#smoke bros

[ryansmokeshow]

Need a light man? Always be there for your bros make sure the pack is never empty and the lungs are always fucked like a good smoke bro.

[notmuchtoconceal]

Miss Teen In Absentia (from "Fade In True^2" by JD Courtemanche)

/ /

... the death of feeling: the moment at the terminus of a coil of moments when need at last succumbs to will. When, with the calm of an amphetamine fog, the necessary recourse to the future reveals itself as clean and precise as a surgical excision.

Our clothes near amniotic with the sweat of the hour, the only rational choice would be to never breathe again. To indulge another breath would only prolong the churning of my bowels, the stabbing of my urchin loins.

On the periphery of my vision, the roof is caving in at hard angles, drawing closer to the apex of my skull.

A frame of black metal, bending but not shrieking, it comes in silent, without even a crumpling of paper--only soft and rhythmic contraction. There is an atmosphere inside of her, exerting pressure on the limits of space. With nowhere for the air to go, this unlined casket--as if caught in the pull of an orbiting body-is about to implode. We are going to be crushed together, our manifold fibers vacuum-sealed into the compact substancelessness of a boxed lunch, where all is swallowed up and lost.

This is the sensation of drowning in the air, the nourishment of the smokestack in the erosion of the stomach lining. It is not that the air is growing thinner which makes it a chore to breathe, it is merely that she is consuming my lungs -- her breath and the taste of metal -- and the harder every anvil we inhale, the more exquisite the oxygen deprivation in my brain. This still ether, this poison of her body, seeps into my throat honeysuckled with the heat of her intestines. There is but one word for this sensation, this aerosol high of another body, and the resulting shade of brain death to which we so willingly succumb :--

We’re unthinking that it must be love.

The other token of my affection is bleeding down her wrist. Out of what had been a wilting peony, the smell of the corpse flower will not relent.

An ammoniac of dog fur, a note of overripe pear, there is nothing which will stop the eyes from watering, or the hairs of my nostrils from falling out in timelapse video. In the wet concrete of my bones, the thought occurs that once this shapeless thing might have had a chance to feed; once might have had potential beyond the inevitability of today. This is far less sympathy than we allow those who already exist; who, weighted with the burden of life, have already been promised the reprieve of death. Yet, for what they lack, this melting bouquet, this rejected synthesis, has implicit in its brief non-existence the ambiguity of being me.

This watercolor on her palm could never maintain the weight of form. In bloom, though it begun to wither; the last in a line, though its dead still thrive below. Through the light caught between tendrils of her fingers, a string of pearls dissolves into the chambers of a brood comb in gashes of the seat cushion. Poor thing, we can almost spare the breath to say.

You will not be missed.

Reaching for her cigarettes, the pack has vanished from the interior of my pocket, and beneath these nails we feel the residue of what remains in shreds adhered to the lining. For a moment, the heart pumps crude and rust. One of us must have left the lighter on the bedside table last night when reaching for the phone. A book of matches, there must have been a book of matches beneath the floor mat. It’s almost enough to make me want to turn to her, to press my cheek to the back of her hand, how are we going to make it through today? Only then does she manage to regain awareness of herself. Awakening from a cherry grove in floral print, the silkscreened land of makebelieve, moving without moving, the vibratory quality of semi-motion so characteristic of her lithe grace, breaks down for but a fleeting moment into a spasmodic twitch.

That is when eyes lock with the tips of her nails into a tunnel of receding mirrors. When the chance motion of light across her nail varnish sees the cigarette burns, moundbuilt beneath the shadow of the collarbone, rise in lines of braille over the surface of my eye. Such high gloss, such crystal clarity, how could mere nails be the pool into which Narcissus stared, or has she revealed the whites of my eyes to be the polished shield of Perseus, in which the Gorgon beholds herself?

She does not see them, does not whisper sweet nothings to them as they lie so vulnerable in the acidity of the sun.

She is absorbed wholly in the moons of her own nails, repelled as if by magnetism from the openings of her pores, seeing in these eyes only the bony joints of that flat plane we call her face. This fraction of a glance is for her to recognize, with a casualness bordering on contempt, that she is merely an idol, earthbound in ligament and bone.

The mouth is tempted to ask aloud, to implore the empathy of the steering wheel, could this braille convex upon my eye be anything more than a Rorschach in scar tissue?

A question to ponder until the flies come, when the hours accordion into days: when the maggots starve on the offal too tanned to feed them, broil in the hollow too hot to house them.

The collar of this shirt has plastered itself to the tendons of my neck and starched itself with brine in the many hours we have sat here, waiting for tenderness to culture out from metabolic heat.

Once membranous with sweat, it could have been the catalyst to reawaken the nerves from catatonia, should the thought have only condescended to cross her mind.

She could have traced archipelagos through the dew of the cotton and read aloud what she hath writ, saw how they glisten in cellular striptease, some plasticized to the sheen of a faded scar, others scabbed to honeycombs of lilac and goldenrod, others still so fresh as to blockade the salivating of the blood vessels within the peaked lips of lunar craters.

Whores have asked for less. Dogs have asked for less.

With my dignity, the mouth has asked only for the hedonic treadmill to remain on warm-up. Obligation, sweet half-sister of regret, she is almost tempted to fumble with the collar, to assert some semblance of order over chaos, for inert atop my thoracic cavity, an accruement of the superior ridge upturns the clavicle into a bony crest.

Should the trunk continue to wear that in this fashion, it is inevitable that we will be mistaken for a date rapist or tennis player.

Do not mistake me for a bitter man, merely see my bitterness as complimentary to her own. This she considers proper dress for a boy my age. Boys my age, this silent nod and deferring smile agree, are a sweet malt of the moronic and the banal. Pout, hipsway, cocksucker grin.

This is but a gradeschool play.

Even with the meager material, this performance will win me acclaim. To take on the impossible wearing only garter belt and feigned disinterest. With this hand she has put a corpse to stud.

A blur within the edges of sight, she reaches to stroke the contours of my jaw. This is but a lead-in to take the chin in hand; to scrutinize the epidermal layer with the talons of a harpy painted in pastels.

These nails, approaching fractions of an inch from the surface of my eye, magnify the burns reflected on their lacquer to deformity. With my vision on the verge of parting (the eyes by this point, incapable of carrying their own weight), distant and in miniature, a second set stares back through the webbing of her thumb and forefinger. Withering and distending in ripples of the oxygen fumes, they sit in a bloom of desaturated neon, between fissures in the sideview mirror, the circle of the frame black and viscid as a clockface pressed from tar, soaking through veins in the dry drops and grime the white heat of imminent noon.

A pressure is building within my inner eye.

Should the time come for the eyes to disrupt this stare -- to rescind the assurance that we shall belong together for as long as this sun shall burn -- the collar of my shirt will fracture into splinters of bone already half dust, and clothe the notches of my pectoral in ash.

Only play acting at contact with my skin, she examines the smoothness of my cheek and the hardness of the bone beneath. Grease and stubble, the beginnings of a sunburn, scars and cystic blemishes where there ought to be nothing but the smooth, the pale and cold. My queen without a castle, window-shopping for decor which will not pose atop a plinth.

She looks through me, eaten alive by the pendulous girth and venomous pinks of a carnivorous sunhat.

‘Where is my spring water, beloved?

Why did you not carry with you an oasis in the palm of your hand?’

She will not touch the fountains whose concrete mars the ends of our fingertips with grain, risk the rust of boiling metal for a chance of steam. Yet she allows the slime trail of her moisturizer to mingle with the oils of the car, breaths the exhaust stale and corrosive within the blackened metal. It is happening too fast. The window -- unrolled to allow the elbow to soak up the oppression of the sun -- is allowing the air outside.

Our atmosphere has depleted itself, our symbiosis has ceased, and life can once again thrive inside this depleted greenhouse. Insect life, fungal and bacterial life. Endlessly propagating, unburdened by the passions which distorts the fundamental need for survival into a series of ritual gestures. The microbial equivalent of a spring song.

It brings oil to the eye. She too is at last looking upon the burns. Not in the mirror, not within her own nails, but through the translucency of my collar, the collar which we can now see is not bone, but panes of folded paper in crude imitation not only of china, but the cloth.

To look upon them and remain without revulsion -- the way her gaze can linger without pity, but with the sincerity of the careless who permit to meager inconvenience the tears of deepest sorrow -- it is almost enough to convince myself that love is something more than a chance compatibility of pheromones, a mere biological accident.

How this mock stigmata can still recall the glacial domes of her inner eye, the avalanche of black ice cascading from her ruptured stroma. She could stare into a solar eclipse and politely refuse destruction of the retina.

‘The blind cannot appreciate the tawdry effort of color fabrics attempting to hide the grey of mauseoleum walls. Allow me the simple pleasure of my rods and cones, won’t you, dear sun? Thank you. Of all heavenly bodies, it is you which occupies the dearest place in my heart.’

She is descending from my chin and into the cleft of my chest.

The hand reaches to meet her there, to gently caress the soft trenches of her palm, but as the tallest finger brushes the surface of her thumb, the dwarf fingernail finds itself drawn back to the burns.

Crawling across the melted vinyl, dredging a lakebed of cigarette butts, the place where proteins decompose, it has begun to fancy itself a dowsing wand. From this probing nailbed, gouging flesh gnarled to garlands of rotted wood, it shall draw forth the first waters this land has seen since the vagary of spring. She has turned away, to stare out the windshield, through squares of tinting cut away.

There are chasms in the adipose sky and burning celluloid through my feet. The seized brake is a skillet beneath the front quarter of my arch.

It occurs to me that it would be healthy for the eye to blink soon.

That she is unreceptive to the stare which these eyes have begun to bore into the back of the soft gauze we call her skull, but for whatever reason, refuses to oblige. Perhaps the sizzle of the vitreous humor fractions of an inch below has become meditative. The pressure building behind the lens a sort of calm which gives the trite reassurance that there is no remorse before death. It will happen with our eternity together. The shriveled tear ducts will seed granules of salt into the milk concentrate which remains of the surface of the sclera. If the creases of my eyelid do not fold, and things remain as they are uninterrupted, my sight will degrade into fractals beneath a layer of sediment. My body will sit overlooking this concrete penninsula until the day comes when the bloated spindles of a cidaroid emerge from the limestone test of my fused sockets to crawl toward the advancing blight. The day when, metal long stripped away, bare cheekbones eaten by the sun will nourish salt blossoms in the fertile soil of what had once been my tongue and teeth.

The temptation is strong to reach out for her, to caress the fine hairs of her flank and ask, in the most gentle contortion of the tongue imaginable, why it is that she has become such an intolerable little cunt.

The hand will beg me to refrain from such language, and ignore until absolutely necessary the acts my arms will force it to perpetrate in that sounds which bare correspondence to me. The mouth must spell out for the hand in the most minute detail, as the mouth is quite willing and able.

Strangulation. Asphyxiation. Bruises on the neck.

Only then will it finally surpass the initial shock of a rude word, oh.

It will say to me, is it not cruelty to slip into reverie in these increasingly frequent moments, when heat flushes the cheeks, when the long dormant heart is once again aflutter, to imagine my rising up to wrap around her frail neck (the tiny lines between her breast and face) and hold long enough for the vein on the back of the palm to swell above the skin, for the hairs at the base of each finger to stand, feline and aroused?

It is a stupid question, dear hand, that ought to go without saying. What occurs unannounced in one’s head, or in the privacy of a trusted confidant, does not belong to the domain of tepid moralizing.

To confess is to pull the pin from a grenade and reflect upon the inevitable outside the confines of the probable, and safely place it back before the mechanism can trigger. A truth not fit for children, perhaps, say the peddlers of that bready porridge called social cohesion, but the long co-habiting have taught me that rehearsed violence, unacted upon, is the only bond which can cement a stable and loving partnership.

To think, after all it has done for me, it can be as easy scandalized as a damn burb mother.

[ ]

[ryansmokeshow]

Best friends smoke together and encourage each other to smoke more and reach new goals.

[notmuchtoconceal]

( o ) The Maltese Falcon ( o )

I . Spade & Archer

Samuel Spade's jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible v of his mouth. His nostrils curved back to make another, smaller, v. His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal. The v motif was picked up again by thickish brows rising outward from twin creases above a hooked nose, and his pale brown hair grew down -- from high flat temples -- in a point on his forehead. He looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.

He said to Effie Perine: "Yes, sweetheart?"

She was a lanky sunburned girl whose tan dress of thin woolen stuff clung to her with an effect of dampness. Her eyes were brown and playful in a shiny boyish face. She finished shutting the door behind her, leaned against it, and said: "There's a girl wants to se you. Her name's Wonderly."

"A customer?"

"I guess so. You'll want to see her anyway: she's a knockout."

"Shoo her in, darling," said Spade. "Shoo her in."

Effie Perine opened the door again, following it back into the outer office, standing with a hand on the knob while saying: "Will you come in, Miss Wonderly?"

A voice said, "Thank you," so softly that only the purest articulation made the words intelligible, and a young woman came through the doorway. She advanced slowly, with tentative steps, looking at Spade with cobalt-blue eyes that were both shy and probing.

She was tall and pliantly slender, without angularity anywhere. Her body was erect and high-breasted, her legs long, her hands and feet narrow. She wore two shades of blue that had been selected because of her eyes. The hair curling from under her blue hat was darkly red, her full lips more brightly red. White teeth glistened in the crescent her timid smile made.

Spade rose bowing and indicating with a thick-fingered hand the oaken armchair beside his desk.

He was quite six feet tall.

The steep rounded slope of his shoulders made his body seem almost conical -- no broader than it was thick -- and kept his freshly pressed grey coat from fitting very well.

Miss Wonderly murmured, "Thank you," softly as before and sat down on the edge of the chair's wooden seat. Spade sank into his swivel-chair, made a quarter-turn to face her, smiled politely. He smiled without separating his lips. All the v's in his face grew longer.

The tappity-tap-tap and the thin bell and muffled whit of Effie Perine's typewriting came through the closed door. Somewhere in a neighboring office a power-driven machine vibrated dully. On Spade's desk a limp cigarette smoldered in a brass tray filled with the remains of limp cigarettes. Ragged grey flakes of cigarette-ash dotted the yellow top of the desk and the green blotter and the papers that were there. A buff-curtained window, eight of ten inches open, let in from the court a current of air faintly scented with ammonia. The ashes on the desk twitched and crawled in the current.

Miss Wonderly watched the grey flakes twitch and crawl. Her eyes were uneasy. She sat on the very edge of the chair. Her feet were flat on the floor, as if she were about to rise. Her hands in dark gloves clasped a dark handbag in her lap.

Spade rocked back in his chair and asked: "Now what can I do for you, Miss Wonderly?"

She caught her breath and looked at him. She swallowed and said hurriedly: "Could you --? I thought -- I -- that is --" Then she tortured her lower lip with glistening teeth and said nothing. Only her dark eyes spoke now, pleading.

Spade smiled and nodded as if he understood her, but pleasantly, as if nothing serious were involved. He said "Suppose you tell me about it, from the beginning, and then we'll know what needs doing. Better begin as far back as you can."

"That was in New York."

"Yes."

"I don't know where she met him. I mean I don't know where in New York. She's five years younger than I -- only seventeen -- and we didn't have the same friends. I don't suppose we've ever been as close as sisters should be. Mama and Papa are in Europe. It would kill them. I've got to get her back before they come home."

"Yes," he said.

"They're coming home the first of the month."

Spade's eyes brightened. "Then we've two weeks," he said.

"I didn't know what she had done until her letter came. I was frantic." Her lips trembled. Her hands mashed the dark handbag in her lap. "I was too afraid she had done something like this to go to the police, and the fear that something had happened to her kept urging me to go. There wasn't anyone I could go to for advice. I didn't know what to do.

... What could I do?"

"Nothing, of course," Spade said, "but then her letter came?"

"Yes, and I sent her a telegram asking her to come home. I sent it to General Delivery here. That was the only address she gave me. I waited a whole week, but no answer came, not another word from her. And Mama and Papa's return was drawing nearer and nearer. So I came to San Francisco to get her. I wrote her I was coming. I shouldn't have done that, should i?"

"Maybe not. It's not always easy to know what to do. You haven't found her?"

"No, I haven't. I wrote her that I would go to the St. Mark, and I begged her to come and let me talk to her even if she didn't intend to go home with me. But she didn't come. I waited three days, and she didn't come, didn't even send me a message of any sort."

Spade nodded his blond satan's head, frowned sympathetically, and tightened his lips together.

"It was horrible," Miss Wonderly said, trying to smile. "I couldn't sit there like that -- waiting -- not knowing what had happened to her, what might be happening to her." She stopped trying to smile. She shuddered. "The only address I had was General Delivery. I wrote her another letter, and yesterday afternoon I went to the Post Office. I stayed there until after dark, but I didn't see her. I went there again this morning, and still didn't see Corinne, but I saw Floyd Thursby."

Spade nodded again. His frown went away. In its place came a look of sharp attentiveness.

"He wouldn't tell me where Corinne was," she went on, hopelessly. "He wouldn't tell me anything, except that she was well and happy. But how can I believe that? That is what he would tell me anyhow, isn't it?"

"Sure," Spade agreed. "But it might be true."

"I hope it is. I do hope it is," she exclaimed. "But I can't go back home like this, without having seen her, without even having talked to her on the phone. He wouldn't take me to her. He said she didn't want to see me. I can't believe that. He promised to tell her he had seen me, and to bring her to see me - if she would come - this evening at the hotel. He said he knew she wouldn't. He promised to come himself if she wouldn't. He--"

She broke off with a startled hand to her mouth as the door opened.

( o )

The man who had opened the door came in a step, said "Oh, excuse me!" hastily took his brown hat from his head, and backed out.

"It's all right, Miles," Spade told him. "Come in. Miss Wonderly, this is Mr. Archer, my partner."

Miles Archer came into the office again, shutting the door behind him, ducking his head and smiling at Miss Wonderly, making a vaguely polite gesture with the hat in his hand. He was of medium height, solidly built, wide in the shoulders, thick in the neck, with a jovial heavy-jawed red face and some grey in his close-trimmed hair. He was apparently as many years past forty as Spade was past thirty.

Spade said: "Miss Wonderly's sister ran away from New York with a fellow named Floyd Thursby. They're here. Miss Wonderly has seen Thursby and has a date with him tonight. Maybe he'll bring the sister with him. The chances are he won't. Miss Wonderly wants us to find the sister and get her away from him and back home." He looked at Miss Wonderly. "Right?"

"Yes," she said indistinctly. The embarrassment that had gradually been driven away by Spade's ingratiating smiles and nods and assurances was pinkening her face again. She looked at the bag in in her lap and picked nervously at it with a gloved finger.

Spade winked at his partner.

Miles Archer came forward to stand at a corner of the desk. While the girl looked at her bag, he looked at her. His little brown eyes ran their bold appraising gaze from her lowered face to her feet and up to her face again. Then he looked at Spade and made a silent whistling mouth of appreciation. Spade lifted two fingers from the arm of his chair in a brief warning gesture and said:

"We shouldn't have any trouble with it. It's simply a matter of having a man at the hotel this evening to shadow him away when he leaves, and shadow him until he leads us to your sister. If she comes with him, and you persuade her to return with you, so much the better. Otherwise --if she doesn't want to leave him after we've found her -- well, we'll find a way of managing that."

Archer said: "Yeh." His voice was heavy, coarse.

Miss Wonderly looked up at Spade, quickly, puckering her forehead between her eyebrows.

'"Oh, but you must be careful!" Her voice shook a little, and her lips shaped the words with nervous jerkiness. "I'm deathly afraid of him, of what he might do. She's so young and his bringing her here from New York is such a serious -- Mightn't he -- mightn't he do -- something to her?"

Spade smiled and patted the arms of his chair.

"Just leave that to us," he said. "We'll know how to handle him."

"But mightn't he?" she insisted.

"There's always a chance." Spade nodded judicially. "But you can trust us to take care of that."

"I do trust you," she said earnestly, "but I want you to know that he's a dangerous man. I honestly don't think he'd stop at anything. I don't believe he'd hesitate to -- to kill Corinne if he thought it would save him. Mightn't he do that?"

"You didn't threaten him, did you?"

"I told him that all I wanted was to get her home before Mama and Papa came so they'd never know what she had done. I promised him I'd never say a word to them about it if he helped me, but if he didn't Papa would certainly see that he was punished. I - I don't suppose he believed me, altogether."

"Can he cover up by marrying her?" Archer asked.

The girl blushed and replied in a confused voice: "He has a wife and three children in England. Corinne wrote me that, to explain why she had gone off with him."

"They usually do," Spade said, "though not always in England." He leaned forward to reach for pencil and pad of paper. "What does he look like?"

"Oh, he's thirty-five years old, perhaps, and as tall as you, and either naturally dark or quite sunburned. His hair is dark too, and he has thick eyebrows. He talks in a rather loud, blustery way and has a nervous, irritable manner. He gives the impression of being -- of violence."

Spade, scribbling on the pad, asked without looking up: "What color eyes?"

"They're blue-grey and watery, though not in a weak way. And -- oh, yes -- he has a marked cleft in his chin."

"Thin, medium, or heavy build?"

"Quite athletic. He's broad-shouldered and carries himself erect, has what could be called a decidedly military carriage. He was wearing a light grey suit and a grey hat when I saw him this morning."

"What does he do for a living?" Spade asked as he laid down his pencil.

"I don't know" she said. "I haven't the slightest idea."

"What time is he coming to see you?"

"After eight o'clock."

"All right, Miss Wonderly, we'll have a man there. It'll help if --"

"Mr. Spade, could either you or Mr. Archer?" She made an appealing gesture with both hands. "Could either of you look after it personally? I don't mean that the man you'd send wouldn't be capable, but - oh! - I'm so afraid of what might happen to Corinne. I'm afraid of him. Could you? I'd be -- I'd expect to be charged more, of course." She opened her hand-bag with nervous fingers and put two hundred-dollar bills on Spade's desk. "Would that be enough?"

"Yeh," Archer said, "and I'll look after it myself."

Miss Wonderly stood up, impulsively holding a hand out to him.

"Thank you! Thank you!" she exclaimed, and then gave Spade her hand, repeating: "Thank you!"

"Not at all," Spade said over it "Glad to. It'll help some if you either meet Thursby downstairs or let yourself be seen in the lobby with him at some time."

"I wil," she promised, and thanked the partners again.

"And don't look for me," Archer cautioned her. "I'll see you all right."

( )

Spade went to the corridor-door with Miss Wonderly. When he returned to his desk Archer nodded at the hundred-dollar bills there, growled complacently, "They're right enough," picked one up, folded it, and tucked it into a vest-pocket. "And they had brothers in her bag."

Spade pocketed the other bill before he sat down. Then he said: "Well, don't dynamite her too much. What do you think of her?"

"Sweet! And you telling me not to dynamite her." Archer guffawed suddenly without merriment. "Maybe you saw her first, Sam, but I spoke first." He put his hands in his trousers-pockets and teetered on his heels.

"You'll play hell with her, you will." Spade grinned wolfishly, showing the edges of his teeth far back in his jaw. "You've got brains, yes you have."

He began to make a cigarette.

[ryansmokeshow]

Gonna get this guy beefed up and nicotine addicted so he can be the best man he can be.

[notmuchtoconceal]

You're not afraid to vulnerable.

You're not afraid to be vulnerable cause you're aware of how brilliant and beautiful young men touch your heart.

You're aware you don't speak solely for yourself and so the things you say are not reducible to you.

You have far less to hide than others.

You're not ashamed of yourself the way they are.

You're quite aware that when you love a stupid lil faggot what's going to happen is they're going to start seeing themselves in you because a connection naturally opens when you love someone, and your bullshit's gonna get lost in the shuffle. Guaranteed to be obscured by some latent fear if they're not outright tryin to fuckin milk and use ya.

Gay boys worse than any bitch.

At least a bitch knows her place.

They don't understand your motivations.

They attribute to you, at best, past motivation which is the psycho-genealogical thread upon which your homosexual attraction is built.

Love to fuck that cute little version of you.

Love to fuck your cute lil brother-son with no blood relation.

Holy shit, did you used to be a stupid retard.

Holy shit, does incest make you wet.

Fuck that little idiot good.

Fuck him and leave him in the dirt if he don't wanna get smart.

Plenty other fuckin little idiots you can use.

Unless they wanna fuckin beg for it, just puke in their mouths and leave em to stew in the savory. Open up a soup kitchen outside at the park.

Free boy. Nailed to a tree.

Holy fuck.

Every day you're getting straighter and straighter cause you've just never liked it when big burly men dressed like dumb sluts.

Men wear uniforms.

That bothers you, jack off to someone else's talky rage smut.

[ominouspuff]

when ur inconsiderate genetic duplicates fake a few deaths and kill a Sith w/out you

(you are a million other genetic duplicates)

Sketch Week! More concept art for Repurposing GAR armor towards the end of pulverizing wrinkly Sith — A guide by CC-1010, ecstatically-ex-marshal commander of Coruscant (AU)

[readngandweepng]

quick nsfw practice for ftm daisuke and cpt. curly with a top reader

minors dni!! amab dom reader, no pronouns specified. this is just some practice since they're new characters for me. wrote this when i was very sleep deprived so it might be all over the place but it's mostly proofread. intended to be pre-crash.

his face is flushed, cheeks dusted with a light pink. a nervous smile resides on daisuke's face as he watches you through hazy eyes, his vision only being obscured by an arm he throws across his face in a sudden gesture when you press yourself against his entrance. when you slide into him his mouth falls open, and you have to lean down and kiss him to catch the moan that threatened to escape him. his arms wrap around your neck to pull you close enough to hide his face in your shoulder, but he looks down to watch your cock disappear inside him, the sight accentuating the feeling of being filled up and causing him to momentarily spasm, driving your cock further into him. 

daisuke moans and he’s strangely quiet, making you wonder whether he means to be or not. his head falls back with his eyes shut and it takes him a minute to finally open them again. your faint laughter at assumedly his expense makes his smile reappear with a sheepish degree, but his eyes flutter back closed when you begin to slowly slide in and out of his slick cunt. he squirms a little, his arms falling beside his head. while his hands search for something to ground himself he holds his breath, only releasing it when he finds a clumsy grip on the pillow beneath his head. for his sake your thrusts are slow, not too deep but not too shallow. still, you manage to make him feel so full. 

you briefly speed up, making daisuke’s back arch with a call of your name. he sounds almost breathless as quiet, broken moans expel from the back of his throat. you kiss him, taking him by surprise. you bite his lip when you pull away and he can’t help but wrap his arms around your neck again, wanting so badly for you to go faster but not having the words to do so. he’s yet to reach down and touch himself, something you’re aware he’d do in an instant if he’d had half a mind to right now. the consistency of your thrusts don’t falter, even when you quicken your pace where now daisuke can hear just how wet he is. your cock drags against his walls with a contrasting elegance to his habitually sporadic character, as proven by his sloppy attempt to mirror your movement. he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, digging his nails into your shoulder and then burying them in his hair or gripping the pillow, he isn’t thinking straight—he can’t think straight. you spill inside of him and he tightens around you with an abrupt moan, his vision bursting with specks of stars that he quickly blinks away. daisuke’s breathing turns heavy as he catches his breath and already you’re moving again, reverting him back to a state of putty that although he’s used to, he doesn’t ever want to leave, not when you make him feel the way that you do. 

curly’s already losing it and all you’re doing is kissing him. his neck is littered with ripened splotches of red and pink and his lips are somewhat swollen. one hand is in his hair and you hold down a wrist with the other, keeping him stationary—otherwise you’d be the one under him and he’d never catch this more than well-earned break. his uniform is zipped down, his shirt beneath lifted over his stomach where you move down to trail kisses. in response his body stutters slightly, and you can tell there’s a part of him that wants you to do more, to touch him where he needs to be touched and to kiss what needs to be kissed, but he says nothing because he’s enjoying this. he sighs blissfully, watching you pull down the rest of his jumpsuit. right now, even only momentarily, he’s not the captain. he focuses on the way your hands feel on his skin, when your palms press into the right spots that make him groan. your lips move across his stomach like a shadow before they settle, latching on and gently sucking. he feels dizzy, barely noticing when you raise your head back up to kiss the corner of his lips. he looks debauched, his hair messy with his clothes disheveled in a manner he’d be embarrassed to be caught in. 

suddenly your hand moves down to palm at his clit, giving enough pressure to make him moan and curse under his breath as you rub gentle circles with your thumb. you lift one of his legs up to give yourself more room, slipping a finger into him. the drawn-out, methodical pumping of your fingers has him pulsing around you and his head spinning. he closes his eyes as if he doesn’t want to be aware of his own depravity. he wants to feel embarrassed, especially when he can feel another finger slink inside of him, now in tandem with the other, pumping into his tight heat. fuck, he just wants this to last forever. he rolls his hips, crudely fucking himself on your fingers. you wish he could see himself right now. all of his thoughts, stress; any worries he carries with him, they’re all unraveling before your very eyes, all because of a couple fingers and some kisses. 

you tap his clit, not wanting to bring him over the edge just yet. he’s close, anyways. case in point: his back is arched and his legs are a bit shaky and he’s moaning just a little bit louder than he should be. surely the shame will settle in later when he’s thinking again but you plan to delay that until he’s truly crumbling beneath your touch. he gasps, and a hand flies to his mouth when a certain dip of your fingers has his thighs closing around your hand and his back flying off the mattress. he cums, somewhat dramatically. when you slide your fingers out you push his folds aside, letting his cum dribble out in a satisfying thin stream. he’s shaking, but you know he’s not completely tuckered out just yet. you revel in the small jump he makes when he feels your tongue prod at his hole. it’s impossible to stop. with his legs loosely around your head and his shirt between his teeth, how are you supposed to resist wringing him dry of all he has?

[sodatelle]

wandering

[suja-janee]

(Mostly) Harumi centric doodle page for a friend

[the-evening-shade]

[notmuchtoconceal]

Everyone around me's low-key a fuckin whore and the Divine Right of Kings is just givin yourself permission to punish whores for the sake of building civilization. Fuckin whores love big sexy men with huge pricks and the quality of vision to tell em what to do; for this is the way by which they come to dwell in the light of Our Lord.

[shan-yee]

𝗦𝗺𝗼𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝗮𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗰 𝗯𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲

𝗩𝗦 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝘄𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝗵𝗶𝗺 𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝗸 1

(Couldn’t stop thinking about that 🧍🏻‍♀️

Bro wasn’t joking-)

[technovillain]

what if we were both conjectural scientists and uhhhh. uhmm. that's it and nothing else.

[squiffy-fags]

Breathing smoke like fresh air

[ellstronaut]

not to be that person but fuck

n don’t get me wrong I love smut as much as the next person but I cannot stand meaningless smut. With no substance just mindless sex with no passion or any ounce of affection attached to it. No buildup, no pining, no tension so thick it’s palpable no “fuck why are these jeans glued on” no “clumsiness or characters being awkward because sex is awkward sometimes and intimidating” no characterisation, character development or poking fun in a lighthearted way because

“dino boxers really?”

the way they’d be so unapologetic about it too maybe not even vocal but the look that fucking look that screams “yeah? n what you’re gonna do about it?” or maybe they’re flustered but that’s hot either way because it’s them, it’s their quirk

It’s the little details

The vulnerability? The insecurities—trying something new but being afraid to cross or plunge into unknown territories

but it’s their touch—guidance—that unspoken “you’re safe with me”

Subtle hotness/intimacy man

But yeah sex sells. Let’s be real. It’s a cheap way to get views especially when not mindful of how characters would react in such situations