#like the thinnest piece of paper

[stevebabey]

ruby what’s ur fave rock quick

this will b so boring considering it will be a nerdy answer but calcite looks DAMN beautiful down the microscope <33 LOOK AT THAT!!! ITS LIKE OIL ON WATER!!!! AND IT JUST DOES THAT!!!

[kakashixhatakesxwhore]

An Extended Sesh

Pairing: Nara Shikamaru x f!Reader

Summary: Smoking With Shikamaru (fic version). Our lovely reader is going out to her weekly sesh with her pals, but there are a few things about this week that differ from the last.

W/c: 4.4k

Warnings: Fluff. Oui'd. Mary Jo. Reefer. Pot. Cannabis. Shikamaru's got a bit of a dirty mind, but we're all over 18 (RIGHT?), we can take it.

Notes: teehee, i'm a slut for thc and shikamaru - lmk how y'all feel, i implore you - also this fic works as a part 2 if anyone wants a smuttier extension.

Masterlist💿

That smell of the rubbing alcohol as it broke down the thick, black resin that coated your favourite bong permeated the air, putrid and clinging to every inch of your sinus. The down stem and bowl piece were off to the side, soaking in salt and more rubbing alcohol inside of a tied up bag. Gagging, you shook your bong, covering the lip and the mouthpiece.

Nothing was more disgusting. But you had to do it. Not for yourself, you would've been happy just poking holes through the down stem.

It was for that fucking prick.

He always brought his piece to seshes, but lately he'd been bitching about how much of a drag it was to be the only valuable member of the sesh. In all fairness, everyone bought their leaf off of him and you were the only other person in the village to have glass to smoke out of. But that was how you could tell his gripes were targeted.

So, you had to volunteer to bring your piece this week. And, of course, that prick teased you and said that your bong was probably made of glass thinner than a bottle. Like you only had one.

Before he had said that, you had thought to bring Calissa - your thinnest, cheapest bong. But, fuck, the look on his smug, dreamy face, if he were right- you had to bring out the big guns.

Big Bertha was your second-pick, she was a much thicker glass and had strips of crystals blown into her neck. But she was small, and you hated her down stem. Plus, Talia was the prettiest of all - you had to impress Shikamaru.

Letting your chosen piece soak for a second in the bath tub, you moved to shake the bag that the down stem and bowl piece were in. The liquid turned murky as soon as you moved it and you sighed - you thanked the stars for giving you the foresight to scrape them first. You rinsed them out a few times then moved to your bong, that you knew would blow that prick out of the water.

"Alright, Talia," you said to your favourite piece as you dumped the alcohol out of her lip. "Rinse, swish, repeat, then we're outta here."

Once you were finished, you put her down stem and bowl piece back, then wrapped the gorgeous bong in a fluffy towel. It was Talia's designated towel. Her black and gold design stood stark against the white fuzz of the blanket, making you smile a bit as you rolled a corner of the blanket and stuffed it down her neck. You rolled her in the blanket and put her in your bag, the neck peeking out just a tad.

With a deep breath, you threw your grinder, your wallet, a packet of tobacco, and rolling papers into your bag. In the last second, you grabbed one of your nicer decks of cards, just in case, and just to further your position as a valuable member of the sesh.

You left your shabby apartment to meet everyone at the Eastern tree line, just South of Nara Forest.

Standing around was such a drag. Leave it to Kiba to be the one holding everyone up.

"Let's just go, he'll be able to smell us," Choji groaned. Shikamaru had been thinking similarly, but knew he was right in his decision to keep it inside when your frowned deeply.

Mirroring your expression, Ino chided, "That's rude, Choji. Could you imagine how you'd feel if we left you to find us?"

"I'd be fine! I would want you guys to start without me, if I was going to be so inconsiderately late," he argued, crossing his arms.

"We'll wait another minute," Shikamaru interjected derisively. "Kiba will be able to find us."

Though he thought you would be happy with the compromise, you rolled your eyes and went back to talking to Ino and Tenten. Your smile grew as you spoke to them, and Shikamaru watched you gesticulate strangely. The women laughed loudly, and you seemed happy their reactions, until you looked at Shikamaru.

Your eyes glinted with an edge, and your smile faltered for a breath. Quickly, you looked back at Tenten and Ino as they held each other, giggling.

"What's so funny?" Shikamaru asked, trying to seem as casual as possible, striding up to your small group, ignoring the conversation Choji and Shino were trying to loop him into.

"Oh, Y/n was telling us about-" Tenten began, still chuckling.

"Nothing important," you interrupted. The way you avoided his eye piqued his interest.

Ino pushed your shoulder a little and giggled, "We'd leave out the important bits."

"You can't do this to me, Smokey," Shikamaru teased you. Just like he wanted, your eyes snapped to his and he got to see that beautiful bite behind your gaze. He grinned, "C'mon, I know you want to tell me."

Eye twitching, you answered, "Don't call me that."

"Why not, Smokey Bear?"

Oh, you got so deliciously upset every time Shikamaru teased you. He loved poking the proverbial bear, if only to see how your eyes tore him up. You couldn't have been more obvious; he riled you up, and you loved it just as much as he did.

Not taking his bait, you answered his first question, "I was telling the girls about how I spent two whole hours cleaning my bong, because you're such a prick."

Maybe he was hearing things.

"Sounds to me like you put in effort, just to impress me," he asserted confidently, even though he was crumbling on the inside.

Beside you, Tenten and Ino giggled, and Ino leaned into whisper something in your ear, covering her mouth. The three of you got into a whispered conversation, peppered with giggles and scoffs. Shikamaru took a step to the side to digest... your words. Your tone.

Such a prick.

A prick, sure, but such a prick? That seemed unreasonable. How could you think that? Was it the teasing? Shikamaru was in a slight panic, he had always teased you. For years.

"I'm here! I'm here!"

"About fuckin' time!" Choji exclaimed as Kiba ran up to the group. "What took you so long?"

"Akamaru was having an issue with one of Hana's ninken," he explained, trying to catch his breath. Kiba inhaled deeply then smiled at everyone, sparing your group of girls an extra second. "I hope I didn't make you guys wait too long."

"No, no," Ino said kindly, moving to stand nearer to Kiba.

"Yeah, we like watching grass grow," you joked, coming behind the two of them to stand on the other side of Kiba.

Seemly jealous of how closely you and Ino were standing by Kiba, Tenten went to him and took his hand. Kiba looked around at the three women that surrounded him and smiled so broadly that all of his teeth were on display.

Tenten pulled him to her side and started flirting in earnest while taking him into the forest. You walked beside Tenten while Ino walked on the other side of Kiba. His head bounced around to the three of you, clearly getting torn in three different directions.

"I hate him," Shino grumbled.

"Me too," Choji agreed.

"Hatred is an illness," Shikamaru said, beginning to walk into the forest as well.

"Yeah, don't act like you're not one of the afflicted," Choji chided as he and Shino came up on either side of Shikamaru. "We all saw that face you had on after Y/n walked up to Kiba."

"You do psychoanalysis now?"

"Even my bugs saw it," Shino added.

Shikamaru sighed, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his sweat pants. He watched you intensely as you took your bag off your shoulder and gave it to Kiba, thanking him.

Fuck, Shikamaru should've been the one to take your bag. It did look heavy. Maybe he was a prick.

"Perhaps I should sit on this until we're alone-"

"It's not like they're listening," Shikamaru pointed out, immediately interested in what Shino had to say.

"Well," he started, much quieter. Choji leaned over Shikamaru and even Shikamaru leaned in, terribly curious. "I was talking to Kiba the other day at the izakaya... and he said if he were to make a move on one of the girls, it'd be Y/n."

"Grand."

"If he were to, or is he planning to?" Choji asked.

"He's planning on it, if you-" Shino's index found itself in the center of Shikamaru's chest. "-don't step up to bat, soon."

Fuck. And you definitely didn't think Kiba was a prick.

It wasn't even a question in his mind; Shikamaru had to change your opinion of him. As soon as possible.

"Would you rather have sex with a being that has the Fifth Hokage's body and the Third Hokage's head - or... rethatch the entire Academy building?"

"That's disgusting, Kiba!"

"Can I close my eyes in the Fifth-Third situation?" You asked across the circle.

"Nope, eye contact is necessary," Kiba confirmed with a devilish grin. He looked over at Ino pointedly and added, "At least someone understands that we're playing a hypothetical game."

"Okay, who's neck does the being have?" Shikamaru asked, his voice so deep, you could feel the vibration while sitting beside him.

The question made you snicker wildly, having to look away for a second. Kiba repeated, "Neck?"

"Yeah, where's the cut-off," Shikamaru clarified.

You looked back at him and he was smiling so softly that it made you nervous. Cripes, such handsome men were always nerve-wracking. What was he planning?

Shikamaru cleared his throat, looking to Kiba. He shrugged, "It's a fair question."

"Hiruzen-neck," Kiba decided.

"Yeah, give me the roof," the black haired boy yucked. "No amount of tit could distract me from that turkey neck."

As you laughed at his decision, Ino chastised Shikamaru and Kiba for speaking about the Hokages so lewdly. It just made you laugh harder as Tenten blew out her stale smoke.

"I'd say," she coughed. "Give me the being."

"Me too," you agreed with a soft laugh, taking Talia from her. You took up the bowl piece and Shikamaru passed you his grinder before you could pick up yours. You took it hesitantly. "...Thank you."

"No problem," he replied cheerily.

Quickly, you packed a horrifically small bowl and tried to gave him back his grinder.

Shikamaru smiled at you, eyes crinkling so sweetly, as he pushed the grinder back to you. With a beautiful lilt, he chuckled, "Are we rationing?"

"You pack it for me then," you sighed, feeling a little anxious. "I don't want to steal all your weed."

"You could if you wanted to," Shikamaru told you as he took the bowl piece and the grinder from you. By blessing of his grinder being so large, he literally dipped the bowl into the shredded weed and scooped up a lung-buster. With that same sweet smile, he slotted the bowl piece into the down stem and looked deeply into your eyes. "Think you can take it?"

"Y-yeah, I can take it," you exhaled. You snapped back into reality, shaking your head quickly and looking away.

The man sitting beside you couldn't take his eyes off of you as you toked, and your thoughts began bouncing off the walls of your mind.

Oh, something was wrong. Something was off, something had happened.

You just didn't know what.

All you knew was that Shikamaru was suddenly acting all sweet with you.

First, he insisted that he sit with you and Tenten, to help you with Talia. Then, he couldn't stop complimenting Talia. Sure, she was a beautiful piece, but he didn't even make one snide comment, even when you fucking prompted him.

Worse yet, when everyone pooled their money to give to him, Shikamaru had slipped fifty yen back into your pocket without anyone but you noticing. You had tried to give it back, but he argued, and told you that he had overcharged you last week.

What sealed the deal for you was the fact that he wasn't letting you touch your own weed, only his. And no one got to smoke from Shikamaru's personal stash. Ever.

"Everything okay, Smokey?" Shikamaru asked you quietly, everyone else talking about the would you rather question Kiba had posed.

You looked around and remarked how inebriated your friends were. They could never match your tolerance, but Shikamaru could give you a run for your money.

He nudged you, moving a bit closer on the fallen tree that you, he and Tenten were using as a bench. When you looked into his eyes, that glint that boiled your blood was absent, and the corners of his eyes drooped a bit, making Shikamaru look so... kind.

"What's up with you?" You asked finally.

"Me?" He asked, smiling wide. Shikamaru put his hand on his chest and shook his head. "I'm alright, thanks for asking."

"No, you fucking prick," you said. Shikamaru's smile dropped in an instant, where he normally would have laughed. You pointed and asked, "That... why aren't you being my friend right now?"

He seemed at a loss for words. Shaking his head, much more seriously, Shikamaru stuttered, "I- I am... I am your friend. Right?"

"Yeah," you nodded. "You're my friend. So where are the jabs, the taunts? You're so mean, all the time, and it's disconcerting to see you be so nice."

Shikamaru looked down, studying the forest floor. You looked around briefly before you cleared out your stale and passed Talia to Shikamaru.

"Is it Tenten?" You whispered into his ear. Shikamaru gave you a cut eye and you leaned back, nodding. He probably just wanted to make a good impression on her without directly flirting with her. That was fair. Tenten was so pretty. "Okay, I'll keep your secret."

"That's not it," he mumbled, probably thinking of something to deter you from the right track.

"Then what is it?"

Shikamaru looked at you, more emotion on his face than you had ever seen before. And it broke your heart, because he looked so sad.

"Do you wanna know?" He asked. You nodded, and Shikamaru's lip quirked a tad. "Do you really wanna know?" You nodded again. "Do you really really wanna know?"

"Yes, damnit, tell me."

"No," he smirked.

You groaned. What a fucking prick. You knew he was stalling, coming up with something to hide his attraction to Tenten. Stars, he got under your skin so easily, it was like he lived there.

"Let's smoke together, later, just the two of us, and I'll tell you then."

He should invite Tenten to sesh, if he likes her so much, you thought bitterly. You narrowed your eyes at him, but nodded slowly. "Alright, you're on then."

He'd never been so nervous. Never, not once in his life. Jittery, that would have been a great way to describe it. He was absolutely shaking with anticipation. Shikamaru couldn't wait to shake off the others, just to get you alone.

Shino, high as a kite, with a cloud of bugs around him, hung off of Shikamaru's neck as the group made it's way back to the village, walking from the plot of forest just South of the gorgeous Nara woods, then through the Nara compound. Everyone definitely smelled a little, but Shikamaru had brought peppermint oil to mask it. None of his relatives paid his group any real attention, nothing more than a passing glance.

"Let me braid your hair, Y/n," Ino whined at you, running her fingers through your locks.

"It's too short," you weakly argued.

Tenten scoffed on your other side, playing with the ends of your hair, "Shut up."

"Would you let me braid your hair, Y/n?" Kiba asked.

The three of you, having been walking in front, slowed and looked back at the four boys. Shikamaru, not wanting to see how you would smile at Kiba and agree, looked off to one of his aunt's houses.

"Fuck no," you scoffed. Shikamaru looked at you, trying to conceal his joy at your genuinely put-off expression. "Can you even braid hair, Kiba, or are you just putting me on?"

"Ah, I could always learn for you," he flirted.

"I know how to braid," Shikamaru lied. Your eyes shifted to him and softened. Yes.

"What kinds of braids?" You asked. No.

"I- er, the regular one?" Shit, he didn't know there would be a quiz. He thought about his mother, her strange braids, and added, "And... the fish braid?"

"You can fishtail braid?" Tenten questioned, completely disbelieving.

"Like fuck he can," Kiba laughed.

"Show us, Shikamaru!" Ino prompted him.

Fuck sake.

No, he couldn't come clean. He could figure out how to braid right now, with an audience, in front of the woman he'd been pining after for years, even if it seemed like a hard braid. Yeah, sure. Good stars, he needed a miracle.

"Alright, then, I need a model," he said as smugly as possible, looking at you. "Smokey...?"

"Well, this, I have to see," you said, shifting your bag on your shoulder as you walked to a bench on the side of the road.

Shit, he wasn't supposed to let you carry that back. He already neglected to help you with it the first time. Shikamaru was going to carry it back for you, but he took one toke too many to remember, before he was reminded. Cripes, he really was a prick, wasn't he?

Shikamaru stood behind you, sitting Shino down beside you, as Choji and Kiba crowded around him and the girls sat on your other side. Tenten started telling him, "Fishtail is four sections, not-"

"Don't tell him!" Choji cut her off.

Tenten crossed her arms and started watching with everybody as Shikamaru stared at your gorgeous, shining hair. It caught the sun so nicely, it was almost distracting. Slowly, he brought his hands to your hair, gently pulling out a few knots.

"You can be a bit rougher, if you want. I can take it," you said.

Shikamaru bit his tongue and shook his head, though you couldn't see him. Rougher, maybe in the bedroom. Oh, that'd be the day, when he would feel your silken hair and hear you say those same words, but in such a different context.

As carefully and precisely as he could, Shikamaru divided your hair into four sections, like Tenten had said.

Then came the hard part. He hadn't much of a clue what to do.

Well, a braid was just a series of woven plaits, right?

He took the furthest right section and brought it over the center two, then repeated the action with the left. Yeah, okay, that didn't look wrong. Shikamaru pulled it tighter then repeated it, moving the new furthest right second over the two in the middle, then the left. He tightened it, then again, right over two, left over two.

Shit, this wasn't hard at all.

"I should've put money on this," Shikamaru murmured as he neared the ends of your hair.

"I want to put money on the chance that you just learned that on the fly," Tenten laughed, voice full of praise.

Which only made Ino swoon, "Even if he did..."

"Man, I hate you," Kiba said.

There was no music as triumphant to Shikamaru's ear.

But, no one's opinion mattered but yours. As Shikamaru laid the braid over your shoulder, having gone down as far as he could without his fingers fumbling around, he waited with bated breath as you examined it. Seeing you wrap a hair elastic from your wrist around the end made Shikamaru's heart pound in his chest. You ran your fingers up the center, then started pulling at the sides near the top.

Fuck, you hated it.

"What's wrong with it?" Shikamaru asked quickly.

"Nothing," you giggled. Despite your answer, you kept pulling it the braid that Shikamaru was shaking over. "It's really tight, Shikamaru, you did a really good job on this."

He was going to cry. Right in the middle of the Nara compound, in the midst of all of his friends, in front of all of his family.

That sentence alone was like winning the lottery.

"Bet I could do better," Kiba said, trying to steal Shikamaru's moment.

"Well, not on my head, I'm never taking this out," you said to Kiba, standing up from the bench. Shikamaru contained himself, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Tenten and Ino both shared your refusal, already having their hair done-up.

The group started moving again, though the order had gotten strange. Kiba and Ino occupied the front, trailed by you and Shino, having been the one to pick him back up, while Choji, Tenten and Shikamaru held the end. Shikamaru was walking right behind you, watching the way your braid- his braid bopped around as you moved.

It was all Shikamaru could do to not steal you away and leave the group. You said you would smoke with him later. Later was now. Shikamaru needed later to be now.

Finally, you gave Shino to Tenten and the two of them peeled away from the group, going in the direction of their neighbourhoods. Choji popped off next, in the direction of the Akimichi compound, and Ino left in the other direction, to the Yamanaka compound.

It left just you, Shikamaru, and Kiba.

"I'm going down to Imanishi in a bit, Y/n," Kiba started boldly. "I'd love it if you came with me."

"Not tonight," you said with a smile. "Shikamaru and I are hanging out."

Kiba looked at Shikamaru over your head. His eyebrow cocked and Shikamaru dipped his head a little, making Kiba smile, but his eyes drooped ever so slightly. He got the message.

"Ah, don't worry about it," he said, speeding up a little. Kiba turned and waved at you and Shikamaru, before saying, much to Shikamaru's chagrin, "If anything ever falls through, you'll know where to find me."

"Whatever you say," you sang, shaking your head with the smallest smile.

Shikamaru gave Kiba a quick two finger salute as he turned back around, continuing on his merry way. Alone at last, Shikamaru took a deep breath, basking in the notes of your fragrance the held in the air around him.

"Your place or mine?"

"My bed's bigger," he murmured, not thinking. Shikamaru's eyes widened as your eyebrows shot up. "I mean for sitting on. Or we could smoke in my living room. My bed doesn't even matter, what?"

"So, your place then."

"Yeah."

"Cool."

"On particularly romantic evenings of self, I go salsa dancing with my confusion," you stated, twirling around Shikamaru's open living room.

"And, do answers ever dip you?" He asked, standing from the navy blue couch slowly.

Pattering over with the softest steps, you opened you arms to Shikamaru and he took you in his. He whisked you around the room as if the two of you were standing atop a cloud, though the cold hardwood was tingling your toes. Your eyelids felt heavier as you looked up at him, smiling down at you so gently that you were sure he wasn't aware of the smile.

"Sometimes," you replied. Shikamaru spun you gracefully from the three step, then caught you. He dipped you back lowly, his thick forearm flush to your back, and you giggle, "But they're never real."

"I am," he murmured, pulling you back to your feet. "This is."

"Mhm," you hummed, taking his hand and twirling yourself.

Shikamaru smiled, taking a step to the window while letting his fingers linger, interlocked with yours. When he finally let go, your fingers snapped. Cripes, how could this possibly be real?

"In what flavour does your confusion come?" Shikamaru asked as he sat on the tuffet in front of the window, getting the dab rig ready.

"Rocky Road is my favourite," you answered, your first few dabs clouding the part of your mind that contended with metaphors, sitting on the ground in front of him. "Rum Raisin is pretty good too... ooh, and Pralines and Cream. Mm, can't go wrong."

"Grandmama? Is that you?" He laughed, igniting the torch.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't suppress your laugh as you laid back on the hardwood. Looking at his popcorn ceiling, you sighed, "No one is as big of a hater as you, Shikamaru."

"You should hear what I keep inside," he snorted as he moved the flame around the banger.

"I should, you're right," you said, sitting right back up. Shikamaru smirked at you, eyes glinting playfully, making you feel so warm and welcomed. You grinned, "C'mon then, I know you wanna tell me."

"Do you really think I'm a prick?" He asked suddenly.

You shook your head and shrugged, "Only playfully. Like, I'd trust you to hold my baby, if I had one, but I wouldn't trust you to not draw on my face if I fell asleep first at a party."

"Alright," he nodded, seemingly relieved. "I can't fault you. I'd write my name across your forehead, for sure."

"Cripes, you wanna brand me?" You asked, laughing. Shikamaru bit back a smile, shaking his head and looking at the glass as it started to turn red. You hummed, "That can't be it, I always call you a prick. Tell me what else is inside that big, beautiful brain of yours."

"If this dab goes alright, maybe."

Shikamaru clicked off the torch and quickly gathered up the small pot of butter concentrate the two of you were using. He collected a sizeable pearl and you scoffed, "You plan on keeping your secrets, huh?"

"Just watch the master, sweetheart," he cooed condescendingly.

If you hadn't been so high, that would've sent you on some convoluted diatribe about how mean and prick-ish Shikamaru was. But, as it stood, you had no desire to say anything like that to him. You had no idea how fucking amazing being alone with Shikamaru would be. You had an inkling, but you couldn't have imagined how happy you would be in the moment.

Your previous notion of Tenten being the one he wanted wasn't even a flicker in your mind. That was stupid, wasn't it? Shikamaru wouldn't do all this, just to impress your friend. No, he was trying to impress you.

"Okay, now that I have the floor," you said as Shikamaru started to smoke. He looked at you, lips attached to the dab rig, and quirked his brow. You smiled and continued, "There's totally something up with you. You're being so sweet, and it's not like you're not a good person, or anything like that, but you've got me thinking things that are probably so far from the truth-"

"Like what?" He wheezed, mid-toke, blowing out the first round of smoke before going back to the rig.

You scratched the back of your neck, looking away to one of Shikamaru's book shelves. "Well, y'know, like... you like me. Like, wanna-kiss-me kind of like me."

Shikamaru's face flamed red as he exhaled the second round. You watched as he prolonged his toke, trying to put off his answer.

But he couldn't run out the clock on this one. Putting the dab rig down, Shikamaru looked at you tentatively and asserted slowly,

"I... do... want to kiss you. I've... liked you for... years."

"Well, then..."

"Yeah?"

"Don't be a prick about it," you laughed. "Kiss me."

[fulgurbugs]

another doll post!

they cut me from work early, so i had time to stop by my walmart and see if catty was in. she was! i picked her up with some birthday money for 24.99.

forgot to get a pic of her in the box. here she is unboxed tho! she has saran with microbraids around her hairline (be careful, these come undone easily.)

initial thoughts: while her outfit is cute… it’s missing a littleeee bit of flair. some shoe paint, or maybe a jacket, like in her concept art? these little shoulder things are kind of horrendous. (and they kept coming unvelcroed under her pits.) might look into making her something.

now, there’s a reason i i got excited about catty when i was previously unenthused about her. and that’s her new body sculpt! let’s cut to the chase, that’s what we want to see.

here she is! she is now the biggest MH sculpt, by quite a significant amount. luckily she can still fit on this stand, but it has to grab her right at the underboob at her thinnest point.

it doesn’t photograph well, but she has a pink-tinged iridescence to her body, that could read like shiny fur. it looks great, and makes her look very glittery and dimensional.

wide and back views. i love that she actually has a bit of a tummy, and she also has a much thicker tail than toralei. (i wasn’t able to yank the tail out, tho i think it’s supposed to come off.)

here’s some comparisons with some of the other ghouls. she’s a medium height girl, and i’d say she’s slightly thicker in the body and thighs than abbey, though the way she’s proportioned give her a fatter body type compared to her.

it’s more evident when they’re turned to the side. draculaura only has larger thighs, so if we specially compare to abbey, you can see cattys even larger thighs and her stomach compared to abbeys flat one.

she has smaller feet (same as draculaura’s size.) her hands are also standard size.

back to the doll with her clothes on. here’s her boots, as is mh doll tradition

cool sculpt, definitely need paint. probably a pretty simple project to do, but all those buckles and chains are just begging for a layer of silver. only a teeeeny bit got silver paint, which i think is a shame. allegedly most of the budget for catty went into developing her sculpt, so her outfit definitely is a little lacking….

face card. i adore ADORE her makeup, the little stars…. the side glance… augh. my favorite part is her lip paint, though. the gradient looks absolutely lovely.

the accessories. since this is catty’s core doll, she comes with some of the core staples: her phone, a backpack, her pet cat amulette, and some sunglasses. in addition, she has a mic, a broken hand mirror, a water bottle, and some sheet music

here’s inside the backpack and her sheet music open. (the sheet music is literally just a little piece of paper lol.)

here’s her with some of her accessories! i decided to restyle her hair a little bit as well, i saw a cute restyle that took her micro braids and made a little side bang with them, and that was simple to replicate, so i did that too. i also made her ponytail higher, which i think looks a lot cuter. i think i wanna give her a little ponytail accessory or something tho… maybe in black? dunno. i also think she looks cute with her glasses on her forehead, so i’m leaving them.

obligatory .5 shot.

and that’s catty noir! (lagoona foot jumpscare). i think she’s a lovely addition to the g3 lineup, and i really, really can’t wait to see what they do with her in another line. her reception (at least in the spaces i lurk) has been so overwhelmingly positive that i think when we see her next, they can really go all out and give her a gorgeous outfit and a fun theme (maybe a skulltimate secrets doll?) it felt appropriate to put her with my monster fest girlies, so she got center stage (sorry cleo and frankie) thanks for reading this far!

[a-soft-hornytiny]

SanHwa threesome with reader👀?

Little black dress. 

Summary: Your best friends can’t hold themselves back anymore when you show them your new dress. 

Word count: 1.7k+

Genre: Smut

Pairing: San x female!reader, Seonghwa x female!reader

Warnings: porn without plot, threesome, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected sex, teasing, bit of humiliation and voyeurism, cum swallowing, begging (let me know if I missed something) be careful while reading. 

Notes: this was supposed to be a lot shorter. I don’t know what got into me. Help. 

Taglist: under the cut (let me know if you wanna be added)

———————————————

Their eyes devoured you. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. All your alarm bells were ringing. Telling you to turn away, to leave. But you didn’t. Because something inside of you wanted to see and feel what would happen next.

You had bought a new dress. A short tight black one. And you had wanted to show off to your best friends, San and Seonghwa.

It would be a lie to say there had never been any sexual tension between you three. Especially during movie nights when the night broke in and fogged your minds. But nothing ever happened. It was a line no one wanted to cross.

But when they saw you walk out of your room, spinning around in that sin of a dress, winking at them jokingly, it was over. All fuses blew. They gave each other a knowing look before slowly walking towards you.

“So do you l-like it?” You stuttered, slowly taking steps back, trying to escape them.

Like? Oh that was not enough to describe it.

Your eyes darted around, desperately trying to find something to focus on that wasn’t either Seonghwa or San. And then your back hit the wall.

“We love it~.” San whispered to himself while cornering you against the wall. You couldn’t look him in the eyes but when you tried to escape his glance, you met Seonghwa‘s.

Shivers ran down your spine as he licked his lips. You couldn’t help but stare at him. His face was so mesmerising, filled with desire.

“W-what are you doing?” You cried out quietly as San’s breath hit the crook of your neck. His hands were resting on your hips, causing little electric shocks to run through your body.

“Something we should have done ages ago.” He responded, pressing his lips onto your soft skin. You let out a breathy moan as he began to suck on it softly.

Seonghwa walked past you two to open your bedroom door. “If you want us to stop, all you have to do is say so.” He said, seemingly unbothered before entering your room.

In the corner of your eye you could see him teasingly take his shirt off. Slowly, like he knew he was being watched.

You completely forgot about San’s hands on your body, you only had eyes for Seonghwa’s body. His muscles moving under his skin as he pulled his shirt over his head. The click of his belt as he opened it.

“Don’t make me jealous, love..” San growled. “I’m right here.” You whined as San’s hands slipped under your dress, carefully pushing it up. He harshly grabbed your thighs as he lifted you up against the wall. He pressed his body against yours, not leaving enough space for even the thinnest piece of paper. “Hold onto me.” He groaned into your ear before taking a step back. You lost balance for a second but his hands were already behind your back, stabilizing you. 

San walked into your room while you were clinging to his front. He gave Seonghwa a subtle nod before he leaned forward, putting you down on your bed. You laid there, your lower half completely exposed, your private parts only covered by the thin thong you had worn for the dress. The dress had ridden up to your waist, also exposing most of your belly. 

San let go of you and stepped back to Seonghwa. Both of them were now taking in every single detail of your body, even the littlest sparkle from the eye shadow you had put on earlier. “She is so pretty, isn’t she?” Seonghwa smirked, talking as if you weren’t there. He didn’t expect an answer either. He knew that he was right. 

And you couldn’t believe the sight in front of your eyes either. Your two male best friends were eye fucking you, one only half dressed. But you loved it. You loved the way they looked at you as if you were an object purely existing for their pleasure. 

“Do you mind preparing her for us Hyung?” San asked, giving Seonghwa a nudge. “Oh absolutely not.” He answered while walking towards you. You were shaking in anticipation. Your mind was racing. All that was on your mind was his tongue. His tongue that you had secretly watched as he licked his lips, wishing it would be your lips being moistened.

You were so distracted by your thoughts that the next thing you felt was cold air hitting your privates. In a matter of seconds, Seonghwa had removed your underwear, giving him a good view of your wet folds. “You look delicious love.” He stated, before lowering his head. 

His warm breath hit your slit, causing you to let out a pathetic moan. “So worked up even though he didn’t touch you yet.” San teased you while settling onto your bed. He had also taken off his shirt, revealing his broad shoulders and well trained body. Your eyes tried to focus on his face but kept wandering off to his abs. 

“Come on Hyung, don’t let her suffer so much.” He grinned, gently caressing your cheeks with his hands. 

And then you felt it. Seonghwa’s tongue slid into your warmth and slowly ran up and down your folds before stopping at your clit. You whined out loud, throwing your head back. Your hands nearly ripped your sheets apart as he began circling the most sensitive part of your body. 

San was sitting right next to your head, one hand on your cheek, the other harshly stroking himself through his pants as he watched the spectacle in front of him. “You like that love? Having him devour you like this?” San groaned while licking his lips. You nodded enthusiastically, pressing your face into his hand. 

And then Seonghwa stopped. “I think she is ready.” He said as he straightened his body. You looked up but what you saw stole your breath. Your wetness was glistening on Seonghwa’s face and the enormous bulge in his pants could not be overlooked. 

“About time.” San stood up, unbuckling his belt while he exchanged positions with Seonghwa. “Turn around for me love.. on your knees.” He demanded. And you immediately did. 

Now you were facing Seonghwa, or better his crotch as he settled in front of you, spreading his legs. You could feel the mattress lowering as San positioned himself behind you. 

“How about you return the favour? I’m sure that Seonghwa wouldn’t mind you taking care of his.. problem.” San leaned over you, whispering in your ear. He was still wearing boxers, you could feel that. But you could also feel everything else. 

Without any hesitation you started fiddling with Seonghwa’s pants, pulling them down far enough to free his boner. Seonghwa gently took your face into his hands and ran his thumb over your lips. “Such a good girl.” He said before pulling his dick out of his boxers. 

Your eyes widened as your mouth was hovering only inches over his slightly wet tip. 

And that’s when San reminded you that he was there. He had removed all the fabric from his body and was now running the head of his dick through your folds. You inhaled sharply as he touched your highly sensitive clit. “Forgot me again, didn't you love?” He teased you, making you whine. 

Seonghwa on the other side placed his hand at the back of your head to guide you closer. You were overwhelmed. One throbbing dick right in front of your face, the other teasing your entrance. “Are you ready?” San asked, surprising you with the sudden care. You nodded. “I need your words, love.” He smiled while tracing the sides of your body with his fingers. 

“Yes I’m ready.. please fuck me..” And that was more than enough for San to push his hips forward, his dick disappearing in your warmth. Moans were escaping your mouths simultaneously as he slowly started moving. 

“Come on love, I'm waiting.” Seonghwa's voice caused shivers to run down your spine. And without a second thought, you opened your mouth and let him guide you. The salty taste of his pre-cum filled your mouth as he pushed his length deeper down your throat. 

“Fuck. You feel so good!” San and Seonghwa said nearly at the same time. You adjusted the movement of your head to the rhythm of San’s thrusts, causing Seonghwa to harshly grab your hair and moan deeply. 

Your eyes rolled back as San picked up the pace. Pleasure was running through your body in a way that you had never felt before. It didn’t take long until you lost all control over your body, leaving the movement of your head to Seonghwa. Your knees were shaking as San steadily pumped into you. His grip on your hips was strong and the only reason why you hadn’t collapsed yet. 

Your moans against Seonghwa’s skin were dampened but still audible as he began to fuck your throat. You closed your eyes as you felt him twitch in your mouth, anticipating the warm liquid that was about to fill your mouth. Seonghwa groaned loudly as his hips buckled up uncontrollably. “Fuck fuck fuck Y/n I’m about to fill you up..” He couldn’t even finish his sentence before you felt his cum spurt into your mouth. You swallowed every drop of it well, letting go of his dick as soon as he was finished.

Looking up into Seonghwa’s fucked face, you felt a familar knot tightening in your belly. “San-ahhh, I’m c-“ You threw your head back as he hit your g-spot over and over again. “I’m cumming!” You managed to warn him before your whole body tensed up. Waves of pleasure were washing over you as all of your strength left your body. Leaving you to be a whining whimpering mess. 

But Sam wasn’t done yet. He thrusted into you, harder and faster, chasing his own orgasm. You couldn’t take it anymore, tears started running down your cheeks. Your whole body was shaking, completely overwhelmed by the continuing penetration. “Please.. please..” You begged, not being able to say more. 

And that was what pushed him over the edge. Hearing your pretty voice beg for him to finally cum was too much. San came, sloppily pushing himself deep inside of you, painting your insides white. Feeling his length pulsating made you go crazy. And then you collapsed, his dick slipping out of you. 

You couldn’t think. 

Seonghwa was lovingly petting your head causing tiredness to overcome your body. The last thought that went through your head before you fell asleep was how you could get the cum stains out of your new dress.

—————

Tags: @jonghoisbabie @multidreams-and-desires @little-precious-baby @yunhofingers-writes @serialee @crimsonbubble @cometoceantrenches @em--ilysm @deja-vux @kawaiiloli00 @ddeonghwva @aaaaajonghooooo @sansbun @cookies-n-joong @plonys @hijirikaww @nari-nim @yunkiwii @mingi-ivity @racheloveyunho @seongsangsgf @jhmylove @lizsvcks @yunhobabygurl @leoninadecorazones @kerra-that-one-random-fangirl @star1117-archives

—————

[atlantis-just-drowned]

A few days ago, my mom brought home a small gift from one of her patients. A little envelope, pink, glossy and sparkling.

It contained a sour candy, and written directly on the inner part, the old lady was pitching the free Bible classes she gave like a salesman would pitch you the advantages of a new vacuum cleaner. You will see it has many positive aspects! It's your chance! I still have a few ones available, call now!

It wasn't her first try, really. Every few weeks, she gives cards and letters and candies and pitches. You should convert, join a discussion group, catechism lessons, video conferences.

It made me think of a conversation I had a while ago. I was talking to my therapist about the way I went near the river with a lighter and burnt the small Bible Evangelists had forced me to take when they were waiting for high school students to get out of the college convention's building, with boxes and boxes full of the same miniature book, printed on the thinnest paper I had ever seen. He said he understood the gesture. He said "it was thrown at you angrily like a piece of trash. Where is the holy in that?".

I think about this sentence a lot.

Where is the holy in going around and pushing your old books in the hands of hungry kids simply searching for food? Where is the holy in pitching religion like a new plastic product from Walmart? Where is the holy in a man bouncing a broken child on his laps? Where is the holy in riffles and colonisations and wars?

Is that it? Is that your idea of "holy"? Why does it makes me want to puke?

I think you're wrong about "holy". You lost yourselves with words and definitions and forgot it was supposed to be a feeling. An alteration of the senses so unique and intense that any other word would fail to define it.

Holy is the skin of a lover glistering with sweat and their eyes closing in bliss. It's the warmth distilled in a comforting embrace. It's the unbelievable way every element of our planet is tied to one another in a balance so fragile we struggle to imagine it worked so well for millennias. It's the warm sunlight sipping on the floorboards on a peaceful morning. It's a parent kissing their children goodnight. It's a cry for help in the dark of night. It's the final breath of life before the end. Holy is everything that feels just right.

It cannot be encapsulated in a jar and kept away on the highest shelf. It runs freely in the wind and sometimes passes through us on a cold afternoon when we see our small sister smile delightedly. It lives in the thousands of different ways our peers imagined kissing. It strives from this particular beauty we only find in the ones we love the most.

Holy does not exist. Holy is just a word that we use when other words don't quite fit our experience. Holy is nothing but an attempt at an explanation. It's something that can fail us at times. It's nothing objectively real. Not an actual thing, but an abstract concept.

Books are only holy in the mind of those who reading them, felt struck by a spear of understanding. In that sense, every book is holy, and none of them are. The books you burn and ban are holy, and they matter so little in the same time. There will be other holies. You are not entitled to them. You cannot choose what is and isn't holy. You cannot contain it. It has no limitation. It is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It is nothing.

I am not interested in buying nothing. I do not want your books and classes and lessons limitating my perception and understanding of the world. Everything is Because Of Him. It's all Planned In Advance and you cannot escape it. You must forgive it all, everytime, forever. No matter how many times it pains you like needles under your skin, no matter how many times you must deny yourself the right to speak and denounce. No matter how much it suffocates you, forgiveness is healing. Silence is healing. If you do not say a word, it will not exist anymore, and everything will be fine.

If you speak, you will lose your right to the Holy. If you speak, you will never have access to it again. Those words on papers and those that the men speak, this is what is holy. If you think anything else is holy then you are wrong and deserve suffering. We are the one to decide which holy is true. We get to pick what we want and call it holy. We get to choose how you will define the world around you.

But when I try to listen, your pitches sound like nails on a chalkboard. I look at the men you're praising and all I see is maggots and dirt. Your wine tastes like rotten fruits and your bread makes me choke. It is poison, all of it. You want me dead.

Where is the holy in that?

[lovely-rants-alot]

Ooc: I'm so proud of this

Well, she could already feel her dad's lecture now.

To most people, this was something that only happened in fiction. To Brooklyn, this was a regular Tuesday.

She felt the luke warm water touch her hands as she washed them. The bathroom walls were piss yellow and covered in not so pleasant drawings. What they were spending their tuition on still appeared a mystery.

She turned off the water and went to grab the thinnest paper towel known to man, but she paused , noticing something, or more someone, in the mirror.

She turned around, and there stood her teacher, Lady Mary, but she didn’t look like herself, she looked into need of some moisturiser.

"Lady Mary." She lowered her head for a moment.

Lady Mary stayed silent, her gaze piecing Brooklyn like a knife.

"I'll get back to class." She went to get her backpack but something whizzed pass her head, missing by about a centimetre and landing in the wall.

She gasped slightly, standing still.

"You never learn, do you?" She snarled, her voice sounding deeper than normal. "We always seem to cross paths."

Shit.

Lady Mary, or whatever her actual name was, was Brooklyn's biggest pain in the ass. She seemed hellbent on killing her, for some reason she felt didn't need explaining.

"Look, I just want to get through my day, so if you could-"

"I'm here on a job. Peace isn't an option."

"What do I have you want so badly?" She turned around and faced her. Lady Mary had turned into her usual half lion, half human, part scorpion, all annoying form.

"You and your sister were protected from something, and I need to find what was kept under wraps."

"You better not touch my sister." She growled.

Lady Mary smiled, but there was no warmth to it. "Aren't you the younger sister?" She teased.

"I don't give a flying fuck. You touch my sister and I'll turn you into a baked potato."

Her smile faltered slightly. She grabbed Brooklyn's shoulder firmly, stopping her from running. "Why didn't you go to camp?"

"Where?" She asked.

"Don't play dumb."

"I don't-"

"Are you forgetting how good my aim?" She held up her tail and pointed it directly at Brooklyn's face. She gulped, old memories lingering in the back of her mind.

"I have zero clue what you're talking about-"

Lady Mary, being the asshole she is, threw Brooklyn to the side, making her slam directly into a bathroom stall and stumble backwards, the door opening with her.

Fuck that hurts.

Lady Mary went to start throwing more thorns or whatever they were. Brooklyn scrambled to her feet and slammed the stall door shut, hearing the thorns land in the door.

More thorns shot at her feet, making her back up and crouched on the toilet. Not her most flattering moment.

Lady Mary clearly wasn't impressed with that. She grabbed the door and pulled it off its hinges, tossing it behind her, breaking the sinks.

Brooklyn got out the stall and pushed her out the way. She ran to the broken sink and went to grab a chunk of porcelain. When she lifted it up, a glittering golden dagger.

Was it absolutely suspicious? Yes. Was Brooklyn going to ask questions later? Definitely.

She grabbed the dagger and faced Lady Mary. "Don't come near me."

Lady Mary pointed her tail at Brooklyn again. "I don't need to get close."

I didn't think this through very well

Brooklyn knew that peace really wasn't an option anymore.

Lady Mary flung thorns again. Brooklyn ran and tackled her.

Her grip tightened on the dagger and she slashed at Lady Mary's tail.

Instead of drawing any blood, or even cutting it off, Lady Mary hissed, pushing Brooklyn off.

She started turning into dust, crumbling like sand.

She yelped, trying to grab Brooklyn, even though she just pushed her off. Before she could even take a step, she faceplanted, turning into thin air as she hit the ground.

"What the hell..." Brooklyn breathed, staring at the spot Lady Mary had just been in.

Before she could even catch her breath, she heard talking approaching.

She grabbed her backpack and clambered into one of the only remaining stalls.

The talking became silent as they gasped.

She could see their feet from under the stall door as they all turned into circles, presuming looking at the damage.

"Someone get Lady Anne!" One of the girls yelped, as everyone spirted out of the bathroom, well expect for Brooklyn. She was currently crouching on the toilet again.

Moving probably the quickest she ever had in her life, she quietly opened the door and climbed out the bathroom window.

There was no way she was staying here after that.

@that-asian-child-of-aphrodite @that-one-daughter-of-apollo @childofthewargod @damiedantediane @glee-of-ares-wrath-of-aphrodite

Ooc: Hello, another lore drop!

This was the situation that brought Brooklyn to camp. Super fun, right?

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, let me know :)

[sirenarts]

“Every Second Spent In Heaven”

I didn’t realize I should probably post this piece here just incase some can’t access Ao3!! So please enjoy my lovelies!!

✨🌷✨

The winter court was beautiful. It was just as elain had heard her family talk about.

Elain admired the lovely ice figures both inside and out of the court walls. She asked her sisters if she could explore the court on her own. And she was approved the second Kallias and Vivian walked in. The beautiful female took elain by the arm and showed her some key points of the court. A few basic streets that she could find easily. And gave her all the good spots to look at.

Elain explored the court and came back just in time for her families meeting. The room was filled with papers upon papers. Elain sat between her sisters. Rhysand to the left of feyre and Cassian to the right of nesta.

Elain calmly between them. But across azriel. WHo sat next to amren and near Kallias and Vivian.

The meeting began and as usual elain tried to take it in.

But why did he have to be in front of her? Why did he have to look at her like that? Like she was the most beautiful thing on the planet and was blessed by the mother and cauldron.

No, she didn’t feel that way that much. Not since last solstice when azriel claimed it was a mistake. She felt that thrumming between her thighs and she swore quietly. Only managing to get the attention of feyre who tapped her leg and gave her a look.

“You ok?” She whispered to elain. She only nodded and returned back to the conversation.

But that thrumming was there again. This time she felt wet. And hot.

She looked around the room as she felt her body release the little bit of herself.

No one managed to pick it up. At least from what she saw. She leaned to feyres ear and excused herself to the bathroom.

Feyre worried something was wrong and almost went with her. But elain reassured her that she was fine.

She walked out and into the hallway nearly panting.

Touch me.

Was all her mind could say as she looked at him. At azriel.

Pick me.

Choose me.

Love me.

Be my mate I beg of you.

Elain almost sobbed in the hallway if it wasn’t for azriel creeping behind her. Her hearing picking up the sound of his feet that most wouldn’t find.

Azriel looked red. Like a cherry. And elain felt that release come faster than she could control.

Azriels body reacted the same way.

FIND EACH OTHER!

A string tied between them and azriel swore it was the mother or maybe the gods that yelled at them.

He rushed to her side and pulled her into a small room. Scanning the area before deeming it as good.

“Elain you can’t do that, you can’t look at me like I’m everything you want and need you can’t-“ azriel was stopped by a slap across the face by Elains small hand.

“I’m in this hell because of you azriel. Because every night instead of you being with me, I spend it alone. Because every night I am wondering why it had to be someone I didn’t want and didn’t even show me an ounce of knowing me.” She stood her ground and azriel could only lift a hand to his cheek.

He deserved it. Well and truly. But mother above he wanted to explain everything.

“Elain I swear to you not a single night goes by where I’m not thrusting into the sheets thinking of you. Where I’m not begging for you to say my name like it’s a song you made specifically for you. Like your soul isn’t this seed planted by the mother and grown with nothing but love.” He said.

Elain fumed silently. They stood together In front of the coat closet.

So elain decided to do something about her problem.

“Than what are you waiting for Azriel…take me. If you’re so hungry like you say you are.” She could only lift her chin just a second before Azriel grabbed her waist and brought her to the closet doors.

“Hold on tight” he order. Elains hands gripping to his shoulders. Azriel lifting her skirts and pushing his cock to her clit.

“And don’t make a sound my love” he commanded.

Azriel thrusted into elain with just the thinnest of fabric stopping them. But fuck the fabric he thought. Pulling off elain underwear like it was dust. The fabric ripping apart under his finger tips.

Elain pulsed on his shaft and he pulled away before removing himself from his pants.

“I’m going to fuck you.” He said kindly

“I’m going to show you every ounce of how sorry I am.” He said passionately

“And I’m going to tell your name on the top of my lungs until even my high lord goes deaf.” He said proudly.

Elain nodded and barely said yes. Already out of breath azriel thrusted into her. Her clot twitching around him.

Love me. Love me. Love me.

His mind begged.

He kissed her lips and bit the her bottom one. Tasting that little drop of blood he licked over. He sucked her neck and licked her throat. Claiming her.

“I have to do this elain I have to have you.”

Azriel couldn’t restrain his thrusts or his begging. His whimpering as elain moaned and kept saying his name like a swan song.

He took his teeth to her throat. At the junction of her neck and shoulder.

Elain knowing exactly what he wanted. What she wanted as well.

“Yes” elain said breathlessly. And it was enough for azriel to bite down and mark her in that brutal Illyrian way. Claiming her so that even a mate bond could never trump it. No mother or god could even say a single remark. And a high lord? Not even the most powerful. Not even his own brother. Could obey him from doing this.

They pushed and pulled and held onto each other. That burning spark building more and more.

A shadow came to azriels ear and alerted him of someone coming. His eyes snapped open and soon he pushed him self and a barely there elain into the closet. Straining his wings by forcing them to cocoon around each other. Keeping them safe and sound.

Azriel waited till elain collected her breath and he melted at the sight of her.

“That was…I don’t even…fuck.” She couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Let alone say words without having to pause between them.

Azriel leaned his head on her forehead and gently kissed her skin.

“I am never letting something stop me again. And I’ll be damned to let you be alone when you’re feeling…adventurous.” He smirked against her skin and she could’ve sworn he was smiling like a fool.

A hand pound on the door and they looked at each other wide eyed. Elain was still around his cock. Her skirts bunched around her waist. And azriel was very well cumming inside of her.

“Azriel get out now before they get downstairs.” A voice spoke and he gently removed himself from inside her. A slight wince of pain had Azriel nearly worried he went too far. He most certainly did. He made her almost bleed while fucking. She couldn’t stand on her own without assistance. She felt like heaven in a physical form.

Azriel got a shadow to open the closet doors and he turned his head to amren. Watching as she inhaled their scents and gasped as she looked at his back.

“Your skin! Azriel out now! You too elain!” She yelled quietly. Thank the mother for the shadows helping to keep them quiet.

Azriel held onto elain and they listened to a lovely rant from amren. They learned that azriels tattoos somehow formed into swirling shadows that dipped into roses. That elain somehow glowed like millions of stars on star fall. That they both seemed so…connected.

Azriel and elain could stand and listen to amrens explaining of what was going on. They learned that they’d been away nearly two hours. That even feyre was getting worried and close to looking for them.

“I’ll take the blame if they ask.” Amren said sternly and a part of Azriel didn’t even believe It. He didn’t want his friend to take any blame for his actions. Even if it was the most important thing he ever did in years.

Amren excused herself and let them get fixed and situationed.

“I’m so sorry for slapping you.” Elain said quietly looking down.

Azriel chucked deeply and brought his lips to hers in a tender kiss.

“You elain archeron, have one hell of an arm. I’m incredibly honored and proud of you.” He said to her happily.

All elain could do was kiss his cheek, the one she slapped.

The door opened and in walked both of Elains sisters.

Smiles from ear to ear and amren standing behind them.

“Couldn’t help myself, got too excited.” She said calmly.

Feyre and nesta rushed to hug them both.

No matter what happened or happens. Azriel swore to protect elain. Even if it meant getting his brothers mate and sister in laws plus the rest of his family against him. He wasn’t going down without a fight.

Azriel would dream of every second he spent with elain. Every second spent in heaven.

[lorei-writes]

My Dear Rag Doll

Chevalier x OC (OC Chart: Esther) Action ~2.4k

What was supposed to be a one-shot became a two-shot <3 My Dear Rag Doll is written to reflect the events as Chevalier would experience them -- I, Your Rag Doll is dedicated to that known to Esther.

Content Warnings: blood, violence

Chevalier stood up. He let his gaze sweep over the room again, although he did not think it likely that he had omitted anything. The dim light of the garden lanterns seeped inside, curtains stationed by the windows permitting its passage rather indifferently. Yet to be drawn shut for the night – or was it a “still” instead? – they billowed lightly with each gust, the sweetly bloody scent lifting from the ground…

The door to the foreign affair’s faction office cracked open with a knock, a silver tea cart merrily rattling inside, assisted by the metallic cackle of a chatelaine. A linen petticoat rustled underneath a woollen skirt, followed by a few sharp steps. Boots; low heel. Too light to belong to a maid. Crockery trembled as wheels trespassed over the carpet edge, shaken cups and plates muttering out their complaints, little spoons and forks plinking quietly. The tea was poured, liquid churning to then settle within porcelain bounds.

“Duplicate,” Chevalier spoke, eyes set firmly on the document underneath his pen. Imports, exports, actualisation to the pre-existing trading rights… Black ink lay in waiting, the thinnest trail of it stretching down the length of the nib – with one flick of his wrist, a signature appeared. Another page was summoned, indifferent towards the cart and its contents.

“No milk or sugar, as always,” Esther replied. She set the cup in front of him, the saucer near intruding on paper. “It’s… time for a break. Isn’t it?”

The beverage that went down his throat was subtly bitter, much unlike the timid smile curled up in the corners of Esther’s lips. Against all common sense and etiquette, she turned her back towards him unprompted and marched towards the sofa where she sat down, wrapping the cup tightly in her grip to seek out its warmth. Esther lowered her head and Chevalier watched on, not entirely understanding why yet not questioning it either. It was pointless to remember, even if retaining the events in perfect detail was not a voluntary act. Regardless, Esther corrected her posture and that too could not evade him. Her nose scrunched up and freckles rode up its bridge, a content murmur gurgling in her throat, eternally surprised by the smallest of things. Her nails tapped against the cup.

“Do gardeners drive away the birds?”

Pen in one hand and a piece of pastry in the other, Chevalier lowered his eyes to the papers in front of him. To engage with her chirping would be wasteful, he surmised, however —

“I’ve seen nightingales in the rose gardens. Their mating season is just around the corner… It’d be terrible if they settled here and were chased out of their nests.”

— he did not ignore her as completely as not to hear her either.

The registry closed with a soft thud, the tea cart rattling up a hiss as Chevalier set the volume between the plates. Her eyes latched onto him, although needlessly so. He had no intention to allow her to read him nor would he reveal the obvious.

“Familiarise yourself with the reports for the second quarter of last year by tomorrow.”

A smirk crept over his face at her shock. Esther forced herself to swallow; were she not as towheaded as she was, he’d expect her to go white on the spot. “What are they on?”

She mustn’t have expected an answer – a skittish ferret, she reached for the registry before even completing her inquiry, her lips quivering when presented with rows upon rows of numbers. “Volume of imported and exported items?” she murmured to herself.

“Indeed. Goods that passed through customs in Croix.”

“By tomorrow?”

“Provided you continue being resolved to become a suitable assistant. Otherwise you may return the dishes.”

“I will do it. I only don’t understand why tomorrow.” Esther clutched the book to her chest, as if his mere scoff could steal it away from her. “Is somebody expected to come? A merchant delegation?”

“In that vein.” Perhaps he was feeling generous.

The brief intermission came to a natural end, and so the work continued onwards as if it had never been interrupted to begin with. Petitions, reports, drafting and redrafting ordinances, still ongoing budget disputes, the idle stream of legislations occupied Chevalier’s attention until well into the afternoon. The pen dipped into the inkpot with a sense of finality, the last line of crisp letters emerging over the white. The doorknob remained unmoved. A sneer twisted his lips.

Chevalier pushed himself away from the desk and stood up. He glanced through the window, a nightingale speeding past it to then dive into the rose bushes right by the wall, early buds shivering politely at this intrusion. It hardly occupied his mind, however, his legs already carrying him away from the office and towards the library. For the first time in a while, Chevalier expected not to have any company. He could not mind.

The delegation from the Merchant Guild of Croix arrived shortly before the nightfall. Little different from a caravan, it consisted not merely of business representatives, but also of wagons filled to the very brim with ware samples, mountain worth of a variety of finely weighted silks and other muslins towering above hills of perfume, foreign-made cheeses, alcohol, exotic fruit, medicinal herbs, and… powder, although not one employed for the sake of personal vanity. Rather, mixed with specific compounds to produce different colours, it was meant to provide a soaring, uproarious kind of entertainment, or so it was presented as. The validity of said claim was yet to be determined, as not even Clavis who welcomed the guests seemed to be as curious as to deny them rest. Horses were led to stables, the merchandise – to an empty warehouse, the corridors of the palace quieting down hardly a moment after the initial influx of noise.

Just as Chevalier had foreseen.

All except for one thing.

Given the late hour, the residential wing of the palace was suitably silent, fading echoes of snores and drowsy murmurs just barely slipping through the gaps in the door frames lining the wall. Each a drop in the mizzling sound, they hardly existed when compared to the churning thunder of a footfall petrifying the corridor. Chevalier marched onwards, so very quietly loud, as if his presence itself was enough of a threat to warrant caution, the entire rank of portraits straightening in their honourable frames as he passed them by. Objectively, he did nothing of substance and nothing was amiss. The day was merely supposed to end, for another one of its kind to replace it come morning. And it would happen so without any disturbance. It would, was it not for the chilly evening breeze and the creaking hinge. Chevalier stood still, the familiar door behaving in the most unfamiliar of ways. It beckoned him closer, closer still, its shrill unpleasant voice the most alluring of songs…

Chevalier stepped into Esther’s room.

The window rattled, a newly unleashed draught pulling at what remained of the broken pane. The duvet was on the floor, as were the registry he had lent her and the contents of her desk. Doors of the disembowelled wardrobe hung open, linen chemises and petticoats lying scattered over the room together with shirts and a skirt, as if gutted out in a hurry. Chevalier stepped over the stockings submerged in a puddle of black ink, glass shrieking under the soles of his boots. Almost mechanically, Chevalier wrapped his cloak around his arm and swept shards off the top of the dresser, to then set his book down. Drawn to the crimson, his body crouched by itself. His eyes grew colder as they searched for something he himself could not define. The not yet coagulated ferrous stench clung to his teeth, however, undeniably real among intangible conjectures. Hers, not hers… Whichever the case, Esther was not there. Not in person, not in the body. The spirit he did not believe in.

Chevalier stood up. He let his gaze sweep over the room again, although he did not think it likely that he had omitted anything. The dim light of the garden lanterns seeped inside, curtains stationed by the windows permitting its passage rather indifferently. Yet to be drawn shut for the night – or was it a “still” instead? – they billowed lightly with each gust, the sweetly bloody scent lifting from the ground…

There indeed was a “still” in the broader equation of the room, and a greater linear independence of clues.

Not hers, Chevalier was certain, although still certainly at a loss.

An explosion split the stationary air above the gardens.

A gunshot answered.

Found.

***

Whether Chevalier would make it in time was not the question of skill, but of luck – and as luck had it, the events at hand were largely aligned with his plan, irrespectively of their conclusion. It was senseless to hurry; however, his legs carried him on their own, each step rushing after the previous one as if it was all a race. Perhaps, indeed, it was.

The hallways had been changed. Buzzing with information, they now swarmed him with advice, their voice growing louder the further he was led from the garden, disinterested walls standing in his way. Shortcut, faster route, a less common path… The crumbling quiet of the snores, the yet to be disturbed somnolent gasps, still safely cocooned in their indecision and hopes of the commotion being a nothing.

Nobody else would make it in time.

Nobody could.

Chevalier took a sharp turn and entered one of the old servants’ passages, elderly floorboards bemoaning his arrival with an array of pained groans. A white flash or a phantom, he was there one moment to disappear the next – from a corridor, to a staircase, and then another one, barely a thunder, electricity zapping through air. Chevalier sought the path of least resistant, the gardens his ground. He didn’t cling to any hopes or such. The objective was, truthfully, the only thing he had.

The dewy evening enveloped him, a handful of stray lights rousing in various rooms at the second explosion, followed shortly by another one. Chevalier hadn’t answered her when she inquired about the birds. He didn’t need to now; were he to waste a word, he’d have claimed that yes, they would be driven away. As things stood, however, the gardeners would have their work cut short. Wings beat at the air as Chevalier strode past the rose bushes, buds near falling off their stems. Irrelevant, even if he could not simply cease seeing them, quit hearing the panicked chirping… Reject the faint glistening of broken glass among the gravel, omit the broken twigs and not follow in their path. A metallic screech clawed at the quiet of the night as Chevalier unsheathed his sword.

He didn’t make it in time to see her fight.

He was too late for her to still struggle.

Chevalier barely saw her at all; Esther lay on the ground, the hiked up skirt the sole sign of her ever having attempted to escape. It was her, undeniably – he could tell by the shoes. Shoes only. The brawny man straddling her hips obstructed her face.

His rush felt painfully slow.

If he could fly…

Ha.

Ridiculous.

Self-serving and unrealistic, so very ironic after decades of chasing the nightingales out.

Chavalier raised his arm as Esther’s hands fell, as limp as if made of rags and not of flesh. She was a doll with cut strings, and he too did cut – through muscle, tendons, cartilage, bone, the arms that had her strangled dropping lifelessly once separated from their owner. A life snuffed out exchanged for still boiling blood. Chevalier turned on his heel, face frozen in indifference as his boot sent the man flying to the ground. Broken teeth spilled from the assaulter’s mouth.

A scream? This, this Chevalier did need to record in his mind. Not that he needed to think about as much. He simply cut, a single merciful blow. Unprecedented mercy, given the crime, pulsing crimson like sunset escaping from the neck made lighter by the weight of the head. That should have been enough, and indeed, it was. By any measure, it was. Yet he still stepped forward and still swung his leg, and the bushes still trembled as something fell in and through them, another bony shard falling from its mouth. Brutality frigidly embraced, Chevalier looked towards Esther, or what remained of her. He slashed at the air, wiped the blade clean with a handkerchief to then return it to its sheathe. The fabric fell to the ground, together with his ruined gloves.

All that was left was to leave.

He wanted to.

He did begin to.

Yet he stayed to look.

At first, it was hardly there, so easy to be overlooked. Chevalier watched, the witness to the shallowest of breaths, followed by another and another one. Esther coughed. He should have assessed her then and there. He should have, but he merely stood and took in her sight. With lips more redder rather than purple, Esther shakily heaved onto her side. She coughed, coughed, coughed, her entire body trembling as she turned her head from side to side, unfocused eyes opened wide. Hands clutching at the moist grass for stability, she searched for something, just barely drawing in short gulps of air. Chevalier did not move any closer. He —

Hair was stuck to her face when Esther found him. It was brownish red, just as her clothes, and utterly soaked. Vivid where still wet, it marked her pale eyelashes, brows, clung to her bruised neck and slipped behind her collar. She was painted whole, entirely in his colours, defiled down to her fingertips. He had done that. He —

It was her, in that moment, who looked him in the eyes. Esther. Duplicate… Rag Doll that came back to life. Panic was swallowed by the darkness of her eyes, circulation returning to white knuckles as she entrusted him with a faint, fragile, smile. Chevalier took a step forward. Esther collapsed onto the ground, breathing, still breathing even if battered, and alive.

Everything had been said and done by the time the crowd gathered. Scarlet to scarlet, Chevalier walked past ashen faces with Esther in his arms, eyes set on the furrowed brow of his younger brother.

“Clean this up. I’m taking three of your maids.”

Clavis did not say a word as Chevalier resumed walking, stained cloak billowing slightly over the chilly evening breeze.

***

The morning came sooner than expected, although it was still hardly soon enough. Unable to sleep a wink, Clavis strode into Chevalier’s room. His brother wasn’t there, however.

Seated in the bed and wrapped tightly in the duvet, Esther looked up at Clavis, black-purple bruises clutching her neck.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, her voice grating at his ears like pumice. “I’m sorry.”

He was as well.

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[miaountainmama]

tailor

characters: chuuya, fembodied!reader contains: smut (mdni), oral (f!receiving), idk i'm too lazy to tag it's pretty tame

wc: 2757

a/n: chuuya is snatched. also this was my first time writing smut so chances are it's ass.

“Stop moving or else I’m not gonna tailor this coat for you.”

You sighed as your boyfriend shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, eying your tape measure with disdain. He stilled, though, and you wrapped the tape around his hips, ready to try again. 

Besides being a couple, the two of you had a symbiotic relationship that worked quite well— you, as a tailor, would cater to Chuuya’s expensive tastes in clothing and custom fit each item to his body; he, a top Port Mafia executive, would provide you with anything you needed and more, giving you free reign to create whatever your heart desired. It was quite the sweet deal for you.

“Are my clothes in the way?” he asked as you cursed to yourself, fumbling with the tape measure by his waist, and you paused.

Did you actually need him shirtless? No. Did you care?

…

“Yeah, they’re in the way.”

The lie passed easily through your lips, and you pulled back as he undid the buttons of his vest and then his shirt, shrugging them off his shoulders and placing them in a neat pile on your workspace. Left in nothing but his pants, you took a few moments to congratulate yourself on a decision well made.

Your fingers slid softly across his bare skin as you wrapped the tape measure around the thinnest point of his torso, missing how Chuuya’s cheeks darkened at the contact.

“27 inch waist,” you muttered to yourself, and quickly jotted the measurement down on a piece of paper. Damn. He was snatched.

Falling into the groove of your work, you moved to measure his arms, and then his chest. The text on the tape was small and hard to read, and you scrunched your face up as you leaned forward to read the numbers. You placed a hand on his chest to steady the tape— and made the grave mistake of looking up at his face from your position by his chest.

Bathed in sunlight from the window of your sewing room, Chuuya glowed practically golden, and his eyes were soft as he peered at you through his lashes, gaze already trained upon your features. Holy shit, you thought to yourself, quickly looking away, cheeks flushing at the accidental eye contact. Have you ever seen a man so fine?

You detached yourself hurriedly from his chest, moving a little too quickly to write the measurement down on your paper, and the sound of a quiet chuckle followed you.

“See something you like?” Chuuya teased, and you could practically hear the smirk on his face from where you stood bent down over your desk. 

You huffed and gave him no answer as you stalked back to take his shoulder measurement, refusing to look at him again, and he hummed, using the opportunity to press a soft kiss to the back of your hand.

“Chuuya,” you sighed, mildly exasperated but mostly flustered. Taking note of the number, you turned to write it down— but a gentle grab of your wrist stopped you.

Sensing exactly what was about to happen, you tried to pull away to no avail. “Chuuya. I need to write this down before I forget,” you started, but the man stepped forward, closing the gap between you two. He was standing unthinkably close, and you averted your eyes as he leaned in, enough so that his nose almost touched yours.

“What was it?” he murmured against your lips.

“5 and a half inches,” you whispered back, all the breath stolen from your lungs at your proximity. 

Your boyfriend hummed, and one of his hands snaked around to the back of your neck.

“I’ll remember it,” he said, and that was the only warning you got before he sealed his lips with yours hungrily. All thoughts of pushing him away went out the window as you reciprocated with equal ferocity, hands immediately reaching up to tangle in his hair.

Chuuya walked the both of you backwards until your ass hit your desk, nudging you so you sat on its smooth surface, lips never leaving yours. His teeth worried your bottom lip, politely asking for entrance, and, smirking into the kiss, you playfully denied him, fluttering your lashes at him. Something in Chuuya’s eyes darkened.

You gasped as one of his hands reached up and tugged at your hair hard, and he used the opportunity to shove his tongue into your mouth. This time you let him, your own tongue swirling languidly with his. His other free hand slowly dragged from your shoulder down your chest and lingered for a moment before running down to the soft curve of your waist. 

Gently, Chuuya used his hips to push your legs open, taking his spot between them so his body was nearly flush against yours. The touch was electrifying and had you grasping his hips to pull him closer, and he smirked into the kiss.

“Someone’s eager,” he said softly, and you exhaled, pulling his hair for that little comment. It must have taken him off guard, because the man groaned into your mouth, and a smug look crossed your face. It was like this often, a constant battle for dominance, power play after power play.

He couldn’t have you winning.

Deepening the kiss, Chuuya’s hand left your waist to travel up your shirt, slipping under the soft fabric to touch bare skin against bare skin. Electricity jolted through your veins, and your breath hitched in your throat. And then, his other hand was tugging your hair again, tilting your head back so your neck was fully exposed. His teeth were on it within seconds.

Your back arched into his body as he bit and sucked on the sensitive spot below your jaw, moaning shamelessly, your hands digging little crescent moons into the bare skin of his torso. His lips trailed lower, tending to the spot between your neck and shoulders, to your collarbone, hands trailing even lower to stroke down your hips and the inner contours of your thigh. You whined, bucking your hips towards him, and he laughed softly against the skin of your breast.

Looks like he won this round.

“Chuuya,” you gasped, gripping his ginger hair like your life depended on it as he took a nipple into his mouth, tongue stroking along the hardened peak. He hummed against you, and you whined, attempting to push his head lower. He gazed up at you, blue eyes triumphant.

“Use your words, love,” he reminded you, tracing circles on the skin of your inner thigh, and you whined again.

“Please,” you practically begged, voice coming out needier than you intended. You pushed down on his head again, and this time he acquiesced, kneeling on the floor between your legs.

“Up,” he commanded you, and you scrambled to your feet hurriedly. He took no time in pulling the fabric of your pants down, taking your underwear with it, and you blushed faintly as the cool air of the room mixed with the hot breath of your lover fanned against your core. 

“Sit,” he commanded again, and you obeyed, letting your pants fall from your ankles to crumple on the floor. You averted your eyes, fixing your gaze on a spot on the wall above Chuuya’s shoulder, and he hummed his displeasure.

“Look at me,” he said, so you did— you made direct eye contact as he licked his lips, parted your legs with gentle hands, and leaned in— and tentatively licked.

You drew in a sharp intake of breath as the contact shot lightning through your veins, almost closing your legs onto Chuuya’s head. He didn’t stop, though, instead taking your clit into his mouth and sucking, and your eyes rolled back in your head. 

“Ah! Chuuya-a,” you whimpered, and, emboldened by your response, he flattened his tongue and licked a wet stripe up your folds. He set a torturously slow pace, dipping his tongue in and out of you and circling around, and it had you gripping his hair in ecstasy and want.

At this rate you were going to end up begging.

He had you reaching your peak embarrassingly fast, but that was no surprise— he probably knew your body better than you knew your own (and you his). He didn’t stop as you came hard against his tongue, and you saw white as you cried out his name. Your release glistened against his lips, but still he opted to continue tongue-fucking you until you came down from your high.

Finally detaching himself from you, Chuuya kissed your thighs and stood— immediately you pulled him in for a kiss, teeth nearly clashing at your intensity, and you tasted yourself on his mouth.

“Bed,” you whispered, and he nodded, blue eyes clouded with lust. He picked you up with ease, hooking an arm under your knees, and you wrapped your arms around his neck.  He practically threw you onto the bed once the two of you reached it, and you squeaked as you bounced up from the mattress a little. Chuuya was on top of you in an instant, pushing you into the soft surface, and your hands instinctively reached for the buckle of his pants. He didn’t make it easy for you, constantly distracting you with his hands as he ran them along the length of your body, lips on your neck again. Eventually, you got it, and he finally paused to let you push the fabric down his legs. 

At this point, you had recovered from your high enough to realize how absolutely dominated you were being right now, and the bratty part of you decided that that was unacceptable. Reaching a hand up to the back of your head, you quickly pulled Chuuya under you, shifting your weight so you were straddling him. He reached questioning hands to take control again, and you pinned them down above his head, looking directly into his eyes with a lidded gaze.

“My turn,” you breathed, and you didn’t miss the way his eyes flashed at the words. He opened his mouth to protest, but you palmed his erection through the fabric of his underwear defiantly, and he bit back a groan at the sensation. Not acceptable. You’d give him pleasure so good he would have no choice but to unleash all the noises he wouldn’t be able to hold back.

Your hands fumbled with the waistband of his underwear before pulling it down, letting him spring free below you. Chuuya was breathing heavily now, eyes screwed shut, and you watched his face as you carefully pressed a thumb to the tip. His abdomen spasmed, and a whine he couldn’t suppress flew up his throat. 

“Good, love,” you praised, and his already flaming cheeks darkened even further at the nickname. That was the fun part about your boyfriend— he was all talk, and the moment you gave him a real taste of what you could offer he was putty in your fingers. 

And right now, what you wanted to do was make him beg.

Slowly, you dragged your fingers against his length, relishing in the sound of his breath catching, and ground your hips against him. He groaned, hips bucking forward, and you tsked, tapping him on the forehead lightly. You continued your slow torture, running your fingers along his thighs, by his groin, and ghosting along but never quite touching his shaft.

“Y/n,” he panted, hands clawing against the sheets. “Stop teasing.”

You hummed, faking being in thought. “I’ll consider it.”

“Y/n,” he repeated, needier this time, and you smirked.

“Yes?”

He made some unintelligible noise from under you, knowing what game you were playing and loathing it. 

“Please,” he gave in, muttering the words you’d been dying to hear, and as a reward you grabbed him and pumped once. A shameless moan fell from his lips.

“Please what?” you cooed at him, stopping your ministrations, and he practically whined at you. He gave you his best death-glare, but with you on top of him, it didn’t really have the effect it normally did— instead, it fueled you further. Once it became clear to him that you weren’t going to give up, he made another noise and tilted his head back on to the pillows.

“You can’t seriously be doing this,” he groaned.

“Please what?“ you repeated, and he squirmed underneath you. “What do you want me to do?”

“Touch me,” he gasped hurriedly, embarrassment clear on his features, and a self-satisfied smile ghosted your face. “Please touch me.”

“Of course, darling,” you murmured, sickly sweet, and that was the only warning you gave before you lifted yourself up and brought yourself down on him.

Both of you moaned in unison at the feeling of him stretching you out, and you had to give yourself a few seconds to get used to the feeling. Tentatively, you began to move, setting a slow pace at first and gradually picking up speed as you got into the groove. You leaned down and kissed him, swallowing his noises, feeling the pounding beat of his heart from where your hands supported themselves on his chest. He sighed your name like a prayer, and you gazed upon him reverently.

At some point Chuuya must have wanted to gain control again because he flipped the two of you over, never breaking the kiss, so he was on top. You let him, satisfied after breaking him once, and you whined as his hands roamed wherever they pleased. He set a steady pace, hips snapping forward relentlessly, and it had you throwing your head back and making noises only he could draw from you. Your body was on fire, cheeks blazing, feeling completely and utterly filled.

Gazing up at your boyfriend, he already looked fucked out— beads of sweat rolling down his collarbones, hair matted and stuck to his forehead, eyes hazy and delirious after being released from your teasing. You were sure you fared no better.

Already, you could feel the your high approaching for the second time today, and he groaned as you clenched around him. He stuttered your name, and you his. His movements became erratic, sloppy, and you know he was close as well.

One final thrust and you were gone. You cried his name as the wave of your release crashed over you, him following soon after with a wanton groan, spilling himself deep inside you. He shuddered for a second, hovering above you, before collapsing by your side, still breathing heavily. You were in no better shape. You turned to look at him, reaching out to run fingers along his sharp jawline, and he hummed, leaning into your touch. 

“I love you,” you murmured, bathing in the haze of afterglow, and Chuuya took one of your hands, pressing kisses to your knuckles.

“I love you too,” he responded, and his blue eyes were filled with such adoration as he said so that you almost had to look away.

You shuffled closer to him on the bed, and he used the opportunity to wrap and arm around you. In turn you buried your face in his chest (despite the sweat), enjoying the closeness of it all. You traced little patterns along the small of his back, and he softly kissed the top of your head.

This was your favorite part, almost better than the sex itself. It sadly didn’t last long, as your boyfriend left to grab “something to clean you up”— he returned moments later with a towel, wiping around where he had made a mess between your thighs. You let him, and when he was done he threw it in the laundry hamper to the side.

He doted on you for a little longer, bringing you water, grabbing one of his shirts so you could change into it, and you huffed, grabbing him as he walked past.

“Stay,” you murmured, stopping him from being any more of a busybody, and he halted in your grip. More than anything else, you just wanted to be in his arms right now. He sighed but smiled softly at you, gently pushing aside the covers to slide in by your side. Immediately, you snuggled in next to him, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I love you,” you said again, and again, and you knew you would never tire of it. He was yours, and you were his, forever until the end of time. 

“And I you.”

…

“Hey, what was your shoulder measurement again?”

“…I forgot.”

[prncssie]

minors mdni

hobie is always down to help you study.

it starts on a wednesday night. you’re both lazing around in your apartment. candles are the main source of light and the smell of lemon zest wafts through the walls. tyler the creator’s dogtooth is lulling through your kuromi speaker.

it’s hobie’s choice. you both knew you’d be too focused to fiddle around with the music. if given a choice, you will turn into a two hour doom scrolling session of funny videos and cute cats anyway.

you’re lying on your stomach, neck deep in your pink ipad. hobie lays behind your with your feet on his chest. he absentmindedly runs his fingers along your calves. occasionally, his fingers dig into the muscle and provide you with temporary relief.

he catches up on his usual forums, criticizing the government and the rich. it’s bit ironic, he knows, to be so deeply in love with you but hate where you come from. his morals go out the window with you, though. especially when you turn and look at him with a sad brown eyes and a grimace. all he wants to do is remove hardship from you life, forever.

unfortunately, he has to be realistic and there is only so much he can do. “what?” his hands rub over the balls of your feet, covered in frilly white socks.

you’re always complaining you’re cold, despite never actually getting up to change the temperature and wearing the thinnest layers of clothes. today is no different. you’re wearing a flowy white tank top with matching shorts. he tells you it reminds him of a paper bag. you tell him to shut up.

“i don’t wanna do this anymore.” your cheek drops to your bed amid your complaining. your brain is fried with all the unnecessary reading you’re being forced to do. what you thought was supposed to be a quick little study session turned into hours of you curating a study guide for this unit.

hobie stopped by a while ago, bringing takeout with him. he originally came when you both thought you’d be finished soon but seeing how you weren’t, he stays by your side to keep you company.

“then don’t.” he shrugs. he’s not being helpful, he’s aware, but he never went to college and he doesn’t plan on it. like he will ever spend years at a government institution and follow their rules just to get a piece of paper. “ ‘s all a scam, anyway. meant to keep the average person down and pump ‘em right out to capitalism.” he looks up from his screen, his apologetic smile all mocking and sarcastic. “not that you would know anythin’ ‘bout that. basically invented it yourself.”

you narrow your gaze and huff when you turn away. “you’re so annoying.” if he didn’t have a hold of your leg, you definitely would have kicked him in his jaw. “not everyone got bit by a radioactive spider and is in a band.” you grumble into the palm of your hand.

at this, hobie is scoffing. he sits up, pushing your legs onto his lap. you can feel his finger between your shoulders and can only guess he’s pointing at you. “be serious, love. when’s the last time you spent your own money?”

“that’s not what we’re talking about!” you whine, both to evade his question and display the distress currently ruining your day. “i’m tired of this. just wanna download it into my brain.”

the screen of your ipad goes dim, as if on purpose. it’s reminding you of the control is has on you when you tap it to pull it out of sleep mode. you much rather would like to chuck it across the room but then you’d have to buy a new one. not only does that entail spending money you didn’t want to spend but also an earful from your boyfriend about how wasteful you are. about how you’re fueling the fucked up ethics surrounding consumers and producers.

you didn’t want to experience either.

“okay, okay.” hobie’s pointing finger is eventually replaced by his hands. they engulf your shoulders but press and roll them till you’re no longer as tense. “tell me how i can help.” he peers over your side to get insight on your progress. all he sees in a bunch of words, having no concept of what you’re studying. he’s willing to help, though, how ever you’ll have him.

you shake your head with a drawn out sigh. at this point, you need a break. maybe it would be better to come back with a fresh mind and clean slate. “you can’t. i’m just not gonna finish ever.” you snap the apple pencil back in its case and flip the cover over the top.

you officially give up, pushing the tablet away from you. your body flops on top of your mattress and your eyes flutter closed. what else are you to do than take a nap and hope your study guide studies itself. “jus’ won’t do it.”

hobie rolls you over by your waist. you didn’t protest and he likes that. it’s so easy for you to snowball and begin to complain about everything. he lets you, knowing you’re just expressing your frustrations but he can’t deny that he still likes to prevent it when he can.

“you been buggin’ me all week about how you need to pass this test. you’re not going to not do it.”

you feel the mattress dip from his weight when he leans to pluck your ipad up from above you. you gripe and grouse loud enough for him to hear you only to be met with it plopped down right in your chest.

you just barely open one of your eye to see if he’s serious about his opposing stance. when you see him looking right back at you, you know he is and that only further annoys you. “but i’m not doing it, not right now. i can’t.”

he pulls you until you’re seated, despite your purposefully limp body making it difficult. “you don’t really have a choice, sweets.” if you don’t do it now when he’s here to hold you accountable, you won’t do it at all. “i’ll help you. come on.”

“you can’t.” your exasperated by his insistence. he’s always like this, always forcing you to do things you don’t want to. in hindsight, you’re grateful because it’s usually something you really should do. “you don’t even know what i’m talking about.”

“i don’t have to know what you’re talking about to help you. you’re one studying, not me.”

you have no idea how much has passed since that conversation. truthfully, you have no idea if time is passing at all.

how your study session escalated like this, you have no idea. hobie and his infinite horniness is really the reason behind this, as he is with almost everything.

“read the next line.” he speaks from above you. he’s still seated, however you’re lying on your stomach again. you’re back, focusing the best you can due to the conditions of this time being. your bonnet is hanging halfway off your head from all the sliding you’ve done.

hobie is gripping one of your ankles, the other free to move behind his back. unlike other times you take too long to follow directions, he states his piece again. “i know you heard me, babydoll.”

it originally started out pretty enjoyable. you’d read out your little facts, tell him what it meant, show him you understand. in return, he’d praise you with soft words and grind the baby blue vibrator against your clit.

the first few times, you found the waves of your orgasms to be pleasant. it served as the perfect incentive to motivate you to study. however, now is an entirely different story. instead if a reward, it operates as a punishment. you’ve been pushed far past the point of overstimulation and lost count of the number of times hobie had you creaming all over yourself.

your lips tremble and you do your best to ignore the soft buzzing between your legs. much to your dismay, it’s still on and on the lowest setting. how long is stays like that is up to you. “in – infants first experience trust versus mistrust.” your hand flies behind you when he presses just right. the usually enjoyable feeling is underlined with pain and has you wanting to snap your legs close.

“move it before i do,” hobie says after giving you opportune time to correct your decision. he doesn’t like being mean with you, would much rather spoil you and never see you lift a finger. sometimes he does have to put his foot down, though he never really revels in it.

you hesitate, blubbering about how rude and unhelpful he is. you’re only lifting one finger at a time off his wrist. he wouldn’t care if you weren’t simultaneously attempting to pull away from him.

“gonna tell you again one more time, angel.”

your hand is gone before he finishes his sentence.

you don’t see hobie smile your obedience but you hear it, hear how lighthearted his voice is when he speaks again. “so trust and whatever. what about it?”

he’s still so gentle with you even like this. he only holds tight enough to keep you still and sometimes he takes pity on you. like this time when he turns the vibrator off. just enough to let you think.

you can’t think, though. you’re blank and growing more restless the longer nothing forms in your head. it’s such a simple topic until there’s three different people who theorize the meaning behind it. “something with nature and nurture, i think.”

“something? you think?”

hobie can’t believe what he’s hearing. you knew your fate when you said it, yet you continue to speak it. to your defense, you weren’t all that confident in your response. if it didn’t align with what you said before, he’d catch it and somehow you would end up back in this situation again. either blamed for not expanding earlier or for being incorrect now.

“it’s not a direct response,” you immediately defend yourself. you look over your shoulder, hoping to plead and response. “psychology is like a big written response test. everyone’s brain isn’t the same.”

he cocks his head, tenderly stroking your calf. by now, he’s used to your excuses and isn’t interested in negotiating the answers with you. “yeah? is your test written response?”

you suck your teeth and face the decorative pictures on the wall in front of you. what does he want you to do? break into the classroom and take the answer sheet? “you’re so mean to me. you hate me.”

hobie only rolls his eyes at your dramatics. while he did expect it at some point, your constant protests still has the same effect on him. “you’re such a crybaby. not gonna be sayin’ that when you pass.”

he turns the vibrator back on and reinstates his grip on your leg. he doesn’t have to, not with the way you collapse. your face is in your hands, muffling your garbles. if it was any other day, he’d feel betrayed. how dare you keep him from hearing what sounds he’s causing. today though, he’s more lenient.

you’re trembling when he circles it between your folds. you reach, seizing a hold of your cinnamroll build-a-bear. you feel a bit of guilt for your poor bear having to witness such lewd acts but the feel disappears the moment he turns it on the highest setting.

it’s so sudden, both the settings change and how quickly a weak watery stream comes out of your pulsating hole. you shriek through the rhythmic clenching until you’re whimpering.

your pussy is aching, tightening around nothing and begging to be filled. your clit may be sensitive but your need is not yet satisfied. “oh my god ‘bie. can you please just fuck me. i’ll study and be quiet and do whatever you want. please.”

hobie only laughs. it’s genuine though, soft and sweet when he pats your lower back. “can’t baby. that’s not what we’re doing here. if you do well next week, maybe.”

you feel like crying. how much longer did he intend on doing this? how much longer are you going to be tortured? is this how you die? you know your complaints would be ineffective in receiving the results you want so you sniff, sucking it up. you’ll just agree for now and get what you want later.

surely enough, on next tuesday you’re excited to show him your high marks. thanks to his unconventional methods, you make a ninety-four. and just as he’s suggested, you’re rewarded with an amazing night full of no sleep.

[springsmile]

over my shoulder || 01

18+ | h. shinso x f. reader

series masterlist

warnings: non-con, smut, pre-established trauma (r*pe), extreme anxiety/paranoia, victim blaming/shaming, abuse of prescriptions, self harm, suicidal ideation, disassociation, negativity around hospitalization, violent intrusive thoughts, kidnapping, murder, specific reader characterizations, manipulation, anorexia/bulimia allusions

** reader’s quirk is enhanced senses. upon activation, emotions and sensations are pretty much exacerbated. reader never learns how to channel or control it to its full potential, only to turn it on and off.

you would not walk out that door without a sense of pride toward your makeup application. you could decisively say the wings of your eyeliner were not up to par. if you paused now, the only thoughts your mind would be able to conjure would be ones of how one wing is pointing downward, the other seemingly kissing your brow, one bulky, and the other thin.

you’re late. so, so late. you know you won’t get in trouble, per se, but your pay would dip under what you’d estimated for the week, which was irritating in itself. you tell yourself it’s worth sparing yourself a smidge of the humiliation that accompanies leaving the walls of your apartment.

like every other day, it takes the realization that you have 10 minutes to get to your job that requires a 25 minute commute to narrow your eyes at the mirror on your desk, reflecting some unsightly black smudges framing your plain eyes. you had to admit that it was better than nothing, but nothing was just that— nothing. without the black you were disgusting, but with it… you guess that made you… palatable? nothing worth coveting, yet also not a sight which averted gazes. perfect for you.

beside you, your phone vibrates, and you feel the reverberations through the desk intensely. you jolt, silently cursing yourself and imagine a broken dam, water pouring from each crack and cranny. then, you imagine it all sealed up, halting the circulation… now, the lack thereof. that’s how you shut your quirk off; you’ve returned to your regular state of a hammering heart and sweaty palms.

your apartment complex is exactly what someone would envision upon estimating to them your pathetic salary. you worked at a bookstore, after all. it wasn’t exactly like you were some front-line worker, providing a necessary labor. you couldn’t complain. it was livable, nothing to sneeze at.

it’s cement—cold granite. the railings were once painted black and peeling, and your door had gaping orifices where its wooden fragments once laid. the apartment itself was dinky. you cleaned it consistently and decorated with a modest charm, but the odor of dampness was lingering in every corner. the complex was borderline ancient, built before the invention of the elevator, but it was at least a place you could pleasantly call home. ‘bad neighborhoods’ were hardly ever indicative of the tenants who lived inside the units.

you walk to work, having been fortunate enough to lease somewhere close enough to a place you liked working at. the other jobs were nothing short of disarray— inadequate managers hiring you on the spot during interviews out of desperation, and a disorienting lack of organization. needless to say, you were content at the bookstore.

currently, you’re conjuring scenarios that do nothing to soothe the thrumming of your heart, slamming against the cream cable sweater you’d thrown on in a haste to cover the largest of your insecurities—the vision of a car skidding off the street and plowing into your form, leaving fragments of your brain matter splattered into the pavement. next, you think of the thinnest, fresher piece of paper slicing your eye in two. now, you’re cringing. it’s replying in your mind over and over again. you swallow a wad of glue in your throat, eyes raking in your surroundings for a distraction.

a stray cat. it trills softly at you. you somehow manage a smile, and glance at your phone before deciding you could briefly pet the kitty.

its fur is a pure black, the kind that enveloped your eyes with a stark intensity when you shut the curtains, turned off the tv, and closed your bedroom door with the lights off. you’d always forget to turn on your fairy lights. it would making your eyes hum, an invisible pressure pushing downward, but it was pleasantly dissimilar this time.

its eyes are a gem-like amber, and they glisten in the waxing morning sun. you liked the shape of its pupils. almost a rhombus, softened at the edges, wide and dilated. you assumed it was happy, and that made you a little happy too.

you eventually pass a group of teenage girls, and you inadvertently shrink into yourself, chest seized with panic as they pass. you could’ve sworn they threw you a glance, eyes maliciously narrowed. your mouth goes dry when they crane their necks back and let out a shallow laugh.

you glance down at yourself once they’re out of your peripherals. your opaque tights were suddenly friction against your legs. itchy. you can’t even be upset at your fleeting elation.

with shaky fingers pinching the fabric, hoping for some surface-level relief, you realize you’ve reached the store. you pull on the dangling pieces of your backpack straps—the ones that tighten—and exhale as the padding presses to your armpits. tight and secure.

“morning, (y/n)!” you co-worker flashes you a radiant grin from behind the register, before you can will your lips to curve and feel that uncomfortable stretch in your cheeks, she’s back to bagging a customer’s purchases.

you sigh, locating one of the empty computers to punch your numbers in on.

“excuse me.” someone coughed at you. you raise your eyes ever so slightly, but zero in on the space beneath their eyes and though above the apples of your cheeks. they’re very tanned, and their skin is dry and rough.

“i need help finding a book, it’s called—“

“i’m sorry,” you interject timidly, interlocking your fingers with tight, white knuckles. it’s the only way you knew how to steady your composure. “i’m not clocked in yet, and i need to put my things away. i can grab someone to help you right now, though?”

he stares at you indignantly, with a pompous upward tilt of his chin. he’s looking down at you from his nose. your stomach does a 360 flip, and you’re bloating. absolutely sick.

“you work here, don’t you? you’re supposed to help a paying patron when they ask you for help.” he continues in disdain. you think of several quips, witty remarks that could maybe patch up your dignity that this man was so indelicately chipping away at. “i guess i can’t expect much from people like you. always so lazy. i see you all hanging around, talking. tch, whatever. thanks for nothing.”

he whips around and saunters away. you blink. the exchange hadn’t been fully registered and processed in your brain.

you know with utmost certainty that you’d soon be rendered to a hunched over, teary heap in the break room. and although the cancellation of your quirk hindered all emotions for an unspecified length of time, you could feel the onslaught of twinges racking your heart. and then, you find yourself trudging to break room in lethargy. you had nightmares again last night, having been jolted awake by your own tremors and cold beaded sweat dotting every conceivable part of your body. you’d had to shower. showering wasn’t fun for you.

you tried to relish in the knowledge that your lunch break was within the next two hours! whoopie! you wouldn’t let yourself eat, though. hoisting your achy feet onto those rigid metal chairs would be revitalizing enough.

when you find yourself on the sales floor again, you start for the customer service desk. as you had observed that there’s someone patiently waiting there, their fingers idly drumming on the worn wood. you half smile. maybe they wouldn’t give you an earful of all of their inconveniences that didn’t pertain to you. that’d be nice.

“hi! sorry to keep you waiting.” you flash your well practiced ‘how can i help you today, valued customer?’ smile.

it’s another man, and you instinctively lower your gaze to that spot on his face that quells the exacerbating effects of your quirk. if you’d been taking in the whole of his countenance, perhaps you would have noted the abrupt shift in his eyes, insisted that a manager was calling you on your earpiece. you’d seen that look a lot. and when you did catch sight of it, it reminded you of high school, and that alone was enough to make you bail out— potentially, clock out early.

“hi, i was just looking for books on renting trucks? i’m looking to make a business out if it.” he smiles crookedly.

you pause, lips pressed in a tight, thin line. renting trucks? how the fuck were you supposed to search for a book like that?

“i’ll try, but no promises.” you swallowed, fingers licking the key caps hastily. you wanted to close this exchange as quickly as you could. then you could busy yourself with a task that didn’t require your deteriorating social skills.

“it’s weird, i know.” he chuckled. it felt pernicious in nature to you, and you certainly didn’t appreciate his attempt to revive the conversation. your palms were growing balmier by the second.

“nah, not weird. i’m just not sure how to search for it on here.” you half-lied, furrowing your brows at the search results. there were a myriad of titles relating to trucks, but you couldn’t conceive why someone would write a how-to on renting them to people, let alone why this man would want to reference one, instead of an article online. needless to say, you were having trouble schooling your expression. if that face you spent hours on contorting to perfection in the mirror were to falter, everything would be shot straight to hell. you couldn’t handle a nasty disagreement breaking out at the unbridled twitch of your eye.

“ah, i get’cha. let me see.” and without leaving any room for dissent, or breathing, he’s leant over the counter. very much invading your personal space, and very much violating company policy.

your mouth quivers at the corners, attempting to form phantoms of phrases you should’ve had the spine to utter. the poignance of his cologne has long invaded your nose, a more mature scent, one reserved for a man of his age. perhaps three times that of yours. get away get away get away.

he straightens, offering you a complacent yellowed grin. “i don’t really get that program you use, but i’m guessing you don’t got what i’m looking for?”

“correct, sorry about that.” you tell him stiffly. you swear his breath was sticky, humid, and clinging to the skin of your neck. you suppress a shiver.

“no problem, darlin’. i was just lookin’ for a side hustle, ‘cause i work in law enforcement and i wanted to hop onto that business owner bandwagon.” he’s not rambling, he’s not making small talk—he wants your attention. he wants you to engage, and he wants you to be interested. this is all sickeningly apparent to you as you fumble to select your next words. you know you’d have to humor him only slightly; blatant indifference could be interpreted as aggression and get you a strike. you didn’t need any more of those.

“oh, that’s pretty cool. my dad works in law enforcement.” you reply softly, praying that your inauthentic interest would be apparent to him. though, men are either willingly or inherently stupid, you learned. the gentleman before you was no exception.

“aw, yeah? what city?”

fuck fuck fuck fuck!

you’re left scrambling, mouth gaping, dry and full of sand. you feel every artery in your body painfully pulsate and flush against your skin, pleading to be torn free and relieved, and remind you that you’re alive and you feel like you’re gonna die. you don’t even know if you have the capacity to deactivate your quirk right now—you felt like you deserved this; you practically instigated the conversation—stupid!

it doesn’t occur to you to lie—yet another vulgar display of your absentmindedness. you tell him the truth, and to add further insult to injury, you’re unable to distract yourself from his slippery gaze. they held little regard, and revealed each deplorable thought with the blink of his eye. it was dehumanizing. the way his cheeks were carved into this smile that failed to accentuate his duchenne markers. your next move is a grave error, one that, if your head was in its right place, you wouldn’t have contemplated. looking into his eyes—the skin is flat, his eyes are visible, unobstructed and—you know that much. he’s not really smiling.

“i’m sorry, i can’t stop looking at you. you’re so beautiful.”

twitching uselessly at your sides, your hands come to fist your sweater, now damp from the slickness encasing your hands. the wool catches your sweat and sucks it in. much like the breaths slipping in and out of your aching lungs. the balmy air clings to the walls, perhaps as terrified as you were, before being ripped from their sanctuary and nakedly thrust into the open.

“thank you.” you gushed? you attempted to. the keyboard before you was littered with varying puddles of sweat. you didn’t appreciate the dampened wool prickling your torso. it felt like tv static, the feeling when you’d hover your fingertips in front of, and this inconceivable force would kiss and lick your skin. you’re privy to each and every sensation that your being can house, the overload was almost too much, you’d had to search deeply within yourself and pull out what you could.

“here, take down my number.” he’s offering, that smile never leaves his lips nor meets his eyes, but you could center yourself again. it’s okay. he’s sweating exorbitantly, unabashedly clinging to his armpits. you would laugh in a normal circumstance.

stiffly, you reach for a sticky note and a pen. you’re pushing both toward him with your index finger, deliberately dodging the potential of contact—he’s grasping your hand tightly. you gasp and there’s bile searing your esophagus.

“it’s nice to meet you…” he references your name tag with a brisk glance as though his eyes hadn’t been raking in your entire figure for the duration of your exchange. “(y/n). your name is also beautiful.”

you’re only able to smile and nod.

“it’ll break my heart if you don’t text me, you know?” he chuckles lightly, but his tone is anything but. he anticipates your compliance, he thinks he’s subdued you into contacting him, or perhaps he’s genuinely convinced that he somehow charmed you into pursuing a relationship with him. he’s wrong.

as soon as his dubious eyes leave your vicinity, you take the sticky note into your hand, and with what remains of your strength, squeeze it. the edges are sharpened at the pressure, like thorny rose stems. they press into the joints of your fingers, but you don’t mind. by the time it’s released from your grasp, it’s like paper-mache.

lunch had trudged into your hour slot like an unyielding horse, unwittingly dragged along. your elation is muted, but palpable. it’s not like you were going to use it for its established purpose, anyway. you’d nap in the break room, preparing to flip-flop from position to position in those awful metal chairs, terrified that you’d reclined too deeply and slump onto the floor.

you can never sleep though. not really. it’s this hellish limbo. a plane where it could be argued that you were conscious, or that you were asleep. the sibling of sleep paralysis.

without a single breath between the back of your eyelids and the sudden shrill blaring, your nerves are electrified. and your body, with some newfound cognizance, snaps you upright. eyes blearily darting to and fro for danger, or the subject of your overstimulation, you find nothing but the alarm on your phone. the force of its vibrations have it circling with intense shutters. you hit stop.

your phone jerks to life again, screen flashing your generic wallpaper at you. there’s a notification lingering below the time display, a segment from some big shot newspaper. beneath the headline is some excruciatingly pretentious action shot of a hero; one with indigo tresses that were suspended in the hair, and bandages like tentacles unfurling from around his neck. the headline reads:

Villainous Quirk Saves the Day! 20 Lives Saved With a Single Word.

you can’t say your interest was piqued.

another day, another victim.

you hate leaving from the back exit. while it was designated for employees, some exclusive perk you should be immeasurably grateful for, it wasn’t afforded the same glare from the floodlights the adjacent parking lot was. comparatively, it was doused with light.

you’re one of the last to leave, the manager on duty singled you out and made you count the money in the registers. you’re horrible at keeping track at the tens and twenties, and not to mention your unwavering uneasiness. you hadn’t recovered from that unseemly encounter.

you’ve snugly positioned the various keys slid onto the ring between your fingers. they’re like claws—extracted kitty claws—and you’re prepared to drive it into some sicko’s chest at a moment’s notice.

ensuring the receiving room door had softly clicked shut behind you, you started off into the direction your quaint apartment complex resided. it takes less than a second for the hair on your arms and neck to flare up, and it’s even sooner your skin is forcibly aware of the sinister warmth of a hand—irrefutably larger than your own—locked onto your shoulder.

your instinct is to look over your shoulder. you suppress it, and instead tighten the grip on your the makeshift weapon, jutting out with an unparalleled menace.

you whirl around and swing, right for his sternum. you make contact, but its not hard enough. you’re not sure if it was the velocity that fell short, or if it was the puny strength that accompanied the strike that sealed your blunder. either way, he’s far from incapacitated. in fact, he’s enraged. you can feel the corona of his fury, it’s radiant and extending.

“i know that you had a long day, babe, but you couldn’t sneak a text in at all?”

his own clip is hard enough. it’s aimed straight at your gut, and it makes contact with more than the surface of your stomach. you think your intestines may have just been introduced to your kidneys. you splutter around that familiar acid.

you’re unable to cradle your belly as you’re plunged into another agonizing sensation. the uneven bricks—some ugly, stupid stylistic design—are cutting into the skin on your back.

“we can make this easy, or hard. i’m good either way, so the choice is yours, sweetheart.” this smile, wicked and conscienceless, begins in his eyes instead. they were more terrifying than the split of his lips. his hands, callous and aged, descend down your sides, pushing your panties and waistband of your jeans aside so he can clutch your bare hips. this terror, this terror you know all to well, the one that seized you when you awake from the most heinous dream, the same one almost every night when you’re transported back to high school, back to the shaming and the touching and the crying and—

this.

“please don’t do this.” you mutter, now your tongue is immobile. limp and numb in your mouth. some thick, wet deadweight that pulls you down to the soles of your feet. you wish your punch had been that heavy.

“man, i thought you’d be wrigglin’ by now. looks like you want it just as bad. i didn’t take you for a needy slut, (y/n).”

you flinch, flitting images and snippets of sound rush before you and climb into your muscles; ensuring your helplessness. you were very well-acquainted with that term.

you think it might hurt less, this time, if you pretend you’re not there. shallow-gazed, the darkness of the night blanketing the sky and presenting a comfortingly warm veil over your eyes. chin craning up, pointing to the north star.

he makes quick work of your jeans, they’re crunching around your ankles, as denim and fluid motion do not coincide. you fucking hate it. it’s almost as scratchy as the voices screaming at you from within the steel walls of your head, flailing and slamming on all sides, begging you to cry for help, begging you to turn your quirk back on, so maybe you’ll feel something, some terror, and leap into action. it’s growing weaker by the second, and you’re clamping your thighs shut as he growls a curse at you.

“what do we have here?” a voice from the dark muses. you might even say it held a semblance of amusement. ah, yet another sick fuck to partake in your humiliation.

“fuck off man, we’re just having some fun. we ain’t hurting anybody, isn’t that right, baby?”

the silence spoke for itself, you guess.

the anonymous gentleman, evading your line of sight, effortlessly conquers your assailant. you expect some cringey catchphrase, a declaration of victory or defeat, maybe some name calling, but you can’t hear anything but the boiling hot blood circling your ears.

you don’t need to see him to know from the shuddering groans and shallow gasps of air and pleading and promises of atonement (never directed at you) that tear from his mouth, that your savior was well-versed in combat. you don’t even try to conceal your chuckle, one that ascends your throat wryly and produces some stinging pain. a hero.

“walk down to the police station, and confess.” these words were unlike the ones he posed in his prior inquiry. the contrast, though, couldn’t be placed. the man who nearly became the brand new subject of your nightmares, heeds. face blank, eyes stoney and vacant. there’s no resistance, no more pleading or crying. it reminded you of the instantaneous numbness that sweetly enveloped you when you patched up that dam in your mind. then he’s languidly walking in opposite direction. it’s unsurprising that he knows the route.

now, you’re the object of the hero’s attention. and to your dismay, you quickly discern that he’s the hero with the villainous quirk. the very same that backhandedly glorified him in the article.

“that’s rude.” you mumble.

his staring persists, a muted violet with hollow pupils. you’d always heard that the eyes were the gateway to the soul, but upon your unwitting contact, you were compelled to judge that he was soulless.

the observation was brief enough to settle that the movement couldn’t have been misconstrued for eye contact.

“w-what?” you blurt, eyes cast at the asphalt in shame. you often took solace in the fleetingness of passerby gazes—even that of people your age. regrettably, you could feel the judgement, the assessment, and the heat of his prodding eyes.

“nothing. i was just thinking about how you never screamed once. i never heard you ask for help.” he reveals with an unabashed curiosity seeping into his tone. yet, the sentiment was lost on his eyes.

yeah, well, years of guilt and torment will do that to ya.

“i… didn’t think anyone would come to help.” you admitted quietly, your hand is wrapped around your forearm so tightly, you were beginning to lose feeling. at some point, your quirk had activated inadvertently. the static-y tingles envelope the skin.

“really. how come?”

the shift in his tone was… nothing of note. so slight, so easy to miss, but perceivable, nonetheless, if you willed yourself to observe it. the effort was not something that came naturally to you. most people were none the wiser, and you were no exception. as far as your ears had gathered, he was speaking plainly.

“i don’t expect anyone to act selflessly. not even heroes. no one’s ever helped me when things like… this happen.” things you’d never bothered sharing with anyone were unfiltered as they left your tongue, and you’re flummoxed. where went your restraint and trepidation?

your eyes are still cemented to the floor. and the hero, though intrigued, was growing tired of your hesitance.

“you could look me in the eyes when you thank me, at least.”

your breath escapes you at his unexpected audacious tone. but you know you’re in no position to chastise someone, as unsolicited as it was, who did in fact come to your rescue.

the air staggers in your trachea, slinking upside and downside the membrane as your eyes reorient themselves. they’d been fixed on the asphalt. your mary janes. and the intentional design of the boots strapped to his feet. the light above your ankles was disconcerting—having attrited the cordiality you found in what wasn’t another person.

unwittingly, bound to fulfill what was the edict of gratitude and respect in society, you lift your head, your sight following closely behind.

upon contact, your own vision sways, and you don’t know if the fault lay in the fatigue militating your uprightness, or the interference of cohesion in your head.

all at once, his voice becomes softer, and his face contorts from that laidback, complacent grin and relaxes entirely. almost tranquil. you’re not sure about his eyes though. for all your lack of skill in all areas concerning social reciprocity, you were excellent at avoidance. you could spent a very comfortably and fulfilled lifetime without staring anyone in the eye.

you weren’t sure if you could hold it together if you saw pity swirling around those murky irises.

“that was a joke. a bad one.” he says, it’s an apology without the proper structure. you’d take it. you didn’t know him, and you were set on having it remain that way. you’re hoping you become another faceless civilian in the cloud of enthusiastic praises, extensions of gratitude, love admissions, and just unremarkable people. you hope you’re another random headstone in a cemetery that people pass and never consider the bones beneath the soil, what they were composed of. you want to stop this charade of the assessment of your well-being, one supposedly conducted out of compassion, and go home and scrub your skin raw.

“you can skip the pleasantries. i don’t need any services. i’m going home. thanks for your help.” you say quickly, and when you leant over to scoop the contents of your purse into your hands, you found that the hero had beaten you to the punch.

“i’m shinso hitoshi.” he says as amicably as he can muster. the artificiality isn’t difficult to see through. he offers you your purse, palm outstretched where the strap laid loosely. you watch the mole under his eye as you regard him.

the data is before your eyes, yet you couldn’t construe it one way or another.

the metal toes of his boots point at you, and his eyes flit across the features of your face, mapping the expanse— it’s absolutely unnerving.

you couldn’t read his body language, gauge his facial expression, or even bear to allow the intermingling of your gazes.

“it’s nice to meet you, i’m (y/n).” you weren’t going to disclose any obvious identifiers, leaving you susceptible to a breach of privacy. your last name wasn’t necessary in this introduction— one you prayed would soon reach its conclusion.

he breathes a chuckle; your disinterest is painstakingly apparent, comically so.

“well… (y/n), i really insist; let me take you home. walk you. what just happened was… a lot. i’d bet you’d feel safer if—“

“you’d lose.” you snipped quickly. “i’ll go now. thank you again, sir.”

you now your head, intentionally at a higher decline, avoiding that pain in your lower neck that’s reserved for only the utmost respect. you spin on your heel, and you’re blinking back the fiery pain in your eyes.

you swore to whatever god that refused to heed any of your pleas that your back was scorched from a pair of eyes. but when you looked over your shoulder, the only sight that greeted you was that of flickering floodlights.

[lemony-snickers]

1 - Naruto / Kakashi Hatake

when the party's over - billie eilish.

Kakashi felt the hard wood of the the auditorium chair digging into his back and adjusted. It was dificult not to roll his eyes as families settled into their seats, turning to talk excitedly with one another about the show.

His eyes flitted to the decorations fixed to the front of the stage, the hand painted banner with "A Time to Remember" scrawled on the front.

Kakashi had never participated in a recital like this. Even in his youth, because of who his father was and what he did for a living, Kakashi's education in movement had been exceptional. Professional from the very start.

He had taken adult workshops instead of classes with children his own age, and he had featured in a few of his father's residency works before his death - had been taken under the wing of Sakumo's friends and contemporaries thereafter.

Kakashi was grateful he had never had to demean himself in such a way, wearing cheap costumes and trying to bend and break some artistic vision into a malformed box that suited A Time to Remember.

What did that even mean? What was it supposed to convey to the audience?

Kakashi huffed, rolled his neck from one side to the other to quell his irritation. An unfamiliar hand tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to look at the person attached, seated behind him, with only the thinnest veil of social politeness pulled over his natural expression of annoyance.

"Hi," a woman said, pointing toward the curtained stage with a hand-folded program printed on too-bright green paper, "who are you here to see?"

That was the questions, wasn't it? Becasue the person he was here for was not even performing, likely had done almost as few of these types of recitals as he had himself.

But Saya Tsunematsu was a peculiar thing, a person he still did not have a good read on, despite his proclivity for undrestanding people at a glance, in most cases.

The woman behind him, for example, leaning too close and hoping desperately he too was a single parent - something they could bond over before she inevitably asked him to help with some ridiculously small home repair project in a bid to finally seduce him.

"No one," he said flatly, turning to face the stage again. He heard the woman's half-shocked sound of confusion, felt the warmth of her hand as it crept toward his shoulder again before retreating. Kakashi closed his eyes, breathed through his nose. An hour and a half, one twenty minute intermission, and he could lay to rest whatever questions he had come here to answer.

Or, at least, if he didn't, he would forcibly bury them and move on. He had spent too much time already on trying to understand Saya; her determination to challenge him at every turn.

He had originally dismissed her when she auditioned for him with a piece of his father's choreography and she had snidely retorted that he was an egotistical fraud who could never live up to his father's legacy.

The remark had stung, the fear of inadequacy which Kakashi so easily pushed down most days writhing its way up his esophagus, curdling in his mouth.

Perhaps it had been a good thing - he'd never admit it - because it had forced Kakashi to truly think about the path he had set himself upon, the goals he wanted to achieve by reviving the White Fang Dance Company. To rewrite his childhood, to bring closure to a part of his past which had remained until recently an open, festering wound.

Saya had helped with that, had challenged him repeatedly as they reworked his father's choreography. He'd never met anyone who knew the movement as well as he did until Saya. It was strange, to find someone so devoted to Sakumo's work who had never known him.

The lights of the auditorium dimmed and Kakashi settled into the familiar darkness, the hush before the curtains pulled apart to reveal another hand-made (and similarly nonsensical) set piece - a backdrop painted with a mountain range in the distance, a field of flowers in the foreground; neither of which seemed to evoke a time to remember.

The first half of the recital was devoted mostly to the youngest children, few of whom knew their places or their steps, several of whom froze mid-stage, terrified of the lights and the sea of shadowed faces. One who cried, and three who tried to climb off the stage shouting, "Mama!" or "Papa!" with delight.

Kakashi had to forcibly unclench his jaw several times.

Intermission brought headache-inducing fluorescent lights and the opportunity to buy cookies and brownies and boxes of sugar water masquerading as juice in the hallway to support the dance studio's competitive endeavors. Kakashi purchased a single red carnation, unsure why except that it gave him something to do with his hands.

When he returned to his seat, the one behind him remained vacant and Kakashi wondered despite himself whether the woman had moved on his account or if her child was one of the young ones permitted to leave early so as not to miss their bedtime.

The second half of the recital was at least slightly more interesting. The children were older, more dedicated to their burgeoning craft. And while none of them danced to a professional level, several of them showed promise, and Kakashi found himself clapping a little louder, hoping it would encourage them to keep going.

And then, finally, the last piece of the night was all that remained. Kakashi straightened in his seat as a familiar person took the stage, standing in the center wearing a simple black dress and sensible heels.

"Good evening," Saya said, smiling, the long earring she wore catching the spotlight and reflecting it back in sharp refraction. "My name is Saya Tsunematsu and I'm a performer with the White Fang Dance Company."

Kakashi felt his pulse quicken a little at the mention, the acknowledgement that she was tied to him in some way. Professionally, of course.

"I am honored to have been invited to collaborate with some of the senior students on a piece for tonight's recital. When considering the theme A Time to Remember," Kakashi almost laughed but quickly converted it to a cough before anyone noticed, "I thought back to my own childhood, to the joy that dance brought every day, even when it hurt or when I didn't get the part I wanted and my parents listened to me cry the whole way home."

Several knowing chuckles erupted from the audience and Kakashi found himself, not for the first time, slightly jealous that Saya seemed so capable of connecting with the people around her, even if they could never attain her level of talent.

"I wanted this to be a truly collaborative effort and I'm so proud of the work these students have put forth to create this piece. I will admit, their choice of music was outside my usual realm, but that only made the challenge more fun for me, and - I hope - for them. Thank you and enjoy."

Applause followed Saya into the wings and the curtain pulled open again. A single performer stood on the darkened stage, wearing a loose sleeveless top and tightly fitted shorts, all a dull grey.

When the music began, it was a soft harmonic humming until a cracking voice joined.

Don't you know I'm no good for you?

The lights slowly came up, soft blue washing over the stage as the dancer at the center began a measured adaggio - as close to a hallmark of Saya's work as Kakashi had ever been able to pinpoint.

The girl's foot trailed from her ankle to her knee, and then higher - her thigh pulling tight to the side of her body as her foot extended overhead. Even Kakashi had to admire the control and flexibility the movement required. Her leg trembled only a little as she stared blankly forward, mouth parted slightly, hands soft at her sides.

I've learned to lose you can't afford to.

Her foot flexed but she remained otherwise still as two other dancers joined her, falling from the wings with a soft flourish, pulling at their shirts as if trying to escape their confines.

Tore my shirt to stop you bleeding.

More dancers, suddenly, running swiftly onto the stage as the dancer at the center released her leg extension and joined them in a cluster, disappearing as she melted back into the sea of grey; no longer alone, but no longer special, either.

The lights flashed from blue to red, the whole ensemble moving together as one entity - expanding and contracting, lifting up onto the toes of one foot, leaning preacriously to one side until they nearly toppled over.

But nothing ever stops you leaving.

They all tugged the shoulder of each other's shirts, appearing to try and stabalize one another before it became apparent they were trying to pull each other off balance.

Kakashi did not notice he was leaning forward, perched on the edge of the uncomfortable auditorium chair as he watched.

The cluster dispersed, dancers flying in every direction, some cascading to the floor while others leapt through the air, each face painted with an expression of anguish, remorse, fear.

They all stopped suddenly, swaying on their feet; turned away from each other, staring at the floor, solemn.

The lights cut out.

Quiet when I'm coming home and I'm on my own.

Bright yellow lights burst across the stage like the flashes of cameras, the music swelled.

One dancer fell to the floor, clambered forward from one knee to the other, rolling over each pointed foot, clutching their chest. Another fell on top, resting his head on their shoulder, wrapping his arms around them as if to cradle and reassure.

But the first dancer struggled against it, tried to pull themself free.

I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that.

Kakashi watched as the piece evolved, as moments of sadness and anger were punctuated by joy, by love. The lights wavered back to blue, ripened to orange and then rotten purple.

Slowly, those better moments overwhelmed the others, quelled the upset and the regret and replaced them with exultation. The dancers saw one another struggle, helped one another overcome. Rather than separate and isolated, they moved together again, one dancer propping another up as they fell.

The music crescendoed.

Let's just let it go, let me let you go.

The first dancer took her place at center stage again, but this time, instead of alone, the others joined her, all sweeping their leg up, up, up. Some weren't as steady, some not as flexible.

They all smiled.

I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that.

They flexed their feet as one as the music ended with a soft tinkling of piano keys.

The lights faded to nothing, darkness swallowed their beaming faces.

The audience erupted in applause, parents and friends and family all celebrating as the lights came back and the performers took their bows. Some in the crowd stood, many shouted. The dancers all laughed, giddy and pleased with themselves, as they beckoned Saya on stage to take one final bow with them.

Kakashi was the first to leave, the excitement of the crowd trailing behind him, falling quiet as the heavy door swung closed in his wake.

He smiled the entire way home, the carnation still clutched carefully between his fingers, and he finally understood why Saya did not find recitals or their preparation to be a waste of her time or talent.

[srebrnafh]

My slow progress through various aspects of drawing is challenging, but I feel like there IS a progress. My hand is much steadier than it used to, and I'm learning a lot about the "storytelling" aspect of drawing - where to put more details, which ones to omit, where put the "fadeout" limit on objects, where to provide as much detail as I can (the center of the scene, which I lightly circled to remind myself ;)), how to show not only shadows, but LIGHT, only with pencil...

Yeah, it is a bit grimy, but that's the result of me being clumsy and forgetting a piece of paper to put under my hand.

Next stage: redrawing the wall decoration, adding more details in the center stage; then inking the contours with my micron pens; then picking the shading method (probably cross-hatching with the thinnest pen).

...this is a piece of location in my novel "For the Price of a Charm", the we-do-not-call-it-a-palace! of Principality of Lobelia :)

[windvexer]

Hi chicken!

Wanted to know to which card I can associate to the Christian god. And the Jewish one and the Muslim one. Which, they're similar but different so the cards should be different too. It's fairly easy to draw associations with the Greek - Roman pantheon (because of planets and signs etc...), but I'm at loss for monotheistic religions.

(wanted to ask because I'm going through a bit of crisis of faith).

Hello, Friend.

I am formerly Christian,

but have never been Jewish or Muslim,

and I am afraid to say I don't think I even know the first thing about those religions.

If I may try to offer some advice you did not ask for,

I suspect you are attempting to perform divination to sort out your religious feelings, and perhaps determine what faith is right for you.

Have you ever done painting, like with acrylics or watercolor?

Have you ever just used those thin sheets of printer paper that can hardly hold a drop of water without warping?

And then, you put paint on it and the paper wrinkles immediately.

But the more and more paint you load onto the page, the page starts warping severely and then even tears through?

Divination is like this.

The topic of your fascination is the piece of paper. And I am afraid to say that big, important, life-changing topics have the thinnest and most delicate pieces of paper of all.

Each divinatory reading you perform loads paint onto the paper. And the more you do it, the more the situation gets warped. The more chaos is produced. It can become and endless rabbit-hole that, all of the sudden -

the paper shreds.

And you end up in the Upside-Down, and things get Weird.

I am a diviner perhaps more than I am a sorcerer or a witch. And please trust me when I say,

there are things we should not divine on.

Instead, perhaps practice making paper.

Talk to pastors. Talk to rabbis. Go to temple, go to mosque, go to therapy. Cry in the woods. Bury yourself in pillows and scream. Make friends with a tree. Make some good activist friends and help make posters. Get into making art with found objects.

All these things are making paper.

I wish you all the best in resolving your crisis. I hope you are not too hard on yourself if it takes a while.

[rafent]

◜  ₊  —  𝓡  ˚  ₊   𝐍𝐈𝐋

When he wasn’t scared, when he wasn't crying, Nil was the dreamer. 

‘You and me and Nel. One day we could run away together—somewhere we can never be found; wouldn't that be nice?'

That’s stupid, Rafal would say only. So very stupid, he thought and longed to say further. No pair of twins ever survived to adulthood together, much less two twins and an extra who Nel- fullest and fittest of their brood- never knew even existed. But he allowed those stories and hopes and wishes to weave before his eyes. Not that he liked the sound of them but that he liked Nil’s voice. Because when Nil was dreaming there was no room left for crying.

‘Well, what about you then?’

Rafal made sure to tell him that he dreamed too. Just not in the same way. 'I don’t want to run. I want to kill our brothers and sisters. To be Father’s true heir.'

He saw it in his eyes, like it spooked Nil how much Rafal was willing. How normal he was. They were both failures, stains on the midnight honor of Father’s true form who couldn’t reflect him, stuck in chrysalis bodies that never metamorphosed further, but Nil was the abnormal one. He never aspired to become stronger or to become more than what he was. He never wanted to play the truest game of their blood or even that game in miniature; sparring or wrestling with his siblings to hone their strengths, flicking dark magic at each other in the emulation of some deeper, deadlier breath. 

Instead Nil was Nil. He plucked flowers to press and age so their beauty would last longer. He covered his ears whenever the Corrupted wolves howled. When he spoke of his sister he called her the prettiest and the kindest, not the strongest. Nil was Nil, so after he said his truth Rafal smiled. Not you, he assured when he smelled the fear on his brother. Never you. Even though words were weaker than paper.

'I trust you, Rafal. You would never hurt me.' That shy trust was an acceptance that hung steady on the faintest, thinnest line of Rafal’s promise. Surrounded by a sea of Fell Children who would swallow one another in one gulp given the chance and forget their promises on a turned back, on a closed eye. So easily shattered by each and every indomitable will to survive, burning stronger than the last.

Abnormal? Anomaly? Nil wasn’t the only one. Words mysteriously meant more to Rafal. He kept his promises no matter what they were. From the moment they’d found each other alone, they should have seen to it that only one had left alive, yet they forged a bond instead; linking fingers and hearts, trading secrets not blows, and not death. Strange was something they did, together.

…and that was that. Or what it could have been. Should have been. 

His feet squelched into Nil's footprints as he tracked them, tracing and tracing, then finding. A scene of mudsoaked blood and bloodsoaked mud all around with something small, something dirtied to grey- nearly black- in the middle like it had once been white and pink. He looked down at it with a strange twist of his arms around each other even though he wasn’t cold. Heart a knotted mass like his hair when he slept on the wrong side.

Looking into his half-brother’s face, even then he saw himself before Nil willed it to be. Like a piece of him that would never return, left right here. With him.

“Nil, I’m here,” Rafal crouched onto his knees beside him, but the darkest hour of Nil's thoughts wasn't for Rafal to own, his fizzling breath wasn't for his name. That person was. That person was—

“Nel,” the dying boy said, his wilting voice wedged in the space between a whisper and his silence forever. “She’s waiting for her dragonstone to come back, but she’s waiting for her twin more. I don't want to hurt her. Please, Rafal—”

Rafal understood. Rafal loved him so he understood. Nil loved him back so he trusted. Like this they were whole. He made his promise to him on a juddering breath. Later his fingertips brushed against his ribs as he disrobed him, wearing his skin though it were only a shirt, swapping their identities though it were only a name. By the time they were changed, transformed, his brother wasn't there anymore. His eyes no longer red, no longer shining, but two haunts of pink glass fogged to the color of bloody finger smears or rotting peachskin.

With a gentle hand Rafal closed them—no, "Nil" did.

When he wasn’t scared, when he wasn't crying, the true Nil was a dreamer.

And now he was forever dreaming.

[buffalojournal]

Dark Sonnets

i

The strain persists Like motors on a backpack A grand clock On a grand building Situations determine circumstance They say Like a weathervane Occurring north to south And then south to north As a wolf moves across the tops of trees Even the sun still rises And moms watch the trains roll by Astride a stroller Thinking it might be worth it

ii

Exposition asks only for your hand It leads and parts of you follow An old tree that dies Must be dismantled in stages First the limbs Then the uppermost trunk Then the middle Finally the stump Though best practice Advises leaving it In the ground Until it dies completely And you don’t have to labor Against the resistance of its roots

iii

What does one survive if not themselves Transportation leads to false epiphanies Like jumping jacks at 6am Humping lackluster through another day In the soft times we can bisect the patterns Concatenating pieces that need But the thinnest thread A tiny effort During the shortest time My place among strangers in a dark tunnel I feel most myself in this liminal place The swaying and careening Every white noise The inherent purpose the gathering holds

iv

I want to be more like ground cherries which grow with a thin covering like paper surrounding their fruit and while ultimately doesn't protect it against its vulnerability at least visibly communicates its delicate nature as if to say, I can’t prevent you from injuring me but I can take care to communicate how best I should be handled to anyone who might be paying attention It is impossible to follow a raindrop forever Or separately pool the excess

v.

I don’t know what is important anymore As we wait as we weather Movement is literal and figurative As I mishear, mis-sing if we all have wings We all have nothing in common Other than the plainest facts A 28 hour bus ride from the nearest airport A photo ripped out of a western magazine If I inadvertently look like I belong to one train as opposed to another That I belong to this language in these moments That otherwise belonging is something else A wet shoe in the grass A rubber band which gathers the baby’s hair A voyage through catalogs of photographs

vi.

At a certain point I stopped listening The space between the pauses shorter The similes less like similes No metaphors or only metaphors Only imaginary jet streams of borrowed stories It’s easy to die off that which loves No water no sun Maquettes a common shortcuts Empty and institutional A short cut for what I was meaning to say I don’t want to watch the buildings fall I don’t want to read about the probability Even as I continue to grow larger and more round I am determined to appear take up less space so I have someone else to blame

vii. It isn’t quite as bleak So the path leads into itself So the morning noises are limited The sound of a garbage can rolled down the driveway The bin in the park where people put their dog waste It’s a lot to expect unconditional love all the time A discounted emotion that cites the lost year as its source Is it a matter of question If it’s a matter of question How was, you say, you want more without saying you want more Since the saying betrays a truth that mustn’t ever be revealed At this distance you can see your stupid little life for what it was A bell jar surrounded by wetlands that have no choice But to flood to get your attention

viii.

I want to give you this rock It isn’t a heavy rock You can cup it in the palm of one hand This rock won’t actually do anything It won’t transform your life Allaying your regrets Your remorse for time past It is a common rock One you might find strewn among The rubble aside train tracks I want to give this to you Because even though this rock is nothing special It was given to specifically to you And that’s something

ix. if I don’t journal if I don’t speak if I don’t do the things that I have said I will do if I don’t feel joy if I don’t feel pleasure if I only continue to use this space for what I have learned to use this space for if I never make any bones about it if I don’t think toward you with an old love if I don’t believe that it will be any different if I don’t in fact believe in change or really if I don’t believe in your change if I don’t carefully separate out the contractions if I don’t remember it without the shortcuts if I don’t ascribe meaning to this particular union any longer

🦬 Jackie Clark