'll go to the park.” The smile I attempt to force is nigh impossible to give her.

Her excitement that would normally bring a smile—a real one—to my face, causes a suppressed frown. I can't seem to find joy in something I programmed her to do. “Get some shoes on, I'll go grab my keys.” I gently drift my hand around her scalp, her hair flowing around my fingers. Artificial hair, like the ones on those dolls she’d play with.

Charlotte swats my hand off of her head with a giggle, and runs out of the workshop. I'm almost—no, not almost. I'm definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, relieved to be alone. My hand reaches to rub my neck, it glides along the skin with ease, sweat wetting my skin enough to be a waterslide. I doubt I have the willpower to make it through today, not with how I acted just then.

Despite myself, I exit the workshop and into the main house where I see Charlotte pulling at the velcro straps on her Kinney sneakers. From what I can remember, those shoes don't fit her at all anymore. She has to fold her toes to fit into them. I've bought her new ones, though she still insists on those, and I've lost the energy to fight over it. I find my keys sitting on the side table next to the door. “Ready, pumpkin?”

“Yep!” Her shrill voice rang through the house. She stood on her feet, and I could hear the slightest wince slip from her throat. I fight the urge to shake my head in disapproval at her stubbornness. Such trivial things won't matter soon anyhow.

When I turn the door knob, Charlotte is already to my truck before I can get a foot out of the house. She repeatedly jerks the passenger side handle, a silent way to say “Hurry it up!”

Reaching and unlocking the driver’s side door, and then the passenger’s, I take a seat on the brown leather bench seat within the truck, then hold a hand out to Charlotte when she almost slips and falls on her ascension into the Chevrolet. “Careful, sweetie.”

“Not my fault your truck is so high up!”

Not quite as cute as it used to be. “Be sure to buckle-up, dear.”

“I know, Daddy.” While I don’t see her pull the seat belt over herself, the clicking noise assures me of her compliance. I bring my own seat belt over my body. I put pressure on the brake and insert the key’s car into the ignition switch. Turning the key twice to start the car, the engine whirs in response. Releasing the brake, I pull out of the driveway. “You ready to drive this thing yet?” Not that I would be there to see it. Perhaps this drive would be better if I keep my mouth shut.

“No! Driving is scary. Carlton told me about his dad being the lead on a case of a hit-and-run that killed somebody! I don’t wanna drive something that will kill other people.”

Driving into a tractor-trailer may be an easier way of doing this. At least Jenny won’t be faced with the embarrassment of a brother who killed himself in the manner a coward would, though everyone already knows me for one. “Well, you have a good eight years before you’re driving. You’ll get the hang of it, I’m sure. You’ll probably be learning in this very truck.”

“Nuh-uh! Not in a bajillion years.”

The car falls silent. All that remains is the engine’s low purring and the horrid screeching of the brakes. When was the last time I changed the brake pads? Or the oil? God, I’m not sure I’ve stepped foot in this thing in a while. To be fair, I only ever used it to go to Freddy’s and back with the occasional trip to the grocery store, or Charlotte’s school every so often. I’ve really ignored every aspect of social life since the incident. Then again, life hasn’t had much meaning since then.

Cruising down the familiar path towards the park continued my mind wandering. I never took the real Charlotte to this playground. All the fond memories there were all my own mechanical prowess and delusions in a dreadful conglomeration. My face scrunches in on itself thinking of the way parents looked at me with pity and disgust as they watched me push that doll that I convinced myself was my daughter on the swings. No wonder the whole town is convinced I was the murderer of those poor children, I’ve already proven I’m nigh insane.

“Daddy!” Small hands grip my right arm and shake it fiercely. “You’re gonna hit the tree!”

Jostled out of my head-in-the-clouds state, I slam my foot on the brake on instinct. Fully coming to my senses after a few moments, I see the large tree trunk in front of the truck, maybe a half-inch away from the grille. “Jesus pumpkin, I’m sorry. My mind just. . .flew off, I guess.” I put the truck in reverse and slowly pulled back into a parking spot, jolting upward as the wheels fall from the curb.

Charlotte leaps out of the truck before I can even put it in park. I follow reluctantly. Weights must have been placed within my shoes, for I slog as if I were walking through mud. More realistically, these “weights” were brought upon by my own mind’s resistance. A waterfall of memories flow directly into my mind, meandering through the lobes of my brain while a heavy storm rages on. This is the last place I would have chosen to go. What did David Wojnarowicz say? “Hell is a place on Earth. Heaven is a place in your head,” I believe. I fear he was right, at least in my case. However my Heaven has been one built off agony, sorrow, and delusions. Now that I have rid myself of the delusion, I see that it is really just a second Hell I have forged for myself.

Charlotte skips through the playground and to the swings cheerfully, unaware of the mental ball and chain I drag. “Could you push me on the swings? Please?”

“. . .Sure. Sure, dear.”

Charlotte springs onto the swing’s seat, waiting for me with enraptured delight. I plodded my way around to stand behind her, pushing her back lightly to hoist her into the air, and repeating the act when gravity tugs her to the ground. I just have to get through this. It will only be a few hours. Only. I am not sure if I can hold out that long.

The rest of the park visit was an obfuscated amalgam of short snippets of memory. I had functioned on “autopilot,” for lack of a better word. From what I gathered with the little I was conscious of, there was not much to be missed. Swings, seesaw, slide, merry-go-round, repeat. We have made our. . . fifth? Trip to the swings, and my wrists begin to ache from repetition. You know, perhaps I had been nutty, but at least I still found it in me to enjoy the park. I know I cannot say the same now.

While I shove Charlotte into the air, I catch a glimpse of my watch. Five-twenty-six. At that moment, I freeze. I can see Charlotte turning to look at me with a puzzled expression in my peripheral vision. “We have to get back home. It’s, uh, getting late.”

A frown pulls at Charlotte’s face. “Five more minutes? Pleaseee?”

Why must you make this more difficult than need be? “Sorry, sweets. Sun’s gonna be going down soon. Let’s get back to the truck.” She slides off the swing with her head hung low. “Oh, don’t be like that. I can take you tomorrow. I can even call that John boy’s parents and set up a playdate.”

“Really?”

“Really.” With the lie I told to this poor girl came a scorching fire that burned my heart from the inside out, engulfing my insides with flames that could rival even the strongest forest fires. As hard as I try, I can never completely view this child as one who is not my daughter. I am well aware that she is not, and that I have believed such for way, way too long. However, when you convince yourself of the opposite for seven years, it is hellish to bring yourself out of that thinking.

We walk to the truck and get situated in our seats inside. This time there is no need for any reminders of seat belts, as I can hear the faint clicking of the seat belt into the buckle.

During the entire ride home I could not stop myself from taking glances at my watch at every chance I had. I watched the minutes change fearfully, the pit in my stomach that began to fester back at the playground only growing larger in size. I’m losing time.

The sun has set over the horizon, making way for the warm and inviting array of colors splattered in the sky. A vibrant pink and pallid orange interlace, forming a peachy midtone between them. It would have been wonderfully serene if I were not in the predicament that I am. I eventually am able to see the driveway to my house in the close distance, and I release a breath I did not realize I held.

The truck rides over the bumpy gravel driveway to the house with ease. Tires roll over the mass of tiny rocks and pebbles, creating constant crunching noises. I slam on the brakes abruptly and it jostles me and Charlotte forward. I check my watch. Five-forty-two. How did it get so late? I hop out of the truck and rush to the door, Charlotte following close behind me.

I swing open the door with a sense of urgency and throw my keys to the side table. “Go play in your room, honey.” I mutter. More like a croak, in all honesty. “I must speak to your Aunt Jen.”

“. . .Okay.” The slight creaks that shadow her steps as she climbs the stairs drive me to near madness. God, just get to your room already. Where is that robot? I believe I left it on the table of my workshop. Christ.

Paper. I need paper. A pen, as well. I can rip a piece from my sketchbooks in the workshop. What time is it? I try to bring my wrist to my face to gaze at my watch, but my arm feels frozen in place. Instead, I squint to view the distant wall clock within the living room. Five-forty-four . I won’t have enough time to go down there. Lord, why must all my creations work against my favor? I just had to program that thing to a specific time.

Hastening through the house and to the kitchen, I rummage through the counter drawers for something that may service me. In my search, I hear a creak from the back door.

There it is. Just on time. It slowly opens until the door hits a cabinet with a thump. In a silent house, the turning of gears and clicking of servos has the volume of a symphony. A constant whir bringing me back to today’s earlier events. The thing’s lifeless eyes do the same. I find myself back in my workshop, Charlotte’s eyes staring deep into mine while she fights with my current project —my final project— for my attention. God, those eyes. My eyelids clamp down as hard as they possibly can, and I hope, even though I have not felt hope in a long, long time, that it will make everything just. . .go away.

A childish belief, of course. The thought that pulling your blanket over your head might just save you from the monster hiding within your closet. The only difference is that I have created my own monster, and I cannot be saved by concerned parents hearing my screams in the night. Do I really want to die like this? Well, no, but what else is there for me? My passions have been ruined multiple times, by the same man no less. My remaining family outside of my dear Jenny either hates me or is dead, and everyone in this town believes me to be a murderer. There is nothing left for me on this Earth. I have wasted my chances, and all that is left is that I join my daughter in Heaven. That is if Satan does not await my presence in his realm.

Loud, heavy clanks ring on the linoleum floor. It’s moving. Allowing my eyes to open, I see the thing making a slow but steady approach towards me. I’ll have to do this quickly.

I go back to the drawers, picking out a stray ballpoint pen with almost no ink. Searching through old discarded mail for something blank enough to write on, I finally notice an empty piece of laminated paper. Flipping it over, there’s a picture of a politician with a name I couldn’t care enough to remember. It will work.

Slamming the empty side of the paper to the wooden countertop, I click the cam of the pen and scribble lightly on the paper to ensure that it works.

And for the last time, I write a letter to my sister.

My dearest Jenny, it begins, as all letters to her do. Tears prick my eyes like thorns. My heart pours into every word that I rush onto the paper, cloudy eyes causing the letters to look as if they are dancing along the empty space. They are dancing to mock me, to cheer for my demise. They are giddy to form the words that are admittance of my pathetic life and end, one that is long overdue.

. . .I now only see loss, endless, debilitating loss. My writing hand quivers horribly, penmanship worsening to the point of childlike scribbles, though the rest of my body feels as if it is going through rigor mortis. I fear it is not quite time for that yet.

My heart pounds expeditiously in my chest. The constant pumping reminds me of blowing up a balloon. Pump, pump, pump, inflating until. . . Pop. My heart may pop at this rate, with the pieces splattering all over my ribcage. Faster. I must write faster. The slow and methodical stomps behind me are like a timer, however I would have hoped for the timer to be an actual one, and not the noises that my large and clumsy suicide machine make. God, what does it matter? I would be dead either way.

I feel its presence behind me. It looms over my body, casting a shadow onto the counter and my pitiful letter. At any moment it will strike, and I will bleed out on this floor. Charlotte will come down and see my limp body. She will stare into my lifeless eyes in horror, and her artificial tears will stain her porcelain cheeks. Long streaks of water dragging ever so slowly to her chin.

I shake my head in attempt to rid myself of this thought. I must cease from humanizing her. It brings the overwhelming burden of guilt, something I already contain in abundance. I am getting too sidetracked. I must finish this letter before it brings my miserable life to an end. I lick my lips. They are cracked, pallid, and unbelievably dry. Comparable to the texture of sandpaper. I just have to finish this. It is almost done. I wipe the tears from my eyes with the heel of my palm.

. . . I am going to be with my daughter. There. Almost done. My hand grips the pencil intensely, the tips of my fingers turning white in color.

Suddenly, a tingling sensation rattles my bones, and a hot and piercing pain follows soon after. A large mechanical hand holds onto my shoulder to keep me in place. It has plunged its knife into my back, right into the spine. It seems my time is over. Blood flows down my backside, hitting the hardwood floor with soft drips. Accompanying blood loss was a loss in body temperature and energy at almost double the speed. I felt as if I were to turn to ice in any second, and I shrunk into myself, huddling for some kind of warmth.

I fought my weakening legs that yelled for me to collapse with what little might I had left. My pen drags slowly and rigidly on the paper. Almost completely out of ink, the letters begin to look incomplete. Finally, I sign the letter off with Love always & to the end, Henry.

I give into my legs’ pleas and plummet to the floor, the impact blurring my vision. It has backed away from me. The floor vibrates as its heavy steps move it away. My breaths are shallow, the whistles of air shaking my frame like a dead leaf on a November maple. I can feel my blood spreading, dampening my clothes, hair, and skin with its crimson color. It soaks into the wood panels, infesting itself between splinters. I am sitting there, laying in my own pain and agony for long, long minutes.

I expected some. . .light at the end of the tunnel. To see my daughter, or perhaps an angel waiting for me. Instead, I feel a constant nothingness. I do not feel any of the emotional motley that I had moments before. I am all too aware of my death. The eternal slumber calls to me, and I long for it more and more with each passing second.

I will see you soon, my daughter. May we be together in Heaven for all of eternity.

[applewatersugar]

Hello! For your 3 days of requests: I need more toddler clothes, so I wanted to ask if you could maybe convert "SP12 Overall Long" from the Toddler Stuff Pack? (maybe paired with those toddler velcro sneakers or just socks). These overalls haven't been converted yet according to the 4t2 Conversion Archive.

Hey! Yes, yes and YES! I'll convert it asap!

It was already converted by @kaluxsims! You can download it here.

[rando-draws]

Hello fellow neighbours!! I bring you my Welcome home OC, Charlie! He was a fun loving kid who enjoyed parties, pranks and games. While he had fun hanging out with everyone in the neighbourhood, he most enjoyed spending time with Julie and Barnaby.

Though the shortest canon neighbour is Wally, being 3ft, Charlie here was 2’6, reaching just around Wallys shoulders. His skin was made of an orange/tan fleece fabric, with brown hair that has a small stripe of red on one side. He wore a Red jumper with 2 white stripes on each sleeve, the wrist bands being green. He paired it with blue overalls with gold clips, a plum coloured patch stitched onto the left leg of the shorts, a small x on the right, red striped pockets, a yellow stripe on each side of the top part of the Overalls and a small pink heart right on the belt line. His black socks were plain, but make no mistake, his shoes added a pop of colour! Wearing red sneakers with yellow Velcro straps and white rubber soles, as well as yellow smiley faces on the inner ankle area and a bright blue stripe of wire going through the sides of the sole pieces, which glowed in the dark when he stomped his feet! On the top of his head, lay a cone shaped party hat, that looked like the tip of a pencil with two small red ribbons flowing off it! He also wore a big string necklace, with a smiley face hanging down from it!

Of course though, we shouldn’t forget the little gold star sticker on his right cheek, and all the little plasters and bandages! One bandage on his right pointer finger, two plasters in an X shape on his right hand, another two on his right knee, and a bigger plaster on his left cheek. But don’t fret, he was alright! Just a few small bruises from slip ups and pranks gone wrong! When you’re a silly child like he was, it’s quite impossible to avoid!

His house is made of cardboard and on the front he stuck little hearts and stars on it! He had Julie’s help painting a sun on the top right and a big rainbow flower on the left corner. Of course added his own touches, like a big smiley face on the front of the roof, that has goggly eyes and yellow stripes beside it. The actual roof is made of purple blankets that he had help to stich together and the front door is white and circular, with a gold handle and red rims, and 3 red steps up to it that have a light to dark gradient look! But don’t be fooled, the inside is much bigger and comfier than it looks on the outside!

[mixedmediahmm]

all the uhh cut & clothes queries for callie :]

Ah! The cat girlie superhero time >:)

night: What does your OC wear to sleep? Do they have a favorite pair of PJs, or are they more the birthday suit type?

This eight year old is ROCKING her big girl Batman PJs. She also has Wonder Woman ones but only wears them when the other ones aren't in the wash.

day: What does your OC wear on a normal day? Why do they default to those clothes? Do they wear similar things, or do they change it up?

She wears a lot of different things but usually goes with a skirt with shorts under it and a t shirt. Sometimes she'll ditch the skirt entirely but usually sticks to a certain style of sporty girl.

formal: What's your OC's formal look? Do they like dressing up? Do they have different looks for different occasions?

She usually doesn't like dressing formally cause it usually means no fun but her mom and brother want her to look her best so she tries! Has a nice flow purple and white dress she throws a black jacket over. She hides a pair of pants under them in case she needs to "get serious".

informal: What's your OC's lazy-day look? How do they like to dress when they're winding down?

BIG T-SHIRTS all the way. Along with baggy tattered pants. On weekends she just gets into her brother's hand-me-down clothes and lays about until there's something to do.

outerwear: What's your OC's outerwear situation? Jacket, sweater, cloak? What sort of weather do they deal with most and how do they protect themselves?

She's in the midwest so LOTS of wind and humidity. Can deal with the humidity with her usual wear but for wind she tries to have some form of shawl or blanket near to avoid getting chilly.

footwear: What does your OC wear on their feet?

Yellow sneakers for the most part, will sometimes slip on some nice boots in the winter though. HAS to be slip on or velcro cause she detests the idea of any kind of knot.

road: What does your OC wear while traveling? Do they have high-quality equipment, or are they making do? What does their gear look like?

Since her dad's a truck driver, she'll sometimes get the chance to ride with him! She usually wears a T-Shirt under a big old sweatshirt along with some longer jeans cause he usually blasts the ac way cold. And always carries a little to-go bag that's just her DS and a notebook to scribble on if she gets bored on the way.

armor: What kind of armor does your OC wear? Is it well kept? Bonus: where does it come from? Is there a story behind it?

Most of her heroine outfit is just a nice little sleeveless tux with shorts and gloves! The helmet of it has night vision and also a communicator with her brother and the knee as well as shoulder pads are just for extra safety. Her brother Scott was the one that assembled the outfit and gadgets all together in an effort to help her help the town.

arms: Does your OC have any weapons? What weapons do they carry, and how do they wear them when they're not fighting?

She has weapons and gadgets her brother made for her! Her belt can turn into a grappling hook, shoes and mock cat ears give her a sense of attacks before they happen, gloves have a Swiss army knife type deal and the pads on it help her stick and her collar can snap off and become a staff! When not fighting crime it all usually just gets stuffed back into her pack.

roots: Is your OC's look inspired by any specific style of clothing or fashion trend? What are the roots and/or inspiration for their look?

The entire clothes store Justice. Some Claires aesthetics are also squeezed in there but for the most part I wanted the early 2010s style of kids clothing for weird little girls/aff.

texture: Does your OC favor any specific kinds of cloth or textures? Is there anything they can't wear or don't like? What sort of fabrics do they prefer?

This girl loves the feel of cotton. T-Shirts are her bread and butter and loves tugging her collar so much. She also enjoys the sounds and feel of her bead bracelets clinking together!

wardrobe: How big is your character's wardrobe? Do they wear things threadbare, or can they afford new clothes often? Are they any good at mending and repairing their own clothing?

Like many young girls she gets SO many clothes from family members and such and her family can afford new things but she never usually asks for them! Can go off what she gets. Also in theory she can fix her clothes; she usually just lets her mother or grandpa handle that for her cause she hasn't mastered needle work.

[kicksaddictny]

Adidas Originals ‘Home Alone 2’ Forum Low

According to Adidas

In 2021 adidas Originals headlined its Christmas celebrations by paying homage to one of the world’s most loved festive films – Home Alone. This December, the Trefoil returns with a sequel – this time honoring the second installment of the series with the ‘Home Alone 2’ Forum Lo sneaker. Traveling from Chicago to New York City, the follow up to the instant classic takes inspiration from the iconic scene where Kevin meets the “pigeon lady” at the foot of Gapstow Bridge in Central Park.

Playfully referencing the touching story of understanding, trust, and friendship, the timeless Forum Low sneaker receives a series of unique updates. A tonal gray leather upper is complemented by printed sock liners with depictions of the “pigeon lady”, custom graphic hang tags, co-branded Home Alone 2 tongue labels, interchangeable lace-jewels and three pairs of laces – one of which features a green band, just like the pigeons in Central Park.

The sneaker is then capped off by a poignant detail that recalls one of the film’s most remembered lines. When brought together, an inscription across the two velcro strap bases reads:

“As long as we have our turtle dove, we’ll be friends forever.”

A fitting ode to a holiday classic, the adidas Originals ‘Home Alone 2’ Forum Low sneaker launches globally on December 3rd on CONFIRMED and in selected adidas flagship stores

[aconitewolfsbane]

Exactly the reason why I have nearly 10 pairs of the exact same sneakers in two different sizes (JIC my feet expand as I age). Cause the last time that I failed to get heaps of spare pairs, it was years before I was able to find anything similar again. (They have velcro, as my arthritis doesn't let me use laces easily. I couldn't find any velcro shoes for adults for years when the old pair fell apart...) Most were inherited from my mother, who apparently decided to get at least half-a-dozen pairs for some bizarre reason? that she never wore? Anyway, mine now, I guess.

So yeah. My sneaks are future-proofed against style changes for well over a decade.