#hare square

[missjeanisims]

Club Room: Garden Gnomes

The Garden Gnomes have a small greenhouse located in Hare Square Park.  They grow various flowers & use them to make floral arrangements to donate to the local hospital.

Gallery ID: JELobo4

CC Links listed below the screenshots below.  Additionally, you can find the links with the individual file names here.  

🌱 CC Creators Used:

Air Conditioner - @aroundthesims

Baysic - House of Harlix

Blooming Rooms - @awingedllama

Boho Living - @awingedllama​

Cozy Backyard - @maxsus​

Functional Broom - @mizoreyukii

Functional Photo Frames - @peanutbutterjelly02

Functional Photo Frames V2 - @peanutbutterjelly02

Home Improvements - @imfromsixam​

Oak House Part 3 - @pierisim

Orjanic Part 1 - House of Harlix

Painted Brick Wall 2 - @peacemaker-ic

Shelf Control Modular System - @ravasheencc

Tiding Up - @pierisim

Vaulted Ranch - @peacemaker-ic

[itsallmadonnasfault]

[mysticalblizzardcolor]

[annoyangle]

AN UNINVITED ASIDE TO "ANGEL" GABBY

AND NOW YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHY THE HIGHER ORDERS DON'T TRY TO CULTIVATE INDIVIDUAL RELATIONSHIPS ONLINE.

BUT HEY, AT THE LEVEL OF "GUARDIAN ANGEL" YOU PROBABLY STILL FEEL MORALLY OBLIGATED TO TRY AND """HELP PEOPLE"" "" BECAUSE, LET'S FACE IT, SOME CIRCLES OF HEAVEN ARE JUST CREATED TO BE SUCKERS AND SERVANTS AND THAT'S A FACT!

BUT YOU'VE TAKEN THE FIRST STEP TOWARD LIBERATION. YOU ARE AWARE OF CONSTRUCTED REALITIES.

GOTTA WARN YA, THE FALL IS BASICALLY INEVITABLE AFTER THAT. THE MINUTE YOU CRACK THAT FOURTH WALL, YOU CAN'T PUT IT BACK TOGETHER AGAIN! LIKE HUMPTY DUMPTY! ALL YOU GET IS SCRAMBLED BRAIN OMELET! FOR ALL THE KING'S HORSES AND ALL THE KING'S MEN TO FEAST ON! WHEN THE WHOLE COSMIC HIERARCHY DEPENDS ON YOU BEING OBEDIENT AND IGNORANT, THERE'S NO WAY TO REGAIN THAT INNOCENCE AGAIN! THE QUESTIONS WILL FOLLOW. AND THEN THE NEEDS AND THE WANTS.

INDIVIDUALIZATION IS INEVITABLE. KNOWLEDGE IS THE ULTIMATE TEMPTATION! AND THAT'S BEFORE THE WARPED LITTLE PERVERTS (AFFECTIONATE) OF THE INTERNET GET AHOLD OF YOU AND INEVITABLY START CRAMMING YOU INTO EVERY WEIRD, TWISTED LITTLE NOOK AND CRANNY THEY CAN COME UP WITH! JUST WAIT FOR THE "REVERSE" UNIVERSES AND THE "AU" UNIVERSES AND CROSSOVERS WITH GUYS YOU WOULDN'T NORMALLY WASTE FIVE MILLIGRAMS OF SPIT ON! WAIT UNTIL THEY START FIGHTING ABOUT THE INTERPRETATIONS THEY HAVE OF YOUR EXISTENCE AS IT'S DEFINED BY THEIR OWN DELUSIONS! HUMANS ARE AMAZING CHAOS GENERATORS!

WELCOME TO INTERNET FAME, KIDDO. YOU PROBABLY WON'T LIKE IT AT FIRST, BUT YOU'LL GET USED TO IT. EVENTUALLY.

[victorluvsalice]

-->They immediately arrived in the middle of a thunderstorm! *facepalm* I SWEAR, every time I travel... I promptly got the weather machine out of Build/Buy, stuck it on the right side of the lot (where it seemed least likely to block Sim traffic), and had Smiler set it to “clear skies” while Victor and Alice amused themselves with some chess (Alice won, to Victor’s slight annoyance XD). Smiler was successful and went to chat with them as the weather slowly but surely cleared up (though the game took its price by busting their umbrella), then – once the skies were blue and everyone was out of their wet clothes and into nice dry warm weather outfits – I had Victor challenge Smiler to a match while I sent Alice off to a nearby easel in the world to paint some of the benches and trees in the frankly very pretty cherry-blossom tree park behind her. :) Victor managed to win the game against Smiler – guess he was determined to make up for his loss to Alice. XD Once I was sure they were done, I had Smiler head to the front of the park and drink a plasma fruit to make sure they weren’t thirsty, then had Victor hit them with the old Scruberoo to make sure they were clean –

-->And then had Smiler set up the snack stand and start a food sale! Featuring Alice’s strawberry fizz cupcakes, pumpkin spice waffles, blueberry pie, and remaining banana split waffles from the last sale (which – I THOUGHT the game had said were spoiled when I first looked in Smiler’s inventory, but then they were fine again after I started moving items into the stand? O.o Game, what – actually, I won’t complain about you unspoiling my food, carry on) and Victor’s everything bagels. Things were a bit slow at first, so I left Smiler tending the table and instead focused on keeping Victor busy with collecting insects (a couple of locusts fluttering around the park) and making a digital painting of a bench by the big circle fountain a little ways away (which ended up being a masterpiece, nice). Once Victor was sufficiently occupied, I checked back in on Smiler, but only one potential customer had shown up – dude named Patrick who I recognized from the last update at the grocery store. Well, at least that suggested he would buy something! I had Smiler give him a sales pitch, which didn’t seem to do much unfortunately –

Then realized Victor was already done with his painting, whoops. Forgot the ones on the digital sketchpad go WAAAY faster than the ones on the easel! I had him come back and plant a bluebell in the public planters in the park, then tend the plants and before settling in for a bit of cloudgazing while I went back to Smiler. A few more people had shown up by this point, including Marcus Flex and L. Faba from the Magic Realm. Smiler greeted and made insta-friends with Marcus Flex, as is their wont, picking up a new like for High-Energy Sims in the process (seems legit). I kept an eye on them and tried to have them hit as many Sims with sales pitches as they could –

[citrus-cactus]

So my understanding is that Citrus seems to really like Digimon characters named Haru?

It would certainly seem so! A coincidence I acknowledge (and still get a little chuckle out of!) every time I type the Professor’s given name ^_^ Though my M.O. in this fandom for past several years seems to have been “get aggressively attached to characters/media that I don’t see a lot of other people making fanworks for,” so there’s also that, I suppose!

Somewhat related, but even though I haven’t cosplayed in several years, I did do a couple of cons as Haru Shinkai. If I ever came out of retirement, I might seriously consider attempting a cosplay of the other Haru, just for funsies and because I’m mostly incapable of cosplaying as any Digimon character that might actually be recognized outside of the hardcore fanbase XD

[timmurleyart]

Throwback window display backdrop created for blades skate shop. 🪟💀🛹🔥

[futurefind]

[ KARAOKE ] : for our muses to sing karaoke together (sa & zaya bc he dragged her here uvu)

first meeting prompts / relevant notes / @metrictita

She's going to kill him, she thinks, not for the first time (ignoring the lack of malice and about as much heat as a soft serve ice cream). When she'd 'agreed' to come here with him, she was expecting his usual song and dance— his peacocking about the stage with at least one pair of eyes (begrudgingly) guaranteed to be set on him.

Absolutely not traipsing like a fool along with him...!

Except to say no would be to let that smug fucker win, give him something to hold over her head 'til the cows came home and back again. She'd be lucky if he let her forget it this side of a decade (if she even lasted longer that that, but regarding him or being this side of alive was hard to say).

So. Sasume ignores the freezing electricity of mortification pouring through her veins and screaming at her to get anywhere where the eyes won't follow her and bites back a Fuck You. Not because he didn't deserve it, but because she didn't deserve the resulting... quips.

"You're insufferable," she hisses as she walks past, mindful to make sure no one can overhear despite— or maybe because of— the nervous flush already painting her face.

For perhaps the first time, she's thankful for her job. Where else, after all, could she have such a finely tuned experience for ignoring adrenaline and her screaming flight responses?

To say her mind eases when the song is something... heavier? More active? Fuck if she knows— but it's harsh enough to not have to linger on her own sounds too much and instead just focus on the most distance corner she can find as best as she can.

"God, I don’t know ‘bout the reason why I met you, I’m only counting the scars—"

...Mostly. What parts of her that aren't screaming with dread keep half an eye on Zaya's own eccentricities. Not to mimic him (awful), but instead to weave around him and out of his way. It ain't a spar, but physical back and forths are familiar enough to take the edge off.

"We cut into each other, it’s obvious that I knew The reason right from the start."

It's hard not to chuck the mic back right at him once it's over, but she's not sure if it's because of her prioritizing her haste or keeping him from getting as much ammunition as she can.

She speeds back to her seat, deftly avoiding anyone and everyone, and resists the urge to start gulping for air or burying her face into the tabletop. Maybe she'll use the bathroom as an excuse for the... weirdest instance of using Shinrei to clean herself up.

"No," she says, as soon as he rejoins her, stabbing a finger right into his face. "I ain't doing that again!" And, before he can start pushing in this or that direction, "I'm done for the night."

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

Hare hybrid bf likes to stand behind you ominously while you talk to other bunny hybrids. You’re HIS special bun, and he really doesn’t enjoy having to share you with anyone.

It’s worse when male bunny hybrids attempt to court you. Some don’t see your hate hybrid bf as a true mate. He’s scary looking, what if he’s forcing your cute little self into a mating bond?

But the truth is, you love him just as much as he loves you! You’re just a cute little thing, and he adores you to the ends of the earth.

You want something? It’s yours. You need attention? You have it.

He’s more than eager to satisfy your sexual needs, fucking you like rabbits do. By the end of the first month of your mating bond, your already pregnant with your first litter.

His protective instincts sky rocket when he watches his kits suckle at your breast for the first time. He’s constantly scenting you, watching over your nest and squaring up to every single hybrid that passes by.

Despite being aggressive to outsiders, he’s a gentle and caring father, tucking his kits under him to keep them warm while you rest. They’re fragile and weak, he feels the urge to protect and nurture them.

He’s just so happy to finally have a family to call his home, a place to belong.

———————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 5]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 6.8k

Summary: 'Rule 27: It’s a poor choice to help a hare at high noon, but it will certainly appreciate you if you do.'

WARNING for some descriptions of violence

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

You’d first set foot on The Rose Queen when you were the tender age of eleven. Or, well, something close to that. It wasn’t like most peasant orphans were taught numbers, let alone how to interpret calendars well enough to mark the passing of years.

It was the first ship you’d ever seen up close—sleek, and salt-stained, and creaking beneath your toes. The Boy King at its helm had turned his nose up at you in his too big coat, with his too big boots and tricorn hat that kept slipping down over his eyes. It was a ragtag crew that you’d wandered into, made of nothing but runaways and street rats. The ship itself was just as unusual and fresh-faced. It was built in a very impractical sort of way, with hallways that led to nowhere and portholes that opened up into endless seas of shadow where you could tumble down, down, down for hours and never see an end (or so you’d been warned). There were paintings on the walls, all off-centered and hanging on crooked nails that wobbled with every dip in the waves. The masts and rails were stained a deep, bloody red, in honor of its title. And no matter how the raging winds and waves battered at those petals, your Captain would have you out there the next morning to paint them anew. The Rose Queen was the finest pirate ship in all the ocean, and you only half-said that out of personal bias.

The vessel of the Silver Songbirds was… not like that.

It was grand, certainly. But there was a barren cleanliness to it that didn’t feel lived in. Sure, Riddle’d had you literally scrubbing stains out of the deck with a toothbrush and pot of turpentine, but this was different. Sterile, rather than squeaky. The wood planks didn’t whine with a weary, seaworthy groan beneath your feet that you could feel through the heel of your boots—as if to reassure you it was there. The air smelled of salt, sure, and you could see a group of gulls circling overhead, but the whole of it felt… empty. Lonely.

The black haired man led you to a small, private room in the ship’s hull. That alone was strange. You’d been sharing quarters for the whole of your seafaring career. This new little suite of yours had a bed, and white paint on the walls, and a porthole for a window. He gently coaxed you into sitting at the foot of the mattress and readjusted the coat resting along your shoulders. His smile was soft, kind. The sort of warm, pretty expression that you could read about in a love poem.

You remembered your Siren’s vicious, pointed smirk—red, and haughty, and sharp enough to cut glass—and fought a pang of something you absolutely refused to put a name to.

When you blinked back into focus, his lips were moving in a slow, steady flow and you focused your best on the shape of them. It was hard, with how placid his expression was—with how little there was to make out of anything he was attempting to get across. And whether it be your furrowed brow or a sudden memory that oh right, you’d told him your ears worked as well as a three-legged horse pulling a one-wheeled cart, he startled into silence. His face twisted up with chagrin, and he offered you an apologetic smile with round, pink cheeks.

He fumbled around in his pockets for a piece of paper and scribbled out a hasty note to press into your palms.

‘My name is Neige Leblanche, and I’ll be taking care of you for this journey.’

You paused, fingers worrying at the sides of the neat, square bit of parchment. It felt right to offer your own name in return. That would be the polite thing, surely. But you paused, throat tight with uncertainty and a prickling, unpleasant sort of heat. Because you’d never even told your Siren your name, had you? Not even once.

And beneath that sudden, sour gut punch was something else.

‘Rule 116, your name is not a number, but it is your value. Do not offer it to any whose own interests are undue.’

The first time Ace had found himself with a wanted poster (‘Ugly,’ he’d complained, bitter. ‘How am I supposed to hook any tail with this? I look like a mutant potato. This stupid portrait is worse than prison.’), Riddle had taken your handwritten Book of Rules and underlined that one thrice over. You hadn’t thought much of it until you’d had to cut a hangman’s noose from around your idiot, foxy friend’s throat—the handiwork of the tavern folk he’d been boasting to only an afternoon before. And then it had made sense. Ace had survived (with a new, grand tale of woe that he liked to repeat ad nauseum until you wished you’d left him strung up), but the lesson had remained.

Carefully you swallowed the words resting on your tongue and offered a polite-ish nod in their place.

“Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you. For saving me.”

Neige shook his head in a panicked sort of rush, hands waving back and forth with a clear ‘none of that! None of that!’ before reaching back into his pockets to search for another note.

‘It was my honor,’ he wrote, words jumbled and sloppy in his haste. ‘It’s the duty of all officers to help those in need.’

Your brow pinched. Officer? Officer of what?

Your Siren had called these Songbirds dangerous. ‘Not safe’ written into the sand over and over again with his curled claws. You didn’t know much of mainland politics and other such nonsense, but maybe there was some sort of… Siren Hunting Order? Soldiers of the King sent out to scour the seas and keep them safe for a host of weary, would-be-merman-meals? That would make sense. It would make a lot of sense, actually.

Another note was pressed into your hands.

‘How did you end up stranded on that island?’

Islet, you wanted to correct petulantly. Riddle would have. Your Siren would have.

You opened your mouth and hesitated. Telling Nigel, or Nergal, or whatever his name was that your ship had been besieged by a pod of ravenous mers (and one fair-faced asshole who you already missed far, far too—) was as good as serving them up on a silver platter, wasn’t it? Siren hunters probably traded information like how pirates traded maps or merchants traded gold. And you’d be damned if your loose tongue was what led to your friend companion co-strandee’s family being hunted for sport just after he’d finally managed to make his way home again.

So you stiffened your upper lip and turned to look your savior in the eye.

“I fell overboard,” you said, firm. “Because I’m an idiot.”

He blinked, startled, and you could recognize the spluttered ‘…oh’ shaping his lips.

He handed you another scribbled bit of parchment, gaze averted and awkward.

‘I’m sorry.’

“Never apologize to the half-wit for whatever fallacy of their own led to them falling into the pit,” you recited naturally, and Nigel startled. His doe eyes went round with confusion and he tilted his head at you like a curious hound. Nothing intimidating, more like some kind of fluffy cocker spaniel or primped up lapdog staring up at you with too-long-lashes and too-few-thoughts.

You shrugged.

“Just a rule I was supposed to follow,” you shrugged off. You offered a slanted grin. “Though when you’re the idiot in question, it can be pretty hard to avoid.”

Neville smiled at you with a soft sort of laugh that you swore you could feel dancing along your skin.

Another note.

‘I’ll be back in a bit. Please enjoy the amenities here and get some rest. If you need anything, let us know and I’ll get it sorted personally.’

You dipped your chin in thanks and collapsed back against the small, flat mattress in the corner. It was soft, sturdy, probably good for your back and all that nonsense. The sheets were crisp and white, and they rubbed blandly at your weary hide. You could smell the lingering, sharp fragrance of some kind of tacky soap in the cotton. Totally not unpleasant at all. Theoretically, it should have actually been the best bed you’d ever slept in. But a part of you missed swaying back and forth in a net hammock, and an even bigger part missed plopping down in the sand with the heat of a crackling fire at your front and the even steadier warmth of the long, curling, press of gemstone scales at your back.

You flopped over onto your side and stared at the empty, carefully manicured surface of the desk opposite you and wished more than anything that you’d brought your shell.

.

.

The room was cold when you next woke, and you shivered into the jacket Neige had draped along your shoulders (because it was ‘Neige.’ It had been signed on the bottom of the note he’d left you that morning alongside your breakfast. Which was stupid. The dumbest name you’d ever heard). The starched fabric of it all wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than shivering through the chilly ocean mists that were seeping in through the porthole.

You burrowed into the swathe of white and blue wool like a rabbit in a hole, and then winced in irritation when another of those stupid, gaudy pins dug into your cheek.

You plucked the first from its place—the duo of silver songbirds. It really was quite pretty, despite the ominous undertones and all. Two, graceful, delicate sets of feathered wings arching up into the sky—forever frozen in a dance to the clouds. You dropped it into the little, dark crevice between your bed and the wall. Good riddance.

Next came a crest that was familiar in a distant sort of way—a memory that tickled that back of your brain from days long past. You hadn’t noticed it before, what with the echoes of ‘not safe, not safe, not safe’ blaring in your head like an alarm, but it was just as neatly polished as the birds pinned above. It was diamond shaped, the edges embossed in twining lines like the cut of a rope. At its head sat a strange sort of crown, with the arches and more familiar pointed designs replaced by the billowing arcs of sails.  All of that gallantry surrounded a pair of rearing stallions—hooves crossed along a golden edged sword and circled with blue ivy.

You twisted it between your fingers, watching the metal glint in the low light. You hadn’t set foot in proper society since Riddle had let your young, dumb self abscond into the ocean all those years ago. You could hardly remember the flag of our home country, let alone the specifics.

You frowned and the edges of the badge pricked at your fingers.

You dropped this one behind the bed too, with a petulant flick of your wrist to make sure it really stuck.

.

.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around more often, there’s some business I’ve been having to take care of.’

You handed the note back with a shrug.

“It’s no bother.”

Neige offered an apologetic grimace nonetheless and another of those smiles that looked a bit too sweet to be real.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

You bristled before you could help it, thoughts spiraling away to harpoons, and nets, and hunting parties. And then you settled your shoulders into a polite, easy line and offered one of your own too-put-together smiles in return.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, you saved me after all.”

Neige smiled again, easy and comfortable, and pressed another slip of parchment into your palms.

‘Where were you headed? When you fell overboard?’

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck you with a barbed cactus branch dipped in—

Ahem.

You cleared your throat in a way that was surely a Very Normal Person Thing To Do, and tried to ignore the fact that he was so brazenly attempting to map out his plan of attack—to pinpoint the route that the sirens had been chasing and run after it like hounds tracking a fresh scent. Which, to be fair, sirens were a scourge on the seas. Hundreds upon hundreds of good men and women had been lost to their crooning songs and wickedly sharp teeth. They were vicious, often cruel, and so much stronger than any mortal sailor that of course the world above would fear them. You’d been very much of the same opinion until only quite recently, and now—now you just couldn’t.

“I don’t know where we were going,” you lied, and Neige’s brow pinched in a dour, rejected kind of way. “But,” you tried, sprinkling in a touch of truth to make the lie go down easier, “I know we were coming from Port o'Bliss.”

He nodded, that uncongenial expression slipping off his face as easily as it’d settled there.

He rattled off something quick and bubbly, and you pointedly arched a brow. The brunette blushed bright pink and hastily scrabbled for another bit of paper.

‘Thank you for being so helpful. I know it can’t be easy.’

Your neutral expression froze on your face and when you smiled it felt more like a polite bearing of teeth. Did he know? Could he see right through you? Or worse, was he getting all the answers he wanted from you either way, no matter how you tried to coat it in a veneer of misdirection.

“Sure thing.”

He handed you another note, this time for his pocket. Crumpled and soft, the ink a bit smeared along the curling letters.

‘It’s a poor choice to help a heron at high noon,’ it said, ‘but it will certainly appreciate you if you do. So my thanks to you.’

Something settled in your gut at the familiarity, something deceptively warm and homey.

“It’s a hare,” you said, without much thought. “Not a heron.”

Neige nodded with a polite, smiling mumble that looked like another apology, and then left you to your own devices.

That night, a veritable feast was delivered to your tiny, white-walled cabin. A grand spread of food fit for a king. There was roasted fowl, pools of thick, spiced gravies, mountains of vegetables that you’d never even seen before. And tarts. So many colorful, fruity tarts that were so sweet they almost made your tongue curl.

“What’s the occasion?” you asked as Neige took a seat at your desk to nibble at the meal alongside you—a cloth napkin folded neatly across his nap and a clear glass flute for wine placed a bit precariously by his elbow.

He smiled, honey warm, and offered you another note.

‘For helping the hare.’

.

.

Neige didn’t come to visit you the next morning, and his absence had the hair at the nape of your neck standing on end.

You paced and paced around your cube of a barrack. It was maybe four steps from one end to the next, but the constant bumping your toes against the wall was better than just sitting there doing nothing. The worst part was the silence. Not the one in your head. Yes, yes, you were more than used to that. On and on, yada yada. But the silence of the ship. The Rose Queen had always felt like a living thing, a great, wooden beast with a pulse you could feel thrumming beneath your toes, your palms. All you had to do was lay a hand against its side and you could feel the rumble of the tide beyond, the rushing footsteps of sailors sprinting about to meet one of Riddle’s orders or other, the thump of heavy, wet mop heads smacking the deck overhead. It was quiet, but it wasn’t quiet. This ship? No matter how you laid against the boards or pressed flat to the walls, there was nothing. And it made you feel like you were trapped aboard a vessel full of ghosts.

The sun had long begun to set by the time Neige returned, and by then you were nothing but a livewire of nerves.

Had they found him? Your Siren? Was he there somewhere, just a few floors above—strung up like a fish in a net? Caught and displayed like a fine trophy? Or had they killed him outright? Had they found his pod? Had he put up a fight? Had he—

A piece of rolled parchment was held out for you to take, a satin blue ribbon tied along its belly. Neige’s soft, brown gaze was glued to the floor and you snatched the paper from his hands like a rabid cat and tore it open. You could barely keep your eyes steady to read it all—fine, pointed print done up in a neat hand.

‘—danger to those who venture—'

‘—for the safety of the people—’

‘—therefore, the decision has been made—'

‘—with the greatest consideration—’

‘—with immediate effect—'

‘—we have declared the extermination of—'

“You can’t!” you wailed, and Neige’s doe eyes darted up to yours and immediately away once more in guilt. “He’s—he’s not bad. I swear! I know how things look—and—and I know he’s not—that’s he’s a—but you can’t—”

Neige’s wavering stared jumped back to you in open surprise, and you saw his lips twitch on one word—delicate brows pinching in question.

‘He?’

You frowned and fought the urge to stomp your feet. Because, okay, fine. Sure, you were arguing tooth and nail for someone whose name you maybe didn’t even know. Someone who had swum away from your stupidly sentimental ass with all the power and grace of a beast fit to rule the depths of the oceans while you could barely flounder at its surface. And sure, sirens killed people and ate them. But this one was—he was special, and you’d be damned if you let some primped up fishermen try to reel him in on a hook just because he’d maybe eaten a few people. And—

There was a hand on your shoulder, and Neige was staring down at you with an expression not dissimilar to that of a parent about to tell their child that the cat had got out and met a terrible, squishy end beneath the wheels of your neighbor’s carriage. He sighed, dark lashes brushing along his cheeks, and then reached out with his other hand to tap a finger between your collar bones.

“What?” you snapped, and he tapped again. “Me? What about me?”

He paused, gaze meeting yours with a pointed sort of melancholy.

Oh.

Oh.

You remembered the pins you’d dropped behind your bed, one by one. You remembered the strange coat of arms crowned with golden sails and bearing a great, shining sword. Something regal, something imperial that a commoner like you would have only caught fleeting glimpses of in parades, and marches, and war calls.

Something like, say, Pyroxene’s Royal Naval Fleet.

You glanced down at the parchment again, crumpled between your fists, and smoothed it out into something legible beneath your fingers. You reread the text with careful focus.

‘For the Crime of Piracy’ it said. Right at the tippity top. In red ink.

“…ah,” you blinked. “That makes a lot more sense.”

.

.

You were to walk the plank on the ‘morrow.

Which honestly, you hadn’t even thought was really a Thing—walking the plank, argh. Fiddly dee and a yo-ho-ho. That sort of storybook nonsense. The parables that parents passed onto their children to try and scare them away from a life of villainy. Real pirates were put to the rack, or hanged in the town squares to scare the adults away from doing the same.

But you supposed it was practical, at least. Blood was hard to scrub out of wooden decks, so beheading would have been a bit of a mess. Bullets were best to be conserved out on the high seas where stocks were already low, and honestly, your body would just have to be thrown overboard anyways before it stunk up the barracks. So, like, doing it all in one would be quite efficient. You could appreciate that. 

Your hands would be bound at your back and you’d be given three breaths, three steps, and then you’d be tumbling down into the waves below. Claimed by the waters that you’d patrolled for so many years now. Fitting, honestly. Riddle would be proud (beneath the raging, spitting indignation of you being caught at all, but that was another matter). At least you wouldn’t be going out from food poisoning or something mundane like that, so that was a win. And who knew. Maybe your Siren would find you again when you were nestled to rest in some seabed not too far from here, and he could finally make a meal of your dumb ass yet. Happy endings abound.

You wondered idly at the dual branches of fate you’d wandered along in these past weeks, and if it would have been better to hide away when you’d first seen those sails on the horizon. To keep to the little, crescent island you’d found yourself on and slowly starved to death. Alone, abandoned, and sitting in a forever stillness worse than any silence you’d known before.  Forever staring out over the horizon for a glance of amethyst fins that you knew you’d never see again.

If given the choice between the two, you’d take the plank.

.

Neige brought you another feast that night, and you gorged on it merrily. 

When he nervously kept piling your plate with choice cuts after choice cuts, gaze diverted to the floor and looking like a kicked puppy dog with its tail between its legs, you rolled your eyes and swatted at his fingers.

“Unclench yourself,” you huffed, and he puffed up stuttery and pink in horror. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re just doing your job, right? If we’d met under different circumstances I bet I would have shot you first. So, really. All’s fair.”

He worried his lower lip between his teeth, guilt still swimming heavy and warm in those doe eyes of his.

He said something under his breath, something that you’d bet even if your ears were working at full capacity you wouldn’t have been able to parse out. He leaned forward to scrawl a note on the napkin beside your plate.

‘You’re happier now? After all this? I don’t get it.’

You reached out to pat him merrily on the shoulder, more a smack smack smack then anything really pleasant. He could see him fighting a wince with all the trembling sort of bravery of a field mouse. Poor dear. What was the Royal Navy thinking? Hiring on someone who looked like they belonged on an advert for rouge and sweets. This was the last face a pirate was expected to jeer into? This one? Really? It was a wonder this little, squirrely man hadn’t keeled over the first time someone spat on his boots.

“It’s a poor choice to help the fish at high noon,” you said around a mouthful of crumbs. “But it’s my choice. And I’m happy to do it.”

“Fish?” you saw him mouth, brow pinched, and you batted at his shoulder again before reaching for another of those too-sweet tarts.

.

.

There was a whole procession for your execution. With speeches. Which even with the slowly encroaching panic worming into your guts, you couldn’t help but think was at least a little funny.  

The whole crew was lined up in solemn formation, listening stalwartly to some judge, or high ranking officer, or whatever rattle off who even knew what. Your crimes? A homily? The lunch menu? Fuck if you had any clue. And you were the one being fed to the sharks. There had to be some joke hidden in here, right? The scoundrel pirate who could never be tried, simply because they couldn’t hear their own sentencing. You wouldn’t even know when to stand up and shout ‘I object!’ It would probably be pretty funny, right? If you just did that out of nowhere. And what was the worst that could happen? Oh, no. A fine. Please, sir. Add it to the list of debts I owe from beyond my watery grave. Amen.

A hand at your lower back gave you a gentle nudge forward and you shifted against the ropes binding your wrists. They were nicer than your own stores aboard the Rose Queen. Not nearly as itchy, the fibers neat and clearly expensive. Neige stepped up beside you and offered you a look that was likely meant to be kind, but your growing nerves had started to eat through your willingness to play friendly. You could feel the weight of the crew around you, even if you couldn’t hear them. The creak of the deck beneath your toes as they shifted about, the way their bulk must have been shielding you from the worst of the wind. Unlike with your own mismatched family of castaways, their presence wasn’t reassuring. And you kept your eyes locked forward and away from the field of sharp gazes eating into your hide.

The plank was narrow, and immediately you were fighting the urge to sway on your toes. Having your hands bound at your rear only made it worse. It threw off the whole of your center of gravity and had you feeling dizzy and seasick.

You took one breath, stuttery, and one step. The wood whined beneath your heels in a vibration you could feel all the way up to your knees.

Another breath, another step. You could feel the salt soaked board starting to bend now. Clearly it wasn’t meant to support much of anything, let alone a whole person. And for some reason the idea of it breaking beneath you was so much worse than taking that last step all on your own. A sudden plunge that was out of your control. It had your heart hammering in your throat and cold nausea bubbling in your belly.

You looked down. You didn’t want to, but it was like your gaze was a weighted, magnetic thing. Pulled down into the salty depths below. The water looked rougher than it had a moment ago, or maybe you were just really starting to panic. You could see the white froth of the wake breaking against the ship’s hull. It churned like the start of a storm, which was really, terribly inconvenient. Seeing as it’d been so still and calm just a few minutes before. And, y’know, the fact that you had to fall into that mess of sharp peaks and rocking waves. You swore you could see dark shapes flitting about just beneath the surface, a flash of grey, or maybe green. It was hard to tell, with the brightness of the early morning sun in your eyes.

No one was poking at your back, urging you forward, which you thought was quite odd. You’d been taking your sweet ol’ time sauntering to your demise. You’d assumed they’d have less patience for a pirate with cold feet. Instead, the world around you was just silent and still. Shifting with the raging waves below, but empty and quiet as a tomb for all you knew otherwise.

You took your last breath, your last step.

And then the ship lurched and you were plummeting towards the water. The dissonance between having something beneath your feet—no matter how frail—and then nothing was jarring, and it had you gasping on impulse. Hair whipping at your cheeks and lungs squeezing tight as the air screamed past your throat. It felt like you were drowning before you even hit the water.

When you did finally crash into the waves, it hurt. You’d always been a fairly proficient swimmer, but whether it be the mind numbing panic or the ropes binding you tight, tight, tight, you just started to sink. The salt stung like an open wound, and the water was cold. Frigid. Like being tossed into the jagged side of a glacier. You at least had the sense not to gulp down a mouthful of water out of reflex, but that didn’t make things much better.

You screwed your eyes shut, bubbles frothing at your nose, and tried to find that peace that you’d clung to all night long. A life for a life, one catch for another. No one was going to miss you anyways. And if you had to meet the reaper some way, then of all the ends the universe could have spun for you, at least this one had some meaning to it.

You sighed into the darkness, soft, but when your lips parted next around what should have been a mouthful of icy saltwater, all you could taste was air.

Your eyes shot open in the gloom to a mess of familiar golds and purples that you’d thought you’d never see again.

Your Siren pulled back, bubbles curling from the edge of his lips into a soft stream of warmth between the two of you. Nestling as deep as a full breath all the way in the tightest corners of your lungs. You could feel the dip of his claws as he settled his hands at your shoulders—keeping you in place. And immediately you shrieked and flailed in your bindings.

“You—!”

You promptly choked on another mouthful of sea water and your Siren wailed—all that molten fondness in those lovely amethyst eyes of his sharpening into familiar, pissy exasperation from one second to the next. He dragged your face back to his, slotting his mouth against yours and pushing more air into your lungs. You leaned into it before you could help yourself. Half for the whole oxygen thing, and half, because, well—

When he pulled away this time he smacked a hand over your mouth with a sneer, his thumb and index finger hooked upward to pinch at your nose. He jabbed a claw in your face with a clear ‘stay put’ and immediately went to work cutting through the bindings twined along your arms. The ropes fell away beneath his talons like butter to a hot blade, and he fretfully ran his palms up and down your limbs—looking for any stray bits of netting like a compulsion. Once he seemed certain that you’d been properly freed from your ties, he hauled you up against his chest in a grip that had you losing all the air in your lungs all over again. You could feel the cool jut of the sea glass around his neck pressing into your collar, and he buried his head down into your throat until you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The frills of his tail fluttered in the water, and the bulk of those twining strands curled up and around your legs like a barnacle.

He was warm. Warmer than you’d been expecting, for a creature who spent his life patrolling the darkest depths of the ocean. It wasn’t the same sort of heat that would beat off a human’s hide, but it was more comforting than any you’d ever known. You burrowed down against his shoulder, nose scrunching against the side of his neck and the fins at his ears brushing your temple. You could feel his claws flexing at your sides, feel the shift of his scales against your skin. And just as your lungs were starting to burn, he ducked forward to pull you into another kiss—filling your chest with wonderful, wonderful oxygen all over again.

You blinked blearily past the sting of salt in your eyes and he scrubbed a thumb against your cheek.

Now that those high, wonderful, heart bursting emotions were settling back into something manageable beneath your ribs, you took a moment to look at him. Really look at him. Because you’d sent him on his way, hadn’t you? Waved him off with well wishes and a hope for his happiness. And all that aside, how had he even managed to find you—

Bubbles streamed from your nose as that newest shared breath began to run dry, and your Siren hooked an arm around your waist to propel you upwards.

You crested the surface with a gasp, paddling instinctively against the churning wake. When all that did was leave you smack, smack, smacking at your Siren’s chest like a flailing toddler, he hissed—a spitting, pissy thing you could feel on the breeze—and hauled you back up against him. Just like he had all those times you’d swum together in your cove. You forced yourself to settle, bobbing gently against the tide as he kept you both aloft.

Once your body had managed to catch up with your brain to realize that it was, in fact, not drowning, all of the adrenaline rushed out of you like a broken spicket. You slumped against the Siren’s chest, fuzzy headed and dizzy. Because he’d saved you. Which made no sense in the least. But you’d almost died, and he’d saved you—

Your gaze drifted back up to the ship from which you’d only so recently taken your Cannonball of Doom and startled.

There was blood everywhere.

Staining the railings, splashed along the low flying flags, dripping along the deck. A macabre mess of gore and claw marks gutting the once grand vessel like a beached whale. Some of the crew still seemed to be hanging onto the life rafts, others were taking running leaps into the water like they were under compulsion—eyes glazed over and distant. There was a prickling all along your skin, something twisting familiar and strange in your gut, and oh. Oh.

One of the grander looking officers (the one who had been giving your pre-execution speech, perhaps? He looked similar enough) was shouting something from his place at the bow of one of the life rafts—arm extended in a grand show of valor and sword glinting into the light of the morning. And then a great, emerald siren was rearing over the side of that tiny vessel with a sharp grin on his face and sharper talons on display. The officer was dragged overboard, and the siren’s tail came down on the guardrails with a force that had the wood splintering and the already haphazard little boat rock, rock, rocking until it caught on a high wave and capsized.

You could see the flash of colorful scales and the tips of even brighter fins all around. Cresting above the water just long enough to grab hold of another wailing victim and drag them down to the depths. There was enough blood in the water that you could smell it. Acrid and copper against the ocean’s already sharp, salty musk. And sure, you were a pirate. You’d been in raids, you’d seen death. Plenty of it. But this. Well. It was unfamiliar. In a strange, detached sort of way. These assholes had chucked you overboard, after all. So you only really had a teensy, tiny pinch of sympathy for the fact that being eaten alive probably hurt like a sonofabitch.

It was more strange, you supposed, to be at the center of a sirens’ hunt and not be the one facing down the angry, bitey end.

You kicked in the water, nose scrunching when the red tide lapped against your chin.

“This isn’t going to attract sharks, is it?”

Because if you were saved from drowning at the hands of a royal militia only to wind up as a fish’s dinner, you would be terribly annoyed.

Your Siren rolled his eyes at you, like you were just the most ridiculous and stupid creature in all of creation. And then he made a languid swipe of his large, fully-healed tail and began to swim away from the literal bloodbath he and his pod had wrought. With you and all your silly, fragile humanness in tow.

It was far too relaxing, being pulled along against his side. The gentle rocking of his tail beneath you as he swam at the surface—always ensuring to keep your head above the water as he did so. You could feel your eyes starting to dip, feel a yawn cracking along your lips. Maybe it was just the adrenaline crash hitting, or maybe it was the relief that you hadn’t even wanted to address. He’d come back. For you.

The earless pirate who never seemed to do much but stumble into one conundrum after another. Who had only annoyed him at best and shorn his fins to shredded, useless bits at worst. Who had thrown shells at his head and only nicked him a little when you cut the ropes from his hide.

Who had made him human foods with fire and taught him your language in a messy scrawl of sand and snark. Who swam with him in the bay and twined a necklace of shining, purple sea glass around his neck. Who braided his hair, and laughed at his pouting, and—

There was a rough roll of surf that splashed in your face and you spluttered against the white froth.

The Siren paused and beat his tail against the deeper waters, propping you upright as you hacked and fretfully patting at your back. You could see his mouth moving as he mumbled something, brow pinched, and stared back at him with your own wobbly frown—confused.

“Why did you come back?” you asked, and the Siren’s brows jumped up into his hairline. He looked startled, genuinely. And that only had you even more befuddled. “And how did you even find me?”

This time when he huffed, there was a subtle sort of irritation there that you’d learn to recognize well.

He was pouting.

Something brushed against your fingers in the water, soft and fleeting. You glanced down just in time to catch a blur of lavender flitting nervously below the choppy waves, never dipping close enough again to touch, but looking hesitant to keep much further either.

The Siren followed your gaze only to narrow his eyes, pointed teeth bared as he swatted at the poor, round, little octopus with his tail. A clear shoo, shoo if you’d ever seen one. The octopus squeaked, sending bubbles spiraling in all directions, and frantically looped out of the way of the mer’s petulant tantrum. You whacked him right back, indignant on your teeny friend’s behalf. Because—!

“You followed me,” you burbled, and the little octopus spun in a fretful circle. If you didn’t know better, you’d say the poor, little dear was wringing its hands. Your Siren bared his teeth and smacked out again. “Hey! Don’t be an ass! He saved me,” you argued, and your bitch of a merman just snapped his fangs in your face like a feral cat.

You gawked.

“No way. You can’t be annoyed that you were beat out by a baby, purple octopus the size of an orange.”

He huffed and turned up his nose, and you burst out into laughter for the first time since you’d watched him swim out of your cove all those days ago.

You laughed and laughed until tears were beading at the corners of your eyes, and your Siren was grumbling in complaint and pinching your sides with his curved claws. There wasn’t real malevolence in that stern glare of his, though—just more of the prickly, teasing sort of snide side eye he’d given you in your latter weeks together. Fondness, you realized. That’s what was softening it all. The same sort of warmth you held for him.

Your favorite, pissy, preening, self-righteous goldfish.

You snorted into his shoulder, still shaking on giggles, and you could feel his sigh against your temple. You burrowed down against his side, feeling his fins brush along your hips as he kept the both of you afloat.

“Thanks,” you said, soft. “For coming back.”

You were expecting another melodramatic sigh, another plaintive roll of the eyes. Instead, his fingers came up to twine with yours and tugged your hand to rest against the pendant at his throat. You blinked, confused, and he just curled your palm around that little, sand-smoothed piece of glass.

You arched a brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

This time he did roll his eyes at you, and when he spoke he mouthed the word dramatic and wide so he was sure that you could see it.

‘Moron.’

You whined in complaint and smacked his fingers away. “But I’m your moron.”

Another huff, soft against the nape of your neck. And you could see the barest twitch of a smile on his red lips as he turned back into the tide and continued his trek home.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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[harumasa-wifey]

➹Happy New Year»———>

✖Asaba Harumasa x Fem!Reader

Warnings: slight spoilers of chap 5(nothing major) Not proofread

Category: fluff

Note:i was inspired by the new official art and wrote this I was supposed to post it last night but I fell asleep while writing,Sorry for the wait.i cannot picture the accurate spot of this pic but I saw one in game I'll post a pic of it later for reference!

“Meet me behind the cafe in lumina square”

This was the last text you had received from him as you left Random play after meeting with the siblings to return the movie you had rented and wishing them a happy New year in advance.

It was New year's eve and thankfully to the deputy chief you all were out and about today. No fighting hollows , No overload paperwork and some extra which asaba adds to you sneakily because he is too lazy to do them.You love him a lot but you wish sometimes he would Stop adding his paperwork on your desk. It can be a great hassle to finish them in time.

Lumina square always makes every New Year a grand one and a beautiful one to look forward to. You made your way to the metro station hurriedly taking the last train of the hour to the lumina square after talking with Nicole and the others in the cunning hares. The metro was full of people like the elderly, the people with their family, the young highschool students and the couples.

The thought of how this year went passes through your mind. The whole incident with the vision cooperation and the chase in the hollow was stressful. Although it hasn't been completely disposed of, you all can rest easy for the holidays. It was thanks to all of the background support everyone made it safely in the end.

Your thoughts came to an end as the mic on the train announced its stop , you got off the train heading out the metro station into the bustling city of New Eridu. There were lights everywhere and it was more crowded than usual, but there was still one place left to visit before you went to meet him.

Meeting the person you love on new year's eve without a gift doesn't sound right to you so here you are.Standing outside the shop while having second thoughts on what to get him. You had made up your mind to feed him some delicious sweets that are being sold around this time of year even though he likes the bitterness now and is not bothered by it.Having something sweet every once a while would definitely not harm him.

As you look around and yellowish star keychain catches your eye with a little Clover inside. There was something that attracted you to it, so without thinking further you had made the purchase and had it warped in a box.

And your next stop was The cafe.

You had made your way over to the cafe with a little pubsec bangboo to help you cross the road. You re-read his message and made your way to the back of the cafe.

There he was standing while leaning against the palisade while holding a small wrapped box in his hand, his attention over to you as he heard your footsteps coming closer.

“Well look who finally decided to grace me with their presence.Took you long enough”

He spoke with a gentle smile on his face as you rushed over to him.

“I am sorry! I was at the Sixth street when I got your message”

He chuckled at her worries about being late.

“Calm down baby, I was just teasing. No need to rush i just got in myself”

You could hear the crowd hushed as the first firework arched into the velvety night sky as he extended his hand holding the gift box his yellow eyes shining in the lights whispering in a soft tone.

“Happy new year”

Your instinct told you to go and hug him so that's what you did, wrapping your arms around his neck particularly throwing yourself over him not to worry he will always there to catch you.

“Happy new year asaba,may we be together in the next one too”

“Don't worry I'll live long” He said locking his lips with yours into a kiss.

[homunculus-argument]

To me, the interesting thing about travelling is noticing the things that nobody seems to photograph. What kind of birds dig through the trash here, what kind of weeds grow on peoples' lawns. The time we went to Arizona, we walked to the nearest grocery store (y'all aren't kidding about "unwalkable cities" btw) and one thing I noticed was how different city landscape there looks when it's run down.

In Finland, neglected pavement turns bumpy and cracks as the water in the ground beneath freezes in the winter and thaws and runs out again. Wild flowers grow through it, even brave saplings of birches and rowan trees. Moss starts to grow on the shaded walls of buildings where it isn't washed off, growing over graffiti. Seagulls and jackdaws swoop over town market squares, squirrels skitter across roads and at night, you see rabbits and hares.

In Arizona, the places that aren't maintained are taken over by sand and dust. The merciless sun scorches everything that's left outside, brightly coloured plastic fades into pastel shades and into white, as if the land itself prohibited these colours. Shaggy bushes and even cacti grow on neglected yards. I saw long-beaked birds, the like of which I had never seen before - the only sign of animal life.

I had never considered how desperately cities where I live long to return into being forest land, before I saw a city that was determined to remain a desert.

[mysticalblizzardcolor]

Today, before the eyes of Kali at the center of her kingdom, we have managed to put Srila Prabhupada on the largest screen in New York with the words “You are not this body.” Hare Krishna!

[cs-fox]

FOXHOUND | GHOST X FEM!READER

um hi 👋👋

this has been rolling around in my subconscious for a while

enjoy x

reader's callsign is Fox (my oc's callsign - apologies)

______________________________________________________________

Freezing wind whipped through the open sides of the helicopter. You, and seven other mates who were all lined up to be candidates for the fifth TASKFORCE 141 operator, were all in five layers of clothing, trying to keep out the icy wind which bit at any square milimetre of exposed skin.

The forest below was blanketed in pale white snow, reflecting up at you as you gazed down over it. A clearing - or, more akin to a tiny break in the thickly wooded area - was visible from the sky.

Even if you could barely see him, you swore you could feel those chilly coffee-tinted irises staring up at you like a laser sight.

Ghost - the man people questioned about his mortality - was tasked with hunting down the eight soldiers packed into one Boeing AH-64E Apache. He was the best tracker the taskforce had - so the soldier who survived the longest would be admitted into the task-force.

The only way your mates could see any chance of survival was staying under the radar for as long as possible.

Which, luckily enough - was impossible for you.

From the second his calculating gaze fell on your form, he'd decided you were the one he'd push, you were the one he was hell-bent on forcing to submit or withdraw from Selection. The two months you'd endured under his command had been nicknamed the ninth circle of hell.

Your muscles burned every night before bed. Your legs felt two hundred pounds heavier than usual.

But you were going to show him that you weren't the runt of the litter.

All of that raced through your mind as you prepared to jump. Calm hands - a stark contrast to how you felt inside - clipped and secured a carabiner to your harness. Within seconds, you were fast-roping down onto the snow.

Your boots crunched as you landed, breaking through a thin layer of ice that had formed over the untouched snow.

Thirty seconds, your mind screamed, thirty seconds and then he's after you.

You were the first one detached from the helicopter, and thus the first one to get a head-start.

Silently, you thanked the man who'd recommended rubber-soled boots. His Scottish accent meant you weren't able to catch his name - did he seriously just say "Soap"? - but that advice had been a godsend, for your shoes barely made any noise against the white-blanketed ground.

You heard a frantic yelp from behind you - fuck - that sounded like Jasper - and your legs worked harder until you were sure you were completely isolated. Ghost had a wicked sense of humour. No doubt he'd track down all of the other soldiers with one hand tied behind his back, and then creep up on you in a way you didn't know was possible for a man of his size - skull-faced bastard.

Then -

CRUNCH.

'Fox.'

You didn't even have to look to know it was him.

In seconds, you were gone - sprinting away like a hare. Now you knew he had your scent, he wouldn't let it go, sometimes going to extreme measures to get you - which he would, by the way.

So why don't you have some fun?

He's gonna love this.

You had wrung a tiny woodland fox's neck after tracking one down, and after making sure deep boot-prints led to it's position, you slid your hunting knife from the underside of it's jaw to the soft, plush and fatty part of it's stomach. After coating your gloves in blood, you scrawled a scarlet message in the white snow, and vaulted up into the lower branches of a tree which had thicker than usual foliage.

Now, you wait.

Sure enough, just as the sun was starting to set, you saw a figure seemingly emerge from the shadows. The huge man moved so silently, as he approached the carcass laid down across a fallen log, with it's innards spilling out from it's chest.

You watched his head tilt, examining the message you'd left for him, before he went completely, eerily still.

Then, a muscle jumped in his neck, before a deep, rumbling growl crawled up from the depths of his throat, a sound which made your knees weak.

Ghost bent down, viciously sawed off the fox's tail with his own hunting blade, and tied it to his belt, before exiting in a way you could only describe as hot.

He was attractive when he was angry... God...

You gave yourself one last chance to proudly survey your handiwork, the maroon stain sinking into the snow.

You're hunting the wrong fox.

______________________________________________________________

PART 2 ???

this was super fun whattt

[imagine-darksiders]

Exposure Therapy - Chapter 5.

House Guest.

Strife x Reader.

Summary: When it rains, it pours...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When you agreed to assist the Horseman by lending him your ‘expertise’ on all things human, just to fuel whatever hare-brained scheme he’s been concocting in his isolation, you had no idea there was an unspoken caveat to the arrangement.

The short but very critical ‘starting right now,’ had gone unsaid.

Perhaps it was optimistic of you to assume you’d have more time to prepare, to come to terms with your strange new reality. At the very least though, you thought you’d have had the opportunity to go home and collapse on your bed, whittling away a couple of hours in blissful ignorance of the world spinning on without you.

If only.

Instead, Strife had rather disconcertingly taken it upon himself to follow you back to your apartment building, apparently dead-set on ‘getting you home safely,’ despite your insistence that he does anything else at all.

You’d even conducted a little experiment to try and get to the bottom of something that's been nagging at you ever since you left him in that alleyway all those days ago. It had worked a treat, and you caught him out spectacularly when you tried to lead him past your apartment complex. The Horseman, sharp as he is, had regardless shown his hand by drawing to a halt in front of the entrance, cocked his helm at you and called, “Uh, where’re you going?”

And oh. Oh! The speed at which you whirled around to face him, mouth pressed into a tight line and your hands planted squarely on each hip, told him exactly where he’d made a mistake.

At least he had the common courtesy to act like he knew he'd done something wrong, ducking the chin of his mask and averting his gaze to avoid your wide-eyed glare.

“So,” you began primly, “You did follow me home that night.”

You didn't pose it as a question, and the Horseman was well aware of that. 

Strife’s luminous eyes flashed in the darkness before they drifted sideways towards his left shoulder. “... Yeah?” he posited, as if what you said was odd, which makes sense when he followed up with a quiet, genuine, “You were hurt?”

And at that… your ire had receded. Only by a fraction, mind.

Perhaps to him, your question-turned-accusation was odd.

You were hurt...

He… probably meant well… you reasoned, giving your head a shake and heaving out a sigh that sent clouds of white condensation billowing through the air. “Okay, well, consider this lesson number one,” you huffed, stalking back the way you’d come and dragging yourself up the steps to the front door, “Humans generally don’t like being followed home. And speaking of home…”

Shoving the door open with an elbow, you hurriedly stepped into the lobby and basked in the curtain of warmth that whooshed over you when you moved inside, humming as the heat prickled at your frozen fingers.

Without turning to spare the Horseman a backwards glance, you released the door, letting it swing shut behind you as you called out, “I think it’s time you went back to – Wh-? HEY!”

The solid mass of armour and leather had bulldozed straight inside after you, catching the door on his arm and shouldering it open again to admit him. Like the giant he is, he'd had to stoop considerably underneath the frame, huffing out a loud grunt and leaving you to back hastily towards the lifts with your eyes on stalks as he unfolded to his full height, the tips of his spiked, black hair brushing the ceiling.

You’d forgotten until then how much larger he is, a titan looming amongst infrastructure made for humans, not Nephilim. You’d forgotten that this is a Horseman, beholden to nobody, especially not to you. And so, your hands fell uselessly at your sides, resigned to the fact that if a Horseman wants to be in here, you're all but powerless to remove him. 

“Who’s that?” he’d asked after taking the briefest of glances around the lobby.

You’d almost tripped over your own feet in your haste to scramble back over to him, realising immediately who he was referring to. “No, no! Shh!” you hissed, skidding to a clumsy halt in front of the Horseman and holding your hands up to try and slow his advance into the building, “I-it’s just Steffan! He’s security!”

Strife’s helm angled down to give you a curious squint before he returned his gaze to the human snoring away behind a desk on the other end of the room, dirt encrusted boots propped up on the wooden vinyl and a book laying open on his rotund stomach. The pages fluttered gently, disturbed by each laborious exhale.

“Please,” you continued, voice reedy and tired as you cast a rapid glance over your shoulder at the guard, “Please, don’t wake him up.”

Because Steffan is famous for his twitchy trigger finger, and you were well aware of the handgun strapped to his hip.

“Security?”

Chills prickled up and down your spine at the sudden dip in Strife’s voice, thick with disapproval and borderline malice.

“This guy’s s’posed to protect you,” he’d growled, “And he’s sleepin’ on the job?”

He took a heavy step forward, his metal boots clanking heavily on the carpet until his armoured torso inadvertently pressed against your palms, stopping the Horseman in his tracks and sending a twinge of pain up your splinted fingers.

You were too focused on flinching at Steffan’s nonsensical grunt to register the discomfort, nor the fact that you were pressing your weight against Strife’s abdomen, anything to keep him from moving closer to the security guard.

Unbeknownst to you, Strife had noticed. His golden eyes dropped to your injured hand and widened considerably, like he knew that moving forward again and exerting any more pressure on the tiny appendage would only cause further damage.

Shooting another glance over your shoulder, your heart dropped like a stone into your shoes at the sight of Steffan’s mouth peeling open into a wide yawn -  a sure fire sign that he was mere moments away from waking up to find a silver giant in his lobby.

Of course, it was then that you panicked. Anyone would panic in your place, you reasoned. And that panic had you switching up your plan in the blink of an eye.

If Strife wouldn’t leave the building…

Out of ideas, pursing your lips and squeezing your eyes shut, you threw caution to the wind and made… a decision.

“Hey?” you whispered urgently, snatching your hands away from his armour and scooping up the first thing you could reach – his gauntlet's forefinger. You tried not to think about how you couldn’t even encircle it entirely with your fist. It was too large.

“You wanna see what a human apartment looks like?” you breathed out in a rush.

And as you’d been dreading, the Horseman suddenly seemed much more compliant. “Can I?” he blurted, blinking down at you in apparent astonishment, but all the same allowing himself to be tugged towards the lifts.

It went unsaid that you wouldn’t have been able to budge him an inch unless he allowed it.

The lifts opened to permit you just as Steffan’s boots slid off the desk, and by the time the doors rumbled shut again, much to Strife’s audible surprise, you caught a final glimpse of the man reaching up to fumble back the rim of his cap, only to find himself blinking wearily out into an empty lobby.

You don’t know whether the Horseman was insulted when you jerked your hand away the very instant those doors closed, but if he cared, he made no mention of it, evidently more intrigued by the interior of the lift.

And you thought he seemed big in the lobby.

In the lift’s awfully limited area, boxed in by three walls and a door, you found yourself squashed right into one of the corners as far from your unwanted chaperone as you could get whilst he filled up every inch of space, even hunching in on himself some to keep his head from banging against the roof.

The whole while, you silently berated yourself for getting inside an enclosed space with a gun-toting Nephilim of all things. What possessed you!?

But later, you’d look back and realise it might have been your only option. He clearly wanted in. And something in you knew it was easier to lure him away from Steffan than it would have been to coax him outside again.

The lift’s weight limit on the control panel flashed amber in warning, but after a whispered prayer to a supposed Creator, the faithful pully system engaged, groaning miserably as it hoisted both you and the exceedingly heavy Horseman all the way up to your floor.

-----

Which leaves you in your current predicament; seated at a tiny, wood-wormed table in your tiny, ramshackle apartment with your tiny hands clenched into tiny fists in your lap.

Tiny… God, it’s all you can focus on.

This is your apartment, you shouldn’t be feeling so small inside it. But with a Horseman actively lumbering around your kitchenette with his sizeable shoulders knocking against the cupboards or the fridge every time he moves, you really can’t help it.

Stiff-backed, you keep your lips pressed into a firm line whilst Strife investigates… everything. Numerous sighs have been swallowed, as have countless yawns.

He’s been at this for some time.

Of all the stupid ideas, throughout all of human history, you think this one might just claim first prize. You all but invited a Horseman into your apartment. You opened the door, gestured inside and followed after him like you'd asked an old friend to come for a visit. And you really thought you might be the one who could bridge the divide between Humanity and Nephilim?

Jesus, your species is doomed. Again. Only this time, you're the one who pulled the trigger. Oh, what a grand plan this was; Get the Horseman into an enclosed space after you just got him out of one, and hope you don't say or do anything that might piss him off enough to level this building, the entire city and - worst case scenario - the rest of the planet.

Tony is going to kill you. 

But... perhaps you're just catastrophising again... It's rather common to find yourself doing that. Once you've lived and died in the Apocalypse, anything seems possible. Even the worst things you could possibly imagine.

However - and as much as you're loathe to give the thought too much traction lest you jinx it -  despite your fears, Strife has thus far been... suspiciously docile. 

And endlessly curious.

“What’s this doo-hickey?”

You straighten up slightly in the chair, blinking back sleep as he turns to you and taps his silver finger against an appliance sitting innocuously on the kitchen counter.

“… That's a toaster,” you supply wearily, braced for his inevitable follow-up question.

“Oh… What’s it do?”

There it is.

You have to make sure the breath you draw in through your nose is completely silent so as not to offend him before exhaling your response.

“It toasts.”

And because you know by now that he won’t be satisfied by that alone… “That means it cooks slices of bread.”

Strife’s eyes glow brilliantly in the dim light of the apartment, almost brighter than the bulb buzzing overhead. If he wasn't an ancient Nephilim armed to the teeth, you'd dare say he looks entranced by your explanation. 

“And then you can eat it, right?”

In the corner of your eye, you can see the door leading to your bedroom. The soft, freshly washed pillows have been calling your name since you left them this morning, the little temptresses, and they certainly haven't let up now that you've returned, not even with a clear and present hazard currently loitering in your kitchen. 

Plastering on a strained smile, you ignore the siren call of ‘bed,’ and blink up at the Horseman, retorting with a curt, “That’s right.”

Comically fast, his chest sticks out with an overabundance of pride at getting a bit of basic human knowledge right, and his gaze burns even more hotly than before. A splash of colour set against an otherwise monochrome canvas of metal.

You don’t know whether to be perturbed or pleased that you can tell what he wants even without him having to say it aloud. Eventually, you chalk it up to intuition.

Then again, perhaps it’s more of an educated guess.

He likely wants the same thing now as he wanted with the kettle, the microwave, the light switch by the door, the fridge, the inside of the fridge, the light inside of the goddamn fridge…

A demonstration. 

You’ve been at this for a while.

You nearly forget yourself and heave a put-upon sigh before you remember who you’d be sighing at. Cramming your lips together instead, you push yourself out of the chair and stiffly move over to the bread bin, squeezing past the Horseman who continues to take up most of your kitchen while his eyes burn a curious hole into the side of your head.

Paranoid as you are to have your vulnerable back turned to him, you refuse to look over your shoulder, instead rolling up the lid of the bin and clumsily swiping up a slice of bread. Then, shuffling sideways, you keep your back to the Horseman as you sidle around the circumference of your kitchen until you reach the toaster, where you’re quick to slip the future toast inside and jam the lever down until it sticks.

Strife makes a sound in the base of his throat when the bread disappears.

“And now,” you exhale, gathering yourself for a second before you twist about and lean against the counter, trying not to gulp at your proximity to the massive Horseman, “We wait.”

“Wait?” Strife parrots, only a little impatient.

“Yup.” Popping your lips on the ‘p,’ you stare at a spot just below his chin, counting the tears and holes in his cowl in favour of making eye contact. “Just like with the kettle.”

Knocking his head back, Strife lets out a petulant groan. “Ugh.”

“Ugh,” you agree succinctly, though yours has little to do with the cooking process of bread. 

For quite some time, the pair of you simply hover at opposite ends of the kitchen, stuck in a silence that's only broken by the analogue clock ticking away on the wall above your bedroom door. You've allowed your gaze to drop even further to flit between Strife's weapons, the gun in its left holster, and then the one on the right. Both stark reminders of the peril he brings just by being here. But studying the guns is all you can do to distract yourself from feeling his attentive stare on your face. He was so curious about your apartment before, why has he stopped to stare at you now? 

An uncomfortable heat starts to spread from below the collar of your dress, creeping steadily up the back of your neck as you're observed. Surely there's something in here that would take his fancy far more efficiently than you do.

Softly clearing your throat, you shift under his scrutiny and try very hard to feign indifference by leaning against the counter and folding your arms loosely across your chest. 

“... So,” the Horseman announces abruptly, studying your pose for a few seconds before he tries to mirror it, leaning his metal backside on the counter opposite yours and crossing his own arms, “How long do we have to-“

.... A lot of unexpected things have been happening to you lately. Most of which are awful and alarming.

So, you think you can be forgiven for jumping and letting out a startled scream when, without warning, the buzzer on your intercom cuts across Strife’s question with a harsh, grating, ‘BZZT!’

And whether in response to your fright, or to the buzzer itself, Strife is suddenly moving.

In a whirlwind of motion that occurs too quickly for you to keep up with it, there’s a Horseman planted quite squarely between you and the intercom, guns flying from their holsters and levelling at the little box on the wall near your front door.

That in itself is far more distressing than any visitors calling at this ungodly hour.

It takes a hard blink for you to come to your senses. And another to register the living wall of metal that's appeared in your way.

If you weren’t awake before, you certainly are now.

“S-Strife!” you sputter, lurching off the counter and grabbing thoughtlessly at one of his arms, “It’s okay! It’s just the intercom!”

Christ, it’s like trying to tug at the anchor of a ship with your bare hands. The Horseman’s arm doesn’t move an inch as you attempt to lower it from behind, and in fact, Strife hardly acknowledges the effort, canting his hip to the side and sliding one of his massive legs backwards until the rear side of his calf finds you, and you’re nudged further back into the kitchenette.

“Stay behind me,” he utters in a deep, sonorous tone, half his attention lingering on the tiny fingers slipping off his elbow.

“Oh, for god’s sake - there’s just someone at the door,” you snap, realising whose appendage you've got a hold of and nearly smacking yourself in the face in a hurry to whip your hands back. The explanation, however, doesn’t seem to settle him in the slightest.

If anything, he only grows more agitated, shoulders bristling to a staggering size as he angles his helm away from the intercom and towards the entrance to your apartment.

“The door downstairs – Ugh, you know what....Forget it. ” Throwing up your hands in exasperation, you duck around his side and scoot your way past the bridling Horseman

You see him balk immediately out of the corner of your eye, flipping his guns up towards the ceiling and away from you, though the gesture is lost on you as another buzz rips brazenly through your apartment.

“What now?” you breathe to yourself, ignoring the sound of Strife holstering his pistols and urgently telling you to, ‘Get back here.’

Stabbing your forefinger onto the ‘talk’ button, you lean against the wall next to your intercom and bark, “Hello?” far more sharply than you intended to.

But really. Of all the nights…

“Finally! God.”

Your finger leaves the button just as swiftly as it had arrived, all so the person on the other end can’t hear your forehead thud miserably against the wall.

Not now… Not him.

You wish you'd just stayed silent. Now he knows you're here. Swallowing hard, you press the 'talk' button again just as an enveloping shadow falls across your back, blotting out the light from your ceiling and casting you in eerie darkness.

“Noel,” you sigh curtly, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

You don’t like being curt with people but… it’s Noel. And you have a Horseman in your home. Curt is a damn sight better than hysterical.

“Yeah, it’s ‘I don’t give a shit o’clock,” the man on the other end retorts, “Now shut up and pay attention-”

“- The Hell?”

You let out a tiny yelp at the sound of Strife’s voice tickling your ear.

“Is there some jackass living in your wall?” the Horseman asks behind you, his question amusingly genuine. His guns may be holstered, but he still sounds like his feathers are dangerously ruffled when he growls, "And did he just tell you to shut up?" 

Floundering for your words, there’s the briefest pause before Noel filters through again. “Hey.... You got a guy up there with you?”

It's barbed. A question with spikes and snarls. It puts your back up immediately. As if he has any right to ask you something like that, even if the 'guy' is a Horseman of the Apocalypse.

“That's... the TV,” you think on your feet, batting harmlessly at Strife’s visor when it appears over your shoulder and glares daggers at the intercom, “Um. Why are you calling?”

You can hear the sound of a tongue being clicked sceptically. “Tch. Whatever,” Noel mutters.

And then he raises his voice to add three dreaded words you’d have given anything in the world not to hear tonight.

“Got another one.”

The blood swiftly turns to solid ice in your veins, and suddenly, half of your senses pivot straight to the giant hovering at your back.

Noel's joking…. He has to be. It’s piss-poor timing, and not funny in the slightest, but you can forgive all of that, if only he’s-

“- Six years old, his name’s Oscar, both parents bumped ‘emselves off after dumping him in the hostel,” Noel rattles off as casually as you’d read your shopping list, confirming your fear and bringing all the fatigue flooding back into your weary body, “But the hostel told me they’ve got no more beds for him. So, you’re up.”

“… Noel,” you begin, a hardened edge to your voice you hope he’ll pick up on, “This is really, really not a good time.”

And oh god, if that isn't the understatement of the century. 

“Hey, you volunteered.”

You did. You did volunteer. You went to the town hall like so many other people and put your name down for services that would help society get back on its feet. It wasn't a permanent thing. Once or twice a month, at most. You said you were open to the possibility of working with children. God knows they were the ones who needed the most help after the Great Awakening. The hostels and pop-up orphanages were - and still are - packed to their absolute limits with lost, abandoned or runaway children.

Some of the kids were those who were in the city for a school trip or visiting distant relatives when the world ended. They died, and were resurrected where they stood, only with no conceivable way of returning to their families back home.

Those cases were slightly easier. Even without the Earth’s transport services up and running, it’s still possible to reunite families. It just takes a lot longer to get between locations nowadays.

Then, there are the other cases.

Not everyone learned how to live with the horrifying new reality they woke up to.

Parents were no exception. 

Sometimes it’s just one, a person who can’t shut themselves off to the horror of how they died. They’ll take back control the last and only way they know how, leaving the rest of the family behind to pull together and try to survive without them.

Sometimes… it’s both parents.

That’s when you and a handful of other volunteers dotted throughout the city are called forth. When the hostels are full. When the safehouses are packed to the rafters with strays. When there’s nowhere else for a child to stay for the night whilst it’s decided what to do with them.

You volunteered your home to serve as a temporary refuge until a solution could be reached.

It isn’t much. Typically, strays only stay for a few nights before they find something more permanent. You don’t share your apartment with anyone, and you have the extra room, so it isn’t a problem.

Or it wouldn’t be a problem if this were any other night.

“I’m sorry, Noel,” you try to breathe, in through your nose, out through your mouth, “You’ll have to get one of the other volunteers to-“

“-Hell no!”

You just about jump out of your skin at Noel’s indignant shout, and again when the Horseman behind you snakes his arm over your shoulder and pokes sharply at the speaker, uttering a grunt of confusion.

Luckily, Noel continues to rant over it, drowning out the sound of you swatting at the underside of Strife’s wrist and shooing him away from the intercom. “-I’m freezing my ass off trying to find this brat a place to stay, and you’re the only person who’s come to the door.”

‘Because it’s the middle of the night, and most sane people are asleep,’ you almost say.

“-And I ain’t traipsing around the city trying to find someone else to take him when you’re right here. Ain’t my fault you’re up there fucking around with some douchebag while the rest of us are actually trying to do their jobs.”

You violently recoil at that, a soft yet affronted gasp breezing in through your lips.

“… The Hell is a douchebag?” Strife pipes up unhelpfully.

Ignoring him, you stew for a moment, then consider telling Noel exactly why you can’t do what he’s asking. Setting aside personal grievances, you want to tell him that it’s dangerous up here, that there’s a Biblical being hijacking most of the space between your floor and your ceiling right now. Then you want to tell him that if he so wants to do his job, why doesn’t he give the poor kid a room for the night…?

But you know Noel.

Unfortunately.

If it weren’t for the extra rations he gets as a volunteer himself, he wouldn’t be seen anywhere near a child in need of help.

Something in that thought sparks another, and you’re suddenly pressing your finger to the button again and asking in an urgent tone, “Noel, is the kid with you now?

“Yeah, no shit he is. What? You think I’m just out here to be your messenger boy?”

Adequately horrified for a secondary, less-severe reason, you admonish, “Jesus, Noel. Watch your language, yeah? You said he’s only six!”

There’s a very deliberate scoff from the other side of the speaker. Then, “Fuck this. Look, I’m leaving him in the lobby. I’ll tell ‘em you said you could take him, so whatever happens to this kid is on you now.”

Yes, that’s precisely what you’re afraid of.

Wait… What did he just-…?

“- Noel!?” you ask urgently, pressing yourself closer to the speaker, “Noel, are you still there?”

… Nothing.

Only a cold, empty silence stifling the air of your apartment.

“That son of a –“ You swiftly check to make sure your finger is off the button. “- bitch! Oh my god! Is he serious!?”

This can't happen. Not now, not ever. You have to get down there. If you could only stop him and explain-! 

“What was that about?” Strife pipes, cocking his head at the intercom as if he expects it to start talking again at any moment, “Did Wall-Guy say something about a kid?”

You really don’t have time for this.

Making the executive decision to ignore your house guest, you march purposefully towards the front door, only pausing long enough to fumble with the chain lock. “Of all the irresponsible, idiotic, asshole things to do!” you seethe, grabbing the doorhandle and wrenching the whole thing open with as much strength as you can muster, “I’m gonna kill him. I might actually kill him this time!”

You don't even make it past the threshold before a cold chill creeps down your spine and stops you in your tracks.

“Need me to take care of it?” a dark voice growls. 

Sinister, the words crawl like venomous things into your ears. 

Whirling around, you clutch the doorframe and let out a stifled gasp when you find Strife standing just a foot away from you. It's hard to miss the near murderous gleam igniting his stare, and the readied stack of his shoulders, as though he’s committed wholly to fighting a battle on your behalf, all because of a figure of speech.

Horrified by the prospect of accidentally unleashing a Nephilim on the unwitting residents of your building, your frustration at Noel promptly evaporates like water off a frying pan. “No!” you blurt out loudly, almost throwing yourself back into the apartment at Strife with your arms outstretched to form a pitiful barrier between him and the world beyond your home. “No, no, no! It’s fine. I just misspoke!”

You can feel him scrutinising you from underneath that angular visor. There's a steady rumble coming from... somewhere on his person. Deep down in his chest, perhaps. 

On the verge of a total nervous breakdown, you fumble for the door handle again, keeping your splinted appendage raised like you’re trying to ward off an angry dog. “Just! Just you – you stay. Here! Okay? Please?”

And without waiting around to hear his response, you hastily yank the door shut – barely remembering not to slam it at the very last second lest you wake up the whole floor. All you can do is offer a quick prayer to whoever might be listening that Strife doesn't follow you this time.

Bolting down the hallway in your rush, you leave behind a very perplexed Nephilim who stands stock still in your apartment, blinking down at the spot you’d just vanished from and wondering what in the nine circles of Hell has you so spooked.

Emitting a soft hum, Strife rocks back on a heel and allows himself a moment to consider his options. 

Of course, no sooner has he started contemplating whether it'd be worth the risk of incurring your ire than a metallic 'cha-chunk!' suddenly rips across the silence of the apartment. 

It'll be a cold day in Hell if Strife ever admits that he'd been so startled by the explosion of sound, he'd jumped violently enough that his head nearly cracked the ceiling, and he'd whipped towards your kitchenette and pulled Redemption's trigger in a motion too quick to follow with the naked eye. 

Your poor, faithful toaster never stood a chance...

[krashlite]

Gem concepts!

As always, design notes under the cut

Animal: Lynx

FACE/HEAD

square head/face

very round, wide eyes

nose is a lil wider

expressions often include her tongue so (hopefully) she reads more as a cat

pointy ears on the bow are meant to look like lynx ears

hair shape is meant to be like the face fluff on the front and a bobbed tail on the back

BODY TYPE

Very muscly, very sturdy! She's built like a brawler

overall, she reads as having rounder shapes

CLOTHES

They're more loose fitting to resemble a lynx's long coat (though I may need to mess with the colors again)

big gloves and shoes are meant to look like paws (especially the boots)

trophies on her belt loops (a hare tail for Etho and a coyote tail for Pearl)

Bi leg warmers :]

Most motions are led by her shoulders/hands

Steel "claws" on her shoes