#Exterior Fitness Devices | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

seiwas · 3 months

Text

if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause.

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called.

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time.

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior.

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas.

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out.

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual.

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement.

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind.

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again.

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio.

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time.

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids.

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like.

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare.

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing.

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.”

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.”

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since.

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning.

You nod.

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors.

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again.

He hums.

“But I couldn’t find you, so…”

He hums again.

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.”

A pause.

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you.

You snort, “I wish.”

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.”

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think.

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you.

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card.

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.”

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze.

An interesting man.

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think.

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed.

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be.

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting.

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly.

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors.

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity.

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye.

“Do you come to this–”

“My studio is just by the corner, so–”

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?”

“It’s on the way to work most days.”

You nod, humming.

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead.

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.”

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again.

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.”

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said.

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies.

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer.

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.”

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be?

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations.

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster.

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you.

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now.

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio.

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s.

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good.

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?”

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate.

“And this?”

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge.

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer.

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later.

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye.

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.”

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout.

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.”

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges.

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours.

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet.

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind.

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums.

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time.

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should.

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort.

“Just ask, I know you want to.”

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety.

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line.

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper.

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles.

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting.

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces.

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close.

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.”

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.”

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along.

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from.

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand.

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.”

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever.

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth.

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.)

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close.

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you?

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay.

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface.

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more.

“Would that be troublesome?”

You laugh at his rigidness.

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.”

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough.

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you.

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break.

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are.

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard.

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.”

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.”

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art.

So, no.

There’s no other place he’d rather be.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation?

“Will you be free next weekend?”

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late.

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it.

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.”

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio?

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion).

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks.

“Not for a session.”

You tilt your head curiously.

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it.

“For a date.”

You begin to take up his weekends now, too.

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three).

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food?

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often).

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way.

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company.

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp.

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday.

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt.

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through.

It’s unexpected, but you like that.

And you like him—quite a lot, really.

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair.

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features.

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be.

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours.

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his.

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before.

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating.

“Kento,” you whisper.

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him.

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now.

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door.

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually.

Things are good a month until your exhibit.

Things are good until they aren’t.

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years.

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures.

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this.

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work.

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy.

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either.

You groan, banging your head against the table.

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing.

Nanami finds you in your studio that way.

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended.

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this.

And it’s too much—it’s all too much.

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to.

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away.

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined.

Silence.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly.

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.”

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.”

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing.

“Then we’ll do what we can.”

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way.

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.”

“Who?”

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.”

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.”

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–”

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?”

That makes you look up.

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home.

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say.

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before.

You remold and repair to build up yourself.

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him.

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning.

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really.

He smirks, “You’re a natural.”

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along.

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate).

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks.

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner.

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody.

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely.

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?”

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself.

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you.

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat.

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours.

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?”

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops.

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself.

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly.

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to.

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck.

A gasp escapes you.

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest.

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish.

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while.

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you.

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate.

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss.

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body.

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good.

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.)

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows.

A tear drips down your face.

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried.

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.”

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours.

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad.

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit.

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way.

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one.

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes.

He smiles at you the same.

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged.

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on.

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams.

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched.

It is as much you as it is him.

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls.

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately.

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kento x reader #nanami x yn #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #nanami kento x yn #nanami kento x you #shotorus.writes #shotorus.events #in's and out's event

1K notes · View notes

herkonular · 8 months

Text

TORONATA - DEVASA+ (3)

Toronata's leather iPhone cases are crafted from high-quality European leather, ensuring a luxurious feel and elegant look. These cases are available for iPhone 15 pro max leather case, iPhone 15 Pro, iPhone 15 Plus, and iPhone 15 The exterior of the case is made from full-grain leather sourced from Scandinavia, while the interior is lined with soft microfiber. This combination of materials provides a soft and protective shell that prevents damage to your device from drops, bumps, and everyday use. One of the key features of Toronata's leather iPhone cases is their sleek and stylish design. The cases are completely handmade, ensuring a high level of attention to detail and quality. The minimalist design complements the natural beauty of the leather, giving the case a timeless and sophisticated look. The cases are available in a range of colors, allowing you to choose one that best suits your personal style. In addition to their aesthetic appeal, Toronata's leather iPhone cases are also durable and protective. The cases are designed to fit snugly around your device, providing a secure fit that prevents slips and falls. The cases are also MagSafe-compatible, allowing you to use your device with MagSafe accessories without having to remove the case. The Toronata for iPhone 15 pro leather case, , iPhone 15 Plus leather case, and iPhone 15 leather case is especially noteworthy, as it features four card spaces, RFID protection, and a kickstand. This wallet case provides both protection and convenience, allowing you to carry your phone and important cards in one sleek and stylish package. Overall, Toronata's leather iPhone cases offer a combination of style, protection, and durability that make them an excellent choice for anyone looking to protect their device while maintaining a sense of sophistication and elegance.

#iPhone 15 #ios #iPhone

879 notes · View notes

chrollohearttags · 2 years

Text

When I Pull Up • Connie Springer

wc: 4.0k

author’s note: plug!connie (and the aot men in general) has been rent free in my frontal lobe for a while and I had to do it, even though a bitch don’t smoke. it’s just sum bout this hc.

cw: drug use/weed, car sex, constance getting a lil possessive over his fav buyer like ugh, choking, fingering and pussy play, breeding, squirting

____________________________________

"Ugh, I wish he'd hurry his ass up."

a very irritable and impatient (y/n) muttered from the comfort of your soft bed as you glared up at the ceiling of your room.

your iPhone lying flat against your ample chest as your folded arms cradled it.

it was currently eleven p.m and time was passing just as quickly as your will to wait was.

frequently lifting the device from your torso to check for any signs of a notification...

hoping the sought after text you had been waiting on would pop up.

you were listening to music, red LED lights strewn across the ceiling and the rest completely dark.

honestly, you had been bored out of your mind when out of the blue, your plug hit you up asking to chill. He said he'd smoke you out and you didn't pass up the offer.

truth was, he was fine as fuck, an absolute sweetheart to you and always have a little extra so you loved being around him.

finally, your phone illuminated and the name you wanted to see most appeared on your screen.

Connie 🍃🥺

I'm outside

instantly, you perked up and shot out of bed. Making sure you were decent, you'd go over to take a glance in the mirror.

long, jet black bundles hung down your back, a strapless neon green dress wrapping your frame and gloss covering your plump lips, you were set to go.

it was late and your roommates were either out in the streets or sleeping peacefully. Regardless, you'd creep through the dark living room and out the front door.

parked on the curb was an all black Charger; chrome rims and tinted windows on the exterior.

walking the short distance from the steps to the passenger side, you'd fling it open and be greeted by faint traces of smoke and cologne, along with that handsome face you had been waiting to see.

"Aye, gorgeous.

"Hey, Connie!"

from the moment you sat down, you felt pangs in your stomach and your body burning up.

dressed in a black muscle shirt, grey sweats, tattoos all down his arms, stud diamonds in his ears, gold watch on his wrist and gold slugs on his bottom row of teeth, Connie greeted you with a hug and nearly made your heart explode.

he looks so fucking good! And that voice, oh my God! Why is doing this to me? This man is trying to turn me into a slut so bad.

it was all you could think to yourself; so spaced out that you didn't even hear him talking to you.

"(Y/N)!"

his smooth voice snapped you out of your trance and you'd whip your head around towards him.

"Oh! Sorry.."

"You good, mama. Was just asking how you been. I missed you..ain't seen you in 'bout a week."

every time he spoke, you felt yourself melting into the bright red leather seats. He was so damn sexy, it didn't make sense!

brushing your hand across your arm, you'd glance down at the floorboards as you nervously answered.

"Yeah, just been busy. Staying out the way, you know how it is."

all the while, his eyes were glaring you up and down before he reaching down to grab something from the glove compartment.

"I feel you though. Well I'm glad you came to chill with me tonight. 'Preciate it."

"Of course, I'm glad you invited me."

in his hand, he held some papers, and a lighter, taking them out to start your session. Music was thumping quietly from the speakers and the hum of the engine were the only things you heard.

you didn't even want to move around him because he made you so flustered.

taking out the buds, he'd break them down as he spread the crumbs across the papers. The green flakes filled the brown sheet until it couldn't fit another ounce.

you'd watch his perfectly manicured fingertips move delicately across it; he was a natural.

even when doing the simplest task, he managed to turn you on. He'd run his tongue across the crease and you had to squeeze your thighs together!

flicking it around so casually..made you wish it were you..

suddenly, you were broken out of your trance by him calling your name.

"Here, you go first, beautiful." taking the blunt and letting you place it between your lips, he'd grasp the lighter to ignite it.

you'd take a drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling and releasing a cloud. He was mesmerized, watching you closely.

eventually, the two of you went back and forth, passing and taking hits until nearly half it had disintegrated.

by that time, smoke cloud had filled the car and your lungs.

your heads lie dormant on the cushioned rests as your seats reclined back and you'd just glare up at the ceiling in your euphoric haze.

he always had the best shit and it didn't take long for you to get high.

during the smoke session, you'd tell him about everything that had been happening in your life: from school to your new job, even how you had started your new fitness journey.

that's what he always admired about you..how goal oriented and smart you were.

it was so attractive and if he wasn't out here, doing all of this shit, he would've been tried to cuff you..even so, it didn't stop him from wanting you in the slightest.

especially now; looking so cute slouched down in the seat, eyes glazed over but still just as beautiful.

"Y'know I'm always proud of you, (y/n)..always making shit happen, never depending on nobody for anything. I like that."

his head was turned, glaring you up and down with his bottom lip tucked between his teeth.

he couldn't even hide it anymore. You had his attention in more ways than one and he was hoping you'd felt the same.

he couldn't stop staring because you looked so damn beautiful sitting next to him.

but he wouldn't have to worry in the slightest because you wanted him so badly, even if it was just one night. He couldn't be your man but you'd take him right here if that's what he wanted.

"Yeah? For real?"

scooting over in his seat, Connie leaned over the console and brushed his fingers across your temple and down your shoulder blade.

"Hell yeah..smart and you fine as fuck? I know these dudes stay pressing you, huh?"

honestly, you didn't pay them any mind! None of them really caught your attention quite like Connie and you weren't concerned with what they thought.

shrugging your shoulders, you'd just laugh it off and stare up at him.

"I mean..sometimes but I ain't thinking about them. Got more important shit to worry about."

all the while, you'd hadn't take your eyes of each other.

right now, you wanted to feel his lips..his hands rubbing up the curvature of your body..and that's exactly what would happen when he leaned further and got only inches from your face.

"Mmm..well lemme help you relax for a lil' bit, take your mind off all that shit.."

his voice had dropped to a low growl as he began to brush against your soft lips. You weren't even trying to stop him, instead you'd bring your hand to the back of his neck and pull him closer.

"Really? How?"

"I ain't much for talking, but I can show you.."

nothing else needed to be said because before he could get the rest of his words out, you'd begin kissing gently.

getting acquainted with the taste of each other's tongues. Swirling them around, smacking your lips together in slow, sensual pecks.

your hand resting on the cusp of his jawline while slowly curled the side of your throat.

your voices meeting in low hums and moans as you'd continue to make out. This was all you had been hoping for and with the feeling of the weed pumping through your veins, who knows where things would go.

"..I need you so bad."

and he'd show you just how irresistible you were when he'd bring his own to your neck and begin suckling on the tender part of it.

your fingertips caressing the back of his shaved head as his tongue piercing rolled off of your jugular vein, making your legs tremble.

(Y/N) could feel a throb between your legs and you'd try to squeeze them close but he wasn't having it.

"Nah, go ahead and open them legs for me, baby..it's alright.."

whispering with a low tone to his voice that made you even wetter.

you were already whimpering in his ear but when he brought that free hand up to your thighs and parted them, you'd release a sharp gasp.

"Shit!.."

chest rising and falling between heavy breaths as you held him close. All he could do was laugh because he hadn't even gotten started yet!

even though you had just been smoking, you were practically salivating at the way he handled you so carefully. He was like a completely different person right now..

finally, he'd reach that spot you had been longing for him to touch and he'd be greeted by wet warmth on his fingertips.

that made him grunt and suck his teeth.

"All this from a lil' kissing, just for me?.."

nodding your head as you chewed your lip, waiting for him to do as he pleased. That definitely put a smile on his face so he didn't keep you waiting any longer.

with the bezel of his watch shining underneath the dim lights, he'd bring his hand to your mouth and stick those two fingers inside.

as you'd gently run them across your tongue, big round eyes glaring so innocently..he'd prompt you to lift your legs in the seat so he could get a better view.

that beautifully shaven mound, dark and glistening with slick, spread open to a bright pink like a delicate flower.

right then and there, you could see a tent forming in the center of his pants and see him mumbling under his breath.

"Tell me something..how long you been waiting for us to do this?"

removing the digits so that you could answer him.

"Since we met..shit." garnering him a very honest response and he wasn't surprised.

he too felt the same way. So there was no need for either of you to hold back. Bringing his dampened fingers down to your warmth yet again, he'd began stroking your clit before slipping them inside.

"I'm glad to hear that..because I been wanting to fuck you for a minute now."

your mouth suddenly fell agape and your head fell back against the door as he explored your insides with those digits.

the sounds of your squishing flesh driving him absolutely crazy with lust but he held it together for now.

he hadn't shifted his gaze once and yet, you were crying out, squeezing your eyes shut as you rocked against his fingers.

your knees pressed into your chest and your back against the door handle.

"..so you gon' let me have it? Can I make this pussy mine?.."

there was no doubt or question about it!

"Y-yes! Take it.." with that notion, he'd shove them deeper until it reached the sensitive pad of flesh that made you tick.

squirming in the seat, he'd wrap that ink covered hand around your throat and choke you as he fingered that leaking hole.

it had begun to stain his fingers with a sheath of milky white but he wouldn't stop until you made a mess of the entire front seat.

moaning and whimpering, you'd beg him for more, knowing you were close to a climax.

"Connieeee! I'm gonna come..please."

but he couldn't allow it just yet. You'd peak down at his pants and notice that his bulge was barely able to be contained.

if you were going to release, you'd have to do it with him inside of you. Withdrawing his fingers yet again, he'd rub your thighs momentarily to soothe your trembling legs.

"Get in the backseat, baby..on your back, right now."

he had to feel that for himself now!

so you'd do as he instructed and crawl to the open seats. Luckily, it was fairly spacious enough for the two of you to move around and he was about to take advantage.

climbing in behind you, Connie pinned your legs against the passenger door and tugged your dress down to your stomach.

he couldn't help but to be fixated on your breasts as they popped out of the thin material..

the cool air of his AC hitting your nipples and stiffening them up.

bending his six foot frame down to hover over (y/n), he'd bring his tongue across the buds and suckle on both of them.

"..You gotta hurry up and fuck me. I can't take it."

it wasn't exactly the most savory thing to say but it was the truth. You had to feel him right now or you were going to explode.

that throbbing heat was begging for something to puncture it.

laughing before leaving one last kiss on your right breast, he'd lean up and shuffle his sweats down his waist.

you could tell just by the print that he had a lot to work with and he planned to show you just what he could do.

when he pulled it out and laid it across the lower half of your stomach, you'd let out a gasp without realizing. Could you really even take all of that?!

"Don't worry, mama..I'm not gon' hurt you. Just relax and keep your legs pinned back for me."

he sounded and looked so focus. Maybe you weren't the only one struggling to handle this but the second you felt his tip grazing your clit, you'd start whimpering and pouting.

it was too sensitive from the teasing to stay idle.

"Can I put it in now, baby? You gonna take it for me?"

"Yes! Whatever you want.."

"That's my girl.."

he had to admit, it was cute seeing you plead and cry out like that but he wasn't one for making a lady wait so slowly, he'd push himself into your aching heat.

right then and there, he nearly lost composure but he held himself together to buck his hips forward.

his body was a little contorted but he was going to make it work and make love to you no matter what.

"Nah and you was holding this shit from me all this time? Goddamn.."

never in his life had he felt pussy like this! That grip you had on his fingers was nothing compared to the way you were clamping his dick right now.

he'd gradually gain his pace and eventually, the two of you were moving in rhythm.

for now, he'd feed you slow strokes so he didn't bust too quickly but you were nutting all over him..making a creamy mess everywhere.

"You could've been gotten this pussy, all you had to do was ask for it.."

smiles were wide on both of your faces as your frames swayed back and forth, connecting as one and as if you belonged to each other.

"You're too good to me, baby. Well..now that I got it, I'm 'bout to fuck the shit out of you. Hope that's alright."

he was so cocky yet done it in the most charming way..one that made you throb against his shaft yet again. By now, he had sped up and gotten a little more fitted to your walls.

each thrust coaxing out more of that warm, silky fluid that he loved so much..

"You're stretching me out..oh my God, yes." crying out in pure pleasure when you felt him go deeper.

"Here, take my hands, sweetheart. Let me know if it's too much for you, okay?"

he was probably the biggest and undeniably the best dick you had ever had!

but you had him feeling equally as amazing and by now, he had reached pretty deep strokes. Your tits were bouncing, legs shaking and mouth agape.

"Ahh!—you look so pretty, (y/n)..letting me drill your shit like this. I'm so proud of you..taking my dick so good."

with your fingers intertwined, he'd lean down and slide his tongue into your mouth, letting them twirl as well. Subtle moans humming through your pressed lips.

"And you're so fucking tight..but look at how quick you opened up for me..oh shit."

being doted on like this was causing butterflies to swell in your stomach and your cheeks to burn. Especially when his voice was ascending to a high pitch.

he wasn't ashamed to admit that you had him weak though.

soon, those laced hands creeped up to his shoulder blades to claw into his back.

he was pounding your sensitive pussy, going deeper and you didn't know how much longer you'd be able to withstand it.

that pressure was swelling and growing harder to contain by the second.

"Oh fuck! Oh fuck...I'm gonna come, daddy! I can't hold it anymore, please!"

faint tears were streaming down your puffy cheeks from the restraint of being edged like that and you'd make one hell of a mess.

you tended to wet things up and quite a lot when you climaxed!

but all that did was make him more excited and rather than stop you, he'd press his thumb pad to your clit and stroke it while glaring into your eyes.

"So do it..the fuck you waiting on, mama? Get your nut, go ahead."

encouraging you to release. He could still feel you squeezing him pretty tight though. So he'd lean down and kiss your forehead with a smile to soothe you.

"If it's these seats you're worried about, don't. Squirt on this dick and you ain't ever got to worry about paying for my shit ever again, baby. Hell, I'll buy you whatever you want."

he'd keep feeding you long strokes and tracing circles on your clit until he felt wetness all over his shaft and watched you splatter his leather interior.

droplets of sticky rain all over those red cushion and it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

"Fuuuck! Connieee!"

"Let it out, I know! Look at all that cum!"

crying out and calling his name as you granted his wish.

needless to say, he was in awe of your little display.

"Yeah! That's it, baby..that's my good fucking girl, yesss!"

coaxing out all that he could until you were shaking and reeling from that pent up orgasm. Leaning down to kiss you, he'd first scoop some of your juices onto his tongue before spitting them into your mouth.

it would appear that you had turned him into a deviant..completely unhinged and crazy for you!

but now it was his chance to return the favor and fill you full of his cum.

"You're not getting rid of me now, you know that, right? You my girl now.."

whether he was serious or not, you knew you couldn't be done with him that quickly and he felt the same so he'd plop down onto the seat and pat his thigh.

"Is that right?" questioning as you readjusted to climb atop his lap and onto that still hard erect.

it was touching his bellybutton when he sat up like this and it had to be eight inches at least. You could get used to having dick like that in your life!

slowly, you'd get adjusted and impaled yourself on it.

"Hell yeah, so tell the rest of them motherfuckers to fall back unless they' tryna die 'bout this shit."

and you knew then that he was serious. You were definitely about to have a time on your hands but right now, you were only focused on riding him.

little did you know, you were about to put your claim on him too!

"Well you ain't got that to worry about, daddy..it's all yours."

you'd gently stroke his cheek as you got into position and pecked him once more.

you'd slowly ease yourself up and down while looking back and arching for his viewing pleasure. The grip you had on him made Connie toss his head back and just admire your work.

his voice was cracking and his fingertips were clawing into your bare hips.

it sounded so sexy hearing him moan and cry out for you.

"Aw damn, baby. You riding the fuck out of this dick..I love it. All this ass bouncing on my shit.."

meanwhile, you were winding your waist and bouncing up and down on his cock as if it were nothing.

you were just focusing on making him come this time around, wanting to feel that warmth inside of your womb.

"You like that? It feel good for you?" you'd ask as you glared at him with lustful eyes.

a rhetorical question for sure because his toes were curling inside of those Jordans and those moans were growing louder.

no one would ever guess you had a drug dealer crying like this! But he was egregiously desperate for you to keep it up.

"Yes! You're fucking me so good, (y/n). I'm all yours now.."

he was losing it by the second and when you decided to balance on your tip toes, hands pressed to the ceiling, he damn near flatlined right there!

"So come in me..come in this fucking pussy, daddy."

begging for him to release, you'd speed up and take him to the hilt as you coated him in more of those warm secretions.

he was trying to hold out but there was no need to because seconds later, you felt his hands clutching your frame and you were being impaled.

"Hold still! I got it.."

the pure helplessness in his voice was such a turn on but you were about yo get exactly what you were hoping for.

frozen, you'd stay in that position as he began thrusting upward and filling your tummy with his large member.

you'd sound off, trading moans and please, cursing as the intensity became too much to bare.

as he pounded your swollen cunt, you'd rub your clit yet again until you heard his voice fade off into a faint moan.

"Oh God—I'm coming..Imma nut—"

before the words could even finish making it out, he'd make his finish inside of you and pour every ounce into you.

and it wasn't just a little droplet..he dumped every ounce of that pent up cream into your womb, just as you asked.

and when he climaxed, his whimpers were absolutely adorable. You had never seen him so vulnerable before in your life.

finally, he'd collapse against the seat and as his chest rose and fell, he'd pull you back against him.

"C'mere.."

held tightly in his arms, he'd proceed to make out with you one last time and it was undoubtedly, the best night you had ever had.

"You my girl..my baby now so don't you ever forget that. You hear me?" Nodding as he spoke with such conviction even if he were out of breath.

you couldn't get over how cute he was like this.

the way he stared at you, it was more like love rather than lust.

"All yours. For sure." tracing tiny circles in his chest to quell his harsh breathing.

needless to say, your plug was about to be supplying a little more than weed from now!

#black fem reader #black fanfiction #black reader smut #black fanfic writer #fanfic #smut fanfiction #aot x black reader #black reader #wattpad #anime #connie aot #connie springer #connie x y/n #connie attack on titan

2K notes · View notes

mudwerks · 3 months

Text

Jurassic Park (Universal, 1993), Wayne Knight "Dennis Nedry" Hero Dinosaur Embryo Cryogenic Smuggling Device

Original hero disguised as a can of Barbasol shaving cream measuring 6.25" tall and 8.25" in circumference constructed of milled metal, aluminum and plastic with branded decals and labeling. Comprised of (2) main components including (1) faux Barbasol can sleeve with plastic cap and exterior company branding fashioned of thin aluminum with a milled aluminum interior cap to perfectly house (1), cryogenic containment unit measuring 4.5" tall, hand-milled from aluminum and featuring a rotating base with a rubber O-ring seal for fitting to the aluminum sheath and 2-circular metal rings around a central metal stem with 10-holes each to house plastic conical vessels. Included are seven labeled embryo vials reading:

TR-1.024 (Tyrannosaurus Rex) VR-1.011 (Velociraptor) BA-1.034 (Brachiosaurus) PR-2.012 (Proceratosaurus) PA-3.011 (possibly Parasaurolophus) PA-2.065 (possibly Parasaurolophus) HE-1.0135 (possibly Herrasaurus)

#Jurassic Park #film #vintage #1993 #cryogenic containment prop #disguised as a can of Barbasol shaving cream #Dinosaur Embryo Cryogenic Smuggling Device #Wayne Knight

51 notes · View notes

missfrieden · 9 months

Text

Tech as a father Chapter 1

So this is a first time post, as I also have no Idea about how tumblr posts kinda work. But I had this Idea brewing and saved in my folders for way to long, and it is very long, so why not give it a shot.

And It is about how Tech (actually very self insert) had a secret rlationship with a Jedi Healer, and accidents happen. How they managed to keep it secret, and he helped during the birth. While she as painfull as it was, decided to move to a temple far off, to hide the connecton.

Chapter 1: The tiny surprise

The rain fell relentlessly on Kamino, creating a symphony of soft taps against the metallic structures of the facility. The murky clouds veiled the moon, casting an eerie glow over Clone Force 99's quarters. In the midst of the downpour, Tech stood at the entrance, cradling a bundle in his arms, his usually impeccable uniform now glistening from the rain in the sterile light on Tipoca City, his blacks beneath clinging to his form. He took a deep breath, adjusting his grip on the bundle. Inside, little Orion slept soundly, a serene expression on his face that belied the storm outside. Tech had meticulously wrapped him in layers to keep him warm and dry. His keen analytical mind had calculated every detail, ensuring his son's comfort and safety.

As Tech stepped further into the squads’ barracks, the soft conversations of his brothers greeted him. The room was dimly lit, the workstation illuminated by the glow of holographic screen and the subtle blinking of devices. Tech's bunk was situated near the corner, adjacent to the workbench where his projects sprawled. With gentle precision, he made his way toward his bunk, heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. Hunter, Echo, Wrecker, and Crosshair glanced up from their own activities, their expressions morphing from confusion to surprise. The tinkerer of the squad, the one known for his unyielding focus on his gadgets, was holding something... alive?

Tech approached his bunk, careful not to disturb Orion's slumber. With practiced ease, he arranged the bundle in a small, makeshift crib he had fashioned from spare materials. He had calculated the dimensions meticulously, ensuring a snug fit that would let him sleep beside his son. Hunter was the first to speak, his voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. "Tech, what's...?"

Tech cut him off with a quiet gesture, his eyes softening as they met Hunter's gaze. He glanced down at Orion, his fingers brushing against the baby's cheek. "This is Orion," he said, his voice a whisper in the stillness of the room. "My son." The squad exchanged glances, their confusion deepening as they tried to process the unexpected revelation. Echo leaned forward, squinting to get a better look at the bundle. "Why is he... here?" Echo finally managed to ask, his voice reflecting the bafflement of the others.

Tech hesitated for a moment, his analytical mind racing to find the right words. "Orion is mine. I will be raising him as his father," he explained, his tone steady despite the emotions that churned beneath the surface. Wrecker scratched his head, a slow grin forming. "Wait, you mean you're like... his dad-dad?" he asked, his brown eyes wide with realization. Tech nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yes, that's correct."

Crosshair remained quiet, his arms crossed as he observed the scene. His expression was inscrutable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, perhaps understanding, hidden behind his usual cool exterior. As the rain continued to patter against the windows, a new warmth seemed to fill the room. The squad members exchanged glances once more, this time with a mixture of surprise, support, and a touch of affection. Tech's careful planning and unexpected announcement had brought them all closer to understanding the complexity of his character, beyond the gadgets and data.

And so, in the midst of the rain's gentle rhythm, Tech settled down beside Orion's makeshift crib, ready to embrace the role of a father, even as his brothers slowly tried to comprehend the depth of his hidden life beyond the battlefield.

Chapter 2 - Masterlist

#tech x reader #tech x f!reader #the bad batch tech x reader #the bad batch #tbb tech #tbb hunter #tbb echo #tbb crosshair #tbb Wrecker #tbb #clone force 99 #tech the bad batch #tech clone force 99 #bad batch tech

77 notes · View notes

sculkapologist · 3 months

Text

I have plenty of other projects I should be working on BUT then Mochi started building a shop to fill in the huge wall of dirt between the greenhouse and the boardwalk by the water, and I became CONSUMED with the need to join in and decorate a bunch of tiny houses.... SO!! TOWNHOUSE TIME!! You can also see buildings that Boo (the lime green)and Mochi (the grey and prismarine shop) have been working on in that first image… there's still a bunch along the boardwalk that's under construction, too. I built three townhouses and decorated the upstairs of mochi's shop, many more images under the cut!!

The blue townhouse was the first one I made, with the exterior inspired pretty directly from mechitect's townhouse design tutorial.

it's pretty simple! It's when I started to discover alcoves are interesting with these tiny buildings, since you're sort of dependent on what the house next to you is doing. Oh, also, that painting is one of my custom maps.

The pink townhouse was a little more ambitious - this one has a little kitchen, an aquarium idea I got from klay_designs_mc on instagram and TWO tiny bedrooms (one for the grownups and one for the kids), which may seem very straightforward but actually i took a great deal of psychic damage arranging them to fit in this little 8x8 space

we have some kind of resource pack on our realm that makes every mob drop mob heads occasionally, and I just really like sticking them on shelves as like... some kind of toys or figurines or plushies.

Anyway, while I was excitedly showing my progress to my friends, Mochi asked if I'd be willing to decorate the upstairs of his flower shop -- the building next to my blue townhouse. He wanted it to be a living space above the shop, and mentioned that the large windows might be nice for a kitchen, and other than that left me to my own devices.

TREMENDOUSLY PROUD OF THIS ONE TBH...!!! bed design was inspired by a bluenerd tutorial, and the little hearts are as always inspired by my fav builder CroissantCat, though honestly my entire minecraft portfolio should just have "inspired by bluenerd and/or croissantcat" on the first page. (the lamps are those mob heads again btw -- you can do this with the existing skeleton heads, but if you HAVE glow squid heads like... WHY NOT USE THEM)

anyway at this point I had obviously completely lost my mind, so my third townhouse has an upstairs, a basement, a home office, AND a bathroom. (it wasn't going to have a bathroom originally, but Boo saw the downstairs and gasped in excitement b/c he thought it was a bathroom, sO LIKE.... OBVIOUSLY AFTER THAT I HAD TO ADD A BATHROOM)

watched a WHOLE BUNCH of blendigi Modern Interior Design tutorials for ideas here, including some armour stand crimes to make THAT INCREDIBLE OFFICE CHAIR???? but im still very pleased with my decision to use the one Long Painting as a TV screen lmao

there were actually a whole bunch of planning scribbles for this... it started out with just a little layout of 3 possible designs for townhouse facades, and then turned into MANY floorplan attempts as I tried to figure out how to fit everything I wanted into these smaller spaces:

Anyway, I think that's everything!! Thanks for joining me on this tour of my townhouses lmao, hopefully this has sated my craving for interior design for a bit!!

#minecraft #block game liveblogging #minecraft screenshots #minecraft build #mineblr #minecraft aesthetic #bsl shaders #this was SO fun tbh #SOMETIEMS U JUST NEED TO BUILD.. A LITTLE HOUSE....

30 notes · View notes

cabinboy100 · 1 year

Text

1899: 1x08: "The Key": Prometheus Roll Call

Beware: Season 1 spoilers! If you have not watched all eight episodes of 1899 season 1 on Netflix, get thee to your streaming device and watch! Then come back for a quick review with some visual aids for episode 8. =)

This will be a review of the basic layout and head count in the closing scene of the finale. We see Maura wake up in a vertical sleep pod set into the wall of a cylindrical chamber. Her hair is shorn compared to her 1899 simulation 'do and she is dressed in a grey jumpsuit of the type that we saw her and Daniel wearing in Elliot's recovered memory.

Once she steps out of her pod, she takes in her surroundings. There are 16 sarcophagi in the cylindrical chamber. They are in four groups of four against the wall, separated by sections of wall with portholes. She begins with the group that includes her own now-empty pod and examines the room from left to right, or clockwise, as viewed from the top looking down.

ROLL CALL.

Block 1 (Maura's).

Virginia Wilson

Eyk Larsen

Maura Henriette Franklin Singleton (empty)

Krester

When she recognizes Eyk (sans shock of white in his beard), she is visibly surprised, even taking a few steps backward. Understandable, as the last time she saw him, his First Mate had shut him down and told her it would be "impossible" to bring him back. Still, I have to wonder if something else might be behind her reaction. In any case, she then looks down at her left hand and considers the wedding band on her ring finger for a second or three. Why at that moment? Because Eyk is her husband? Or because she must remind herself that she is married to Daniel?

When she looks back up from the ring, she turns her gaze directly on Krester, whose face is not scarred. Could it be Krester to whom she's married? Watch those seconds again, from Maura turning from the ring to Krester. It's as if she knows whose face she will see next.

Block 2.

Tove

Olek

Ling Yi

Yuk Je

Tove's sarcophagus does not appear to be any different in shape compared to everyone else's, but it's possible that its design might accommodate a pregnant woman without any outward sign or difference. Difficult to say, which means that Tove *might* be pregnant, but is not obviously so.

Block 3.

Iben

Anker

Angel

Ramiro

Block 4.

??? (empty)

Jérome

Clémence

Lucien

2099 PROMETHEUS MATH.

There do not appear to be any doors set into the wall. Once we get an exterior view, that makes sense. The chamber is one of several cylinders attached by their "floors" to a larger wide octagonal boxy base structure, ten of which are connected to one another in an oval ring revolving around the central axis of Spaceship Prometheus. There does not appear to be any inhabitable space directly above the chamber. I think this means that the only egress from the chamber, that doesn't lead to the vacuum of space, must be set into the floor, behind/in the middle of the ring of consoles and cables in the center of the room.

When we get a side view of the spacecraft, stem to stern, we see that there are two rings of ten octagonal boxes, and each of those boxes actually appears to be two conjoined blocks, and each of those blocks has eight cylindrical sleep chambers attached, four above and four below. Let's assume all the chambers have sixteen sarcophagi. If every pod holds a person, the ship carries 2 x 10 x 2 x 8 x 16 = 5120 people in hibernation.

The 2099 Prometheus readout tells us there are 1423 passengers and 550 crew, giving a total of 1973 people. Yikes. That's less than half capacity. Have we seen this scenario before…?

CAP: We're carrying barely any freight. Just like the Prometheus. Our cabins aren't fully occupied either. The company travels this route w/o making any profit.

OLEK: The bunkers are half loaded. Two are almost empty.

CAP: Am I mad? I know this ship inside out. This is not supposed to be here.

CAP: This is impossible. We're on a ship. How does a whole landscape fit inside a ship? MAURA: This isn't the only one.

CAP: It's as if all of this is somehow part of the ship…

If there hasn't been a catastrophic malfunction or accident on the 2099 Prometheus before Maura wakes, this *does* sound similar to the state of the 1899 Prometheus and Kerberos, launched with many fewer passengers and much less freight and supplies than capacity. And how was all that supposedly empty space used? It housed the backstory worlds of the passengers and crew. Does a similar traumatic funhouse await Maura and company in "2099"? Is this one virtual as well? Or—wishing/reaching—could it possibly be Westworld-ly physical?

WHO'S MISSING?

Everything we've seen and heard so far tells me that that empty berth must have been Ciaran's. Does Ciaran wear the face of someone we've already met in the simulation? Who of the 1899 Kerberos passengers and crew Maura interacted with is conspicuously absent in this chamber?

Daniel (Is he real? =)

First Mate Sebastian

Franz

Ada

Elliot (Is he on the passenger list of the 1899 Prometheus?)

Other travelers with whom Maura did not directly interact…

Garlic Necklace (aka Furnace Mulder)

Werewolf skeptic (aka Furnace Scully)

Mustached Adam Driver Crewman

COUPLED 2099ers?

Did the 2099 Prometheus assign paired/adjacent sarcophagi for couples and family who booked together? The placement of the sleepers in Maura's chamber does seem to support the idea (for me, at least =).

Eyk is beside Maura. (Of course =)

Maura is beside Krester. (I mention it because of that post-ring-gazing look.)

Olek is beside Ling Yi.

Iben is beside Anker.

Angel is beside Ramiro.

Jerome is beside Clemence is beside Lucien. (Interrrresting…)

Mystery Sleeper (Ciaran?) is beside Jerome

Have to say, I'm a little disappointed that Franz was not asleep next to Tove. =)

Just wanted to get this info Out There in this post. Will save follow-up theorizing on the identity and whereabouts of the mystery sleeper for future posts, hopefully.

Wake up 🜃

Keep on keepin’ on~

79 notes · View notes

taldigi · 1 month

Note

why dont you like futaba/gen?

A lot of the persona 5 characters, while colorful and anime-archetype-y- do have a grounded-ness to them- they all have very real issues and very real skillsets... and While characters like Yuuske and Makoto (even Ren, depending on how you play him) could be considered prodigies and/or excel in their fields, Futaba stands out and further forward in terms of that. An infinately brilliant hacker that can basically pull miracles out of their computer? Just as brilliant as Makoto in terms of reasoning and problemsolving? She's mean and "Sassy" which really steps on Mona and Ryuji's area and is later pulled as empathetic like Ann.

I'm only a few steps into Palace 5 and already she annoys me from a character implementation standpoint. Instead of her worrying, it should be Ann. Instead of her figuring out what happened, it should have been Makoto or Yuuske.

Her persona is wild in the sense that it feels really... reductive comparative to the others. the "Wow! a persona as a vehicle!" factor from Makoto is absolutely trashed and outshone by Futaba's giant UFO persona. IDK it feels wrong.

Even her character design doesn't match the others. All of them have a.. tangibility. They all look like stylish thieves- even Ann, who does vary... is based off Catwoman! Yet Futaba doesn't mach any of them! Giant goggles, giant shoes. OK astro boy.

She doesn't fit in that brand of "Silly" that P5 has cultivated for me so far. In a game where there is a bobbleheaded cat that fights demons in clown castles, She feels like a cartoon character. Hell, I'd even say that she feels less like a character and more like a... tool. a plot device.

Persona also suffers from severe anime brainrot- and thats bad when she's so little sister coded, which would be fine if you squint... if she wasn't also a romancible character with unavoidable scenes. I KNOW she's the same age/ish as the others but she's also insanely immature, framed as childish, and is literally described as frail. She needs vitamin D and iron supplements stat.

...and for the most part I have been able to grit my teeth through that anime brainrot because it's been offering a really great story with really amazing characters. When Ren looses some of his personality to "Stoic Anime Protag brainrot" or they do something fuckin' weird with the girls as eyecandy. It's fine, it's whatever. But Futaba... she's.. something else. UGH wish I could put it in WORDS.

She's becoming more tolerable the further in I go to the next palace' storyline, but thats because she's not as relevant anymore to make way for the new girl (who I havent met yet but I like her a lot already) so I know it's not.. my ML-induced phobia of character bloat.

...and please don't try and explain her actions cause of her backstory, im talking from a character design and implementation angle. I think.. I think I'd like her more if she was an exterior member of the thieves, an actual child, and slightly less prodigy-ish.

tl:dr: she feels like a fanfiction character and is weirdly out of place.

She was also mean to Yuuske and Morgana for no fucking reason when she should have been mean to Ryuji instead. I want to push her down the stairs. I also want her to stop touching Ren please. I know ppl think it's okay or funny if it's a guy but it's not.

#Anonymous #Futaba specifically feels like... that “gamer girl gf” meme.

5 notes · View notes

majahu · 2 years

Text

To Die on Your Lips

Chapter 3: Saturn Devouring His Son

Previous Chapter

Battinson x Reader (slow burn)

Chapter Warnings: none

Word Count: 2k

This week’s meeting of potential and current investors was to be held at Wayne Manor, a small part of a campaign by Alfred to help soften Bruce’s image.

Bruce Wayne was known for being a bit of a recluse, and while that may add some mystery and drama to his persona and certainly got the tabloids going, writers grasping for any bit of juicy information they could find, it didn’t do much to help investment opportunities.

People wanted to invest in companies, no, people that they trusted. People who made them feel like they could be a part of something bigger; most importantly though, people who made them feel safe. Bruce Wayne did none of these things, appearing annoyed and bored at the least in most board and investment meetings.

Alfred was slowly working on improving Bruce’s image, first with investors, then with the public. He started making sure that Bruce showed up on time to meetings, that he was dressed sharply, no hair hanging in front of his face or sunglasses covering his eyes. You had bet that Bruce had protested to these changes, but you hadn’t been there for that particular exchange.

You liked to imagine your boss’s interactions with his butler as something akin to a tired parent dealing with an unruly, spoiled toddler.

Your stomach twisted as you drove up the drive toward Wayne Manor, the building standing out harshly against a well maintained, green lawn. Wayne Manor hardly seemed like a home and more like that of an old gothic cathedral, the facade covered in long pointed windows; as you got closer you could swear you saw a gargoyle or two peeking out from the rooftop, though you couldn’t be sure.

The wrought iron gate creaked open in response to your approach and you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed by your twelve year old used car and how alarmingly it did not fit in with your current surroundings.

Part of your position at Wayne Enterprises required overseeing board and investment meetings, taking notes, and providing input when necessary, though the case was rare. You eyed your laptop sitting in your passenger seat, thankful that you didn’t forget to bring the device along.

Parking your car and twisting the key in the ignition, your vehicle rumbled to a stop. The quiet surrounding you did nothing to help your nerves, so you gathered your things in your bag before stepping out into the sunlight.

Inhaling deeply, you struggled to compose yourself before walking up to the door of Wayne Manor, the building far more imposing than the man himself.

Just as you were about to bring your hand up to the knocker, the tall wooden front door creaked open to reveal a rather small, white haired woman, ovular wire frames surrounding her light blue eyes.

“You must be y/n,” she said, stepping aside to allow you to enter the building, “Alfred told me you’d be early.”

The inside of Wayne Manor was even more impressive than the exterior, though dreadfully depressing.

The many windows allowed in a surprisingly small amount of light, the vaulted ceilings serving to only further extend the shadows. Individual lantern-like lights hung from the ceiling, doing little to add any life to the rooms, the many stone pillars further adding to the cold atmosphere.

You couldn’t help but shudder, “I feel like I’ve just stepped into a Dracula movie or something,” you said to the woman, half jokingly.

She smiled kindly, though for a second you wondered if your words could have offended her on account of her seeming to be some house-keeper of sorts, though you doubted she had any say in the interior design of the place.

“I didn’t mean it wasn’t nice, I-”

“No worries, dear. Mr. Wayne asked me to show you to the conference room. It’s just up the stairs and down the hall to the left, you shouldn’t have any trouble but I'll be right behind you just in case.”

“Thanks…” you paused, forgetting to note if the woman had given you her name.

The old woman chuckled, “oh, how silly of me, I forgot to introduce myself. My name’s Dory,” she said, taking your hand in hers for a moment.

You started up the stairs, still taking in your surroundings. Artwork was printed on the ceilings and walls, recreations of famous paintings, some that you recognized, others you didn’t. You shivered at a replica of Goya’s ‘Saturn Devouring his Son’.

“Jesus Christ, how does somebody live here?” you murmured, making a mental note to tell Alfred that an interior decorator might be useful in his campaign.

Having the investors over to the Manor may end up doing more harm than good.

Dory made a disapproving sound behind you, “I meant to take this down,” she said, lifting the painting off of the nail it was fastened to before turning it around to face the wall.

“I’d better deal with this. Just down the hall and to the left, give me a shout if you get lost,” Dory said, picking up the painting and descending back down the stairs.

You continued up the staircase, eyes still scanning your surroundings before you came to a long hall overlooking the floor beneath you, a dark wooden banister preventing anyone from stumbling into the gaping opening.

Remembering Dory’s words, you headed down the hall, making a left. Seeing no meeting room, you continued further down the hallway until you came to a door, slightly cracked open, a soft glow of light shining around the corner.

Carefully, you opened the door further before peeking your head in. It seemed to be a library or sitting room of some sorts, an ornate rug decorating the floor, wooden bookshelves jutting out from the walls. You certainly doubted that this was the conference room, but you stepped in anyway, admiring the vast collection of literature, some of them undoubtedly first editions worth more than the total of your belongings.

“Damn, if I had one of these books, I’d be set for life,” you said, fingers trailing across the binding of a copy of Bonaprate’s ‘American Ornithology’.

“What are you doing here?” A voice from behind gave you a start, you turned.

“Mr. Wayne,” you said, now facing your boss who was clad in a simple black shirt and joggers, hair hanging loosely in front of his face.

“I’m uh, here for the meeting,” you said, scratching the back of your head.

“I meant in this room,” he said, stepping closer to you.

“I may have gotten kind of lost,” you smiled, embarrassed at your current predicament, “this place is kind of like a maze…”

“You’re on the wrong floor,” Bruce said, reaching a hand out to briefly lie on top of your own.

Your face warmed at the contact, embarrassment growing even more when you realized he was reaching for the book you had been previously studying.

He turned the volume over in his hand, saying nothing before sliding the book back into its place on the shelf.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing for you to follow as he exited the room.

The two of you started back up the stairs, Bruce’s pace not allowing your eyes to wander much around the manor. Instead, you were focused on his hand trailing up the banister, the way his fingers lightly grazed the wood, how his thumb rested against the railing when he stopped for a moment to make sure you were still following behind.

You wondered briefly how his thumb would feel across your cheek, tracing the bottom of your jawline or across your lower lip…

“y/n?” The man in front of you questioned.

You hadn’t even noticed you had come to a standstill on the stairs, Bruce now a considerable distance ahead of you.

Pull yourself together.

“Sorry,” you said, trying to come up with some semblance of an excuse, “I was just distracted by-” you gestured to the space around you, thinking the man was surely used to visitors being in awe at the design of the manor, if he had visitors at all.

Bruce lead you down another hall before stopping at the entrance of a wide open room, a long wooden table at the center of it, walls covered in glass overlooking the manor’s freshly mowed lawn.

“You should probably change before the others get here,” you said, grabbing ahold of the edge of your boss’s shirt before thinking better of it.

Bruce Wayne stared at you for a moment, mouth slightly parted, an unreadable expression on his face. “Wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression,” you said, voice slightly more quiet than it had been before, noticing the sheer lack of proximity between you and the man before you.

Bruce let out an annoyed huff before turning from you and walking back down the hall, leaving you to set yourself up in the conference room and wait for the meeting to begin.

The meeting was boring as usual, but Bruce made a good show of actually looking interested for once, speaking eloquently about the latest business plans and upholding his family’s legacy. Usually standoffish in business settings, this was rare form for your boss; Alfred must’ve given him a pep talk before the meeting.

Thankful you did not have to participate in the discussion, you spent the hour and a half sipping from a lukewarm mug of coffee, fingers typing furiously at your keyboard.

Investors, potential and current, streamed out of the room slowly, the majority of them lingering behind to make some semblance of smalltalk with the company’s heir. You sat, watching these interactions, studying your boss who looked as if he wanted to jump out of his skin.

It must be hard, having such a public persona yet being so introverted. You thought back to your argument with Bruce in Wayne Tower:

Do you think I chose this?

He had said to you. If Bruce had never wanted to run Wayne Enterprises, you wondered why he had even kept up with the business. He was certainly rich enough that he didn’t need the income. You had some idea that it may have to do with the legacy he always spoke of, that and the fact that he did seem to get something out of helping the city through the company’s various branches.

As the last investor left the conference room, Bruce let out a sigh he seemed to have been holding in for the whole meeting, his shoulders dropping briefly before taking off his suit jacket.

He loosened his tie slightly before leaving the room, probably to change back into the outfit you had found him in earlier, leaving just you and Alfred behind.

You wondered if the investors thought it was odd that Bruce’s butler was always involved in business affairs, but then again you had a hunch that the man had been involved even when Thomas Wayne was running things.

“Did you get a chance to look over the account activity I flagged?” you asked, turning

your chair toward the butler.

“I did,” he said, offering a tight lipped smile, “it was nothing, but thank you for bringing it to my attention.” He said, in a way that suggested that the conversation about strange account activity was over.

You wanted to ask more questions, a lingering strange feeling surrounding the random pattern of numbers and letters that had been showing up in the books, but you kept your mouth shut. If Alfred wasn’t concerned, then you shouldn’t be either.

“That took a lot of energy out of him, huh?” you said, head gesturing to the empty doorway your boss had walked through just moments ago.

“Master Wayne isn’t quite the social creature that his parents were.”

“I guess I can’t blame him,” you paused, “I’m sure you did a good job looking after him after…” you trailed off, not wanting to bring up the incident. Still, Alfred knew what you were implying, “but growing up in this house, with no siblings and the constant reminder of what happened… honestly, I’m surprised Mr. Wayne is a functioning adult.”

Leaving the manor, you felt as if you were being watched; the drive down the road somewhat similar to running up dark stairs as a child, feeling that something sinister was following close behind.

As you drove through the iron gates and out onto the tree lined streets, you shuddered, turning up the radio in attempts to drive out the strange feeling that had come over you.

Tag List: @lesyeuxdebritty @rat-theghoul @withbeautyandrage @honey-im-hotdog

103 notes · View notes

c0ck-slapper · 8 months

Note

Despite your rough exterior, you had one weakness - Stella and Thunderbolt Murderface.

Your grandmother wasn't always the woman stuck in a mobility scooter or your grandpa the old husk he was now. Your grandpa has Native ancestry and made sure you connected to it - he took you fishing, exploring, hunting. It's how your fascination with weaponry started.

Your first gun was his old rifle he used, an old antique you took the most care with in your collection of weaponry and torture devices. You had your first hunt with him and took out a large buck - the pride on his face when you brought it home and Stella's face as she saw all the venison she could cook with made you thrist for more.

Stella was a brilliant cook and even better teacher. She made sure you were clean, tidy, cared for. On the outside, it was an older couple taking care of their grandchild, and doing a good job of it too. But you can't help but hate the people they became in their old age, holding on to old people values and expecting everyone to be cookie cutter versions of an era that has long since passed.

That included you. Calling and sending money, making sure they were cared for and fed, helping with their medical needs - if you weren't richer than most world economies you would have been bankrupt after your first album. All because she expected that her only surviving descendant take care of her and her husband.

Your closet door is open and immediately the first thing you do is bolt. Bad enough she found you, but by the sounds of her scooter revving up she began chasing you.

If you were lucky you might find a new place to hide before she caught up. But your not the most fit, not like Nathan was with his hulking body, or like Pickles with his powerful legs. You lacked basic restraint around food andhad no self care like Skwisgaar and you definitely didn't have a body built like Toki. (Now that you think about it, has the rhythm guitarist ever exercised?)

"William, why don't you answer me? WILLIAM!"

You scramble to leave her sight around a corner, but she catches up to you as you try to catch your breath and she uses her purse filled with god-knows-what to smack you in the back. You think you hear Toki make a run for it from the closet you both were tucked away with, but the sound of the scooter whirring and groaning to a stop as she readjusted herself made it hard to find out.

"How dare you run from me!"

"Ow! Schit, why-! OW!" She smacks you again this time for cursing, and it takes every cell in your body to keep your mouth shut. Besides, Stella didn't raise no bitch, so you took it like a man and bit your tongue.

"You stupid boy! I was worried sick and here you are trying to run from me!" She pulls up on her scooter, and takes you into her arms in a heavy embrace. Fleeting as it was, the warm tightness gave you comfort and she always made sure no one saw you get hugged by her. She had a weird thing about public displays, which made it all the more easier for you to keep up appearances.

You are William Murderface, the most brutal and bestest bassist alive (according to drunk Skwisgaar, who behemently denied ever saying it the one time you and him recorded some tracks while he was shitfaced).

"And none of that 'Planet Piss' work! You could at least pick up the phone!" She grabs you again in a tight embrace, and for a second you think perhaps maybe she is worried.

"At least do it for your grandpa? You could do with some bonding time..." You did not want to tell her that she must be senile because the man she kept alive through sheer force of will was just a husk at that point, but you bit your tongue.

Talking back was always a hard smack, and she didn't raise no hooligan.

"... and think about how stressed we all are! We can't keep hounding our boys ..." Oh God, she was talking about the other moms now - and once she started, she never shut up.

Murderface stares back at his grandma, unsure of what to say. Its been a while seen he had seen his grandmother in this kind of state.

He feels a small pang of guilt and looks down at his feet, unable to muster up anything.

"Grandma..."

He takes one deep breath.

"Im schorry."

#ooc: HOLY MOLY YOU'RE WRITING IS SO GOOD... IM SORRY IM REALLY BAD AT WRITING I WISH I COULDVE RESPONDED BETTER AGGHH #metalocalypse #william murderface #mtl #dethklok #rp blog #⛓️🗡🩸#☠️🪓🧲

8 notes · View notes

petronthermoplast · 14 days

Text

Elevating Industry Standards: PVDF Materials by Petron Thermo Plast

In the dynamic landscape of industrial materials, Polyvinylidene Fluoride (PVDF) emerges as a standout choice, renowned for its exceptional properties and diverse applications. Petron Thermo Plast, a leading manufacturer in the field, specializes in delivering top-tier PVDF Materials crafted to surpass industry expectations. This blog meticulously explores the features, benefits, and applications of PVDF materials by Petron Thermo Plast, showcasing why they are the preferred solution for professionals worldwide.

Unveiling PVDF Materials

PVDF materials represent a pinnacle of innovation, characterized by their remarkable chemical resistance, thermal stability, and mechanical strength. Petron Thermo Plast’s PVDF materials are engineered with precision to offer unparalleled performance across a multitude of industrial settings.

Key Attributes of PVDF Materials

1. Chemical Resistance:

PVDF materials exhibit exceptional resistance to a wide spectrum of chemicals, including acids, bases, and solvents, making them ideal for corrosive environments.

2. Thermal Stability:

With a high melting point and remarkable heat resistance, PVDF materials maintain their integrity even under extreme temperatures, ensuring reliability in demanding conditions.

3. Mechanical Strength:

PVDF materials boast high tensile strength and durability, enabling them to withstand mechanical stress and pressure, thus guaranteeing longevity in challenging applications.

4. Low Permeability:

The low permeability of PVDF materials to gases and liquids prevents leakage, making them suitable for applications requiring excellent barrier properties.

5. Weatherability:

PVDF materials exhibit exceptional weather resistance, making them suitable for outdoor applications where exposure to UV radiation and harsh weather conditions is common.

6. Non-Toxicity:

PVDF materials are non-toxic and safe for use in applications involving potable water and food processing, adhering to stringent health and safety standards.

Applications of PVDF Materials

PVDF materials by Petron Thermo Plast find extensive applications across diverse industries:

Chemical Processing: Used for fabricating pipes, fittings, and linings in chemical plants due to their resistance to corrosive chemicals.

Construction: Employed in architectural cladding, roofing, and facades for their durability and weather resistance.

Electronics: Utilized in printed circuit boards and semiconductor manufacturing for their electrical insulation properties.

Transportation: Applied in aerospace and automotive industries for interior and exterior components due to their lightweight and high strength-to-weight ratio.

Medical: Used in medical equipment and devices requiring sterilizability and chemical resistance.

Advantages of Choosing Petron Thermo Plast

Advanced Manufacturing Techniques:

Petron Thermo Plast employs cutting-edge manufacturing processes and rigorous quality control measures to ensure PVDF materials meet the highest standards.

Customization Options:

The company offers PVDF materials in various formulations, sizes, and colors to meet specific customer requirements.

Expert Technical Support:

Comprehensive technical support and guidance are provided to assist customers in selecting the right PVDF materials and ensuring proper integration into their projects.

Sustainability Commitment:

Petron Thermo Plast is committed to sustainable manufacturing practices, ensuring their PVDF materials are environmentally friendly and compliant with global standards.

Why Choose PVDF Materials from Petron Thermo Plast?

Investing in PVDF materials from Petron Thermo Plast guarantees superior quality, reliability, and performance. Here are some compelling reasons to choose Petron Thermo Plast:

Unmatched Quality: PVDF materials from Petron Thermo Plast adhere to the highest quality standards, ensuring consistency and reliability.

Tailored Solutions: With a wide range of formulations and customization options available, you can find the perfect PVDF material for your specific application.

Technical Expertise: Petron Thermo Plast provides expert technical support to guide you through every stage, from material selection to project completion.

Sustainability: By choosing PVDF materials from Petron Thermo Plast, you are supporting environmentally friendly manufacturing practices and contributing to a greener future.

Conclusion

PVDF materials by Petron Thermo Plast redefine excellence in the industrial sector. Their unparalleled properties, reliability, and versatility make them indispensable across various industries. Choose Petron Thermo Plast for PVDF materials that exceed your expectations and elevate your projects to new heights of success.

#pvdf material #engineering plastics #pvc ball valve #pvc butterfly valve #pvdf pipe #explore #union ball valve #hdpe pipe fittings

2 notes · View notes

gaiaxygang · 7 months

Text

Blorbos From My Games: An Introduction

So you may have seen me talking about EnaMafu from Project Sekai. What the hell is an EnaMafu and why do they remind June Gaiaxygang of seemingly every PerthChimon pair in existence? Since my circle on Tumblr is majority Thai BL fans (unlike Twitter) this felt like a good time to make another Big EnaMafu Post wehehehhehe

Project Sekai: Colourful Stage

First off, what is Project Sekai (PRSK)? Project Sekai: Colourful Stage ft. Hatsune Miku is a Japanese mobile rhythm game launched in September 2020 featuring a cast of 20 original characters and of course, Hatsune Miku and her Vocaloid friends. It features rhythm gameplay (obviously) as well as 5 main stories, and ongoing event stories.

We're currently at 3 years of service, and the characters have been aged up by a year! Because I don't read (I HAVE A BAD ATTENTION SPAN) I'll only cover what is neccessary for Ena and Mafuyu, but their stories are heavily linked to every other cast member, especially their unit.

In PRSK, several music-loving teenagers notice an 'Untitled' music file on their devices. Clicking on it transports them to another world, 'SEKAI', where they meet Hatsune Miku. Miku encourages them to pursue their dreams and helps them overcome fears and soar as musicians.

25ji, Nightcord de.

One of 5 units in PRSK is 25ji, Nightcord de. (aka Nightcord at 25 or Niigo!). They're an online music circle who make songs anonymously, communicating via messaging service Nightcord at 25:00, or 1 AM from roughly 2 years before the start of the story.

This unit consists of songwriter Yoisaki Kanade, lyricist Asahina Mafuyu, artist Shinonome Ena, and MV maker Akiyama Mizuki. The 2 I will focus on are Mafuyu and Ena, though I'll be making references to the others (and occasionally characters outside of their unit).

Kanade has loved music since she was young. One day, she writes a song for her father that wins a competition. This causes her father to later overwork himself, unable to live up to Kanade's composition, falling into a coma.

Kanade, blaming herself for this, sets out to write a 'song that can save people'. She posts music online under the alias K, where she eventually meets honour student Mafuyu, going by Yuki. Touched by Kanade's songs, Mafuyu wants to write lyrics alongside her. Soon, they are joined by aspiring artist Ena and social outcast Mizuki.

The 4 of them continue unit activities as usual, Mafuyu offline, until one day a file named 'Untitled' appears on Kanade's computer, together with a white-haired Hatsune Miku that urges her to 'find that girl, before it's too late'. Clicking on 'Untitled', the 3 are transported into an empty 'SEKAI', where the 4 meet for the first time.

Asahina Mafuyu

Asahina Mafuyu is the lyricist of Niigo, who goes by K online. Although she has a friendly exterior, she has long lost sight of herself under the weight of others' expectations.

Throughout her life, Mafuyu has always been pressured to be a perfect 'good kid' by her parents, especially her controlling mother who wants her to be a doctor rather than a nurse, which Mafuyu wanted to be when she was young. Mafuyu strives to meet these expectations, getting perfect grades and even becoming the class president in her second year of high school, and regularly participating in the archery club.

At some point, Mafuyu started to realise that her true 'self' had been lost. For years, she had changed herself over and over to fit into the 'good kid' mold to meet expectations of everyone around her. Unable to feel anything or have preferences of her own, she started wanting to disappear.

Upon hearing Kanade's song, she felt something stirring in her chest. This prompted her to reach out to K, eventually forming a music circle with her. She also writes her own songs under the pseudonym OWN, publishing them and gaining enough views to match Niigo's numbers on her own.

Mafuyu despises her natural talent. It has never been something she has wanted, and has always caused her pain as it led to people expecting more of her over time. She searches for something, anything that will save her to no avail, and her feelings manifest in the form of the Empty SEKAI, a world with nothing.

Shinonome Ena

Shinonome Ena is the artist of Niigo, drawing their thumbnail and MV art. The daughter of a renowned artist, Ena has strived to create art loved by many, often to little success.

Ever since young, Ena has loved art. She looks up to her father, Shinei, a well-known artist. She attended an art class and intended to apply to a high school with a specialised art course.

However, once Ena confides in Shinei about wanting to pursue art as more than a hobby, she is quickly shot down. Shinei tells her that she has no talent and cannot succeed in the world of art. The next day, when she attends her art class, her teacher Yukihira tells her that she won't be able to make it as an artist because she draws for attention from others rather than a love for art. This leads Ena to believe her art is worthless, but at the same time strengthens her resolve to draw and prove everyone wrong.

Ena was touched by Kanade's song. After hearing it, she drew illustrations based off the music. This prompted Mizuki to use her artworks for a fanmade music video of the song, causing Kanade and Mafuyu to reach out to them, officially forming Niigo.

Ena craves acknowledgement and respect. She has always felt inferior to others around her, especially those that she considered 'talented'. These feelings cause her to start to want to disappear, similar to Mafuyu. She wants to try hard, yet her efforts rarely bear fruit and she starts to wonder if it's worth trying at all. To fill the void in her heart, she posts selfies on social media, only to be disappointed when her personal account gets more interaction than her art account.

The Story: EnaMafu Cut

In main story, after finding out about Mafuyu's emptiness, her want to disappear and her activities as OWN, Ena is furious. She doesn't understand why someone like Mafuyu, with talent and recognition would be suffering, as those are things Ena has desired for a very, very long time. She is taken aback when Mafuyu points that Ena, too, wants to disappear and hates that of all people, it's Mafuyu that understands her pain.

Later in main story, Ena yells at Mafuyu, making her true feelings known. Deep down, she loves Mafuyu's music, her lyrics and screams and Mafuyu to not disappear because she has to keep creating on this earth, suffering with everyone who doesn't have the talent she does. Although this is honestly something you should never tell someone on the verge of suicide, it's something Mafuyu needs. Ena's bluntness, together with Kanade's promise to save Mafuyu, is enough to convince her to return to the real world and continue making songs with Niigo.

In the next event story, Imprisoned Marionette, we find out more about Mafuyu's relationship with her mom. Mafuyu's mom (I will call her ASHN Mama because she is unnamed) is controlling as well as verbally abusive, wanting Mafuyu to be nothing short of what she envisions. This makes Mafuyu feel like a puppet in a cage, dancing in her mother's palm. This is where, in my opinion, Ena starts to understand Mafuyu more. She sees for herself why Mafuyu is the way she is, even if she doesn't know what to do with these feelings in her heart, she wants to try to help.

The next event story is Ena's. In Unsatisfied Pale Colour, Ena enters an art contest against Shinei's suggestion. She wants to win it and prove Shinei wrong, but ends up proving him right in a way when she fails to win a single award. This, together with comments that suggest viewers of Niigo songs don't care about Ena's art on its own, lead Ena to start to consider giving up on art entirely.

Ena enters the SEKAI, starting to understand why Mafuyu came to it when she wanted to disappear. It's comfortable and silent, with nothing to disturb her or remind her of things that hurt. When she is found by Niigo, she confesses that she doesn't want to give up on art, but sees no reason to continue because her efforts will never amount to anything.

When Kanade and Mizuki reassure Ena of the importance of her art to Niigo, the blunt Mafuyu tells her something else. She tells Ena that in her eyes, she doesn't have a reason to give up on art. If she wants to be acknowledged by the public and by Shinei, she has no reason to stop drawing now. Niigo has to continue making songs as a unit anyways, so what's the point in quitting?

This. This is such a big moment to me. Although Ena needs reassurance, sometimes it isn't quite enough. And just like how Ena's blunt words got through to Mafuyu in main story, Mafuyu's honest thoughts get to Ena, too. Niigo give Ena support that she's never truly received, causing Ena to become more open about her feelings and concern for others, which is crucial in later parts of the story.

(dangerous romance folks. this is why i say ep 3 is the pale colour of drts. so much of it parallels kanghan's own arc and revelations in the end of ep 3)

As the story continues, EnaMafu takes a backseat. As Mafuyu discovers more about herself, her trauma and starts to feel something like warmth again because of Kanade in Mirage of Lights, Ena is also becoming kinder and softening up to her unitmates. She shows concern for Mizuki, who she notices is distancing herself from Niigo. This is shown best in My Footsteps, Your Destination, where Ena tells Mizuki she'll keep waiting for Mizuki to confide in her. (happy 2 irl years since, btw. no progress has been made!)

Niigo is slowly realising that ASHN Mama is the cause of most of Mafuyu's pain. This becomes more apparent as Mafuyu skips mock exams to spend time with Niigo and her grades in class start dropping, resulting in ASHN Mama trying to isolate Mafuyu further.. After discovering traces of Niigo on Mafuyu's laptop, ASHN Mama suspects there is a music-loving classmate encouraging Mafuyu to do music, distracting her from her studies.

Niigo is, of course, trying their best to support Mafuyu throughout this. It is Ena who takes the first step, in a way, on a rainy day after her art class.

The Big EnaMafu Event

Sorry. Header not necessary but it is my favourite PRSK event of ALL TIME. I was top 3000 I can prove this. Someday, This Wish Will Transcend The Morning Sky is an event that focuses on Ena and Mafuyu. The event title even references Mafuyu's surname (asa, meaning morning in this context)!

In this event, Ena is heading home from her art class (which she has since started attending again, despite quitting after what Yukihira said to her in middle school) when she runs into Mafuyu. It's starting to rain, yet Mafuyu is making no move to get out of the rain. Mafuyu is internally contemplating whether she should go back home immediately or stay outside longer, knowing that there's something about her home that makes her feel uncomfortable.

Ena, noticing this, invites Mafuyu to the Shinonome household. Shinei is currently out on a work trip, so it's only SNNM Mama (again, unnamed) and her younger brother Akito (from another unit, Vivid Bad Squad) at home.

Once they're in Ena's room, they call ASHN Mama, requesting for Mafuyu to stay over. ASHN Mama doesn't know Ena is one of Mafuyu's music friends, of course, but she doesn't want anything distracting Mafuyu from her studies. In response, Ena does the one thing she despises. She uses her father's name, saying that she is the daughter of artist Shinonome Shinei, who wants to draw Mafuyu for a project while Mafuyu helps her study. This works, and although Ena doesn't like it, she's glad Mafuyu is safe.

At dinner, Mafuyu starts to notice something different about the Shinonomes.

The Shinonomes aren't a perfect family, even without Shinei present. The siblings bicker, and SNNM Mama, while loving, sometimes fails to understand Ena (she is implied to have absolutely no idea about Shinei and Ena's fight but that's another topic). But it's warm. Mafuyu can feel the warmth of their family, despite their flaws, so different from her own. Asahina family dinners were always cold, despite them seeming like a perfect, quiet family on the surface.

Ena is the only one that can make Mafuyu realise this. Kanade lives alone as her mother passed when she was young, and her father is in a coma. Mizuki's parents and older sister work overseas, so Mizuki also lives alone. Ena is the only one who is able to show Mafuyu what a warm, somewhat normal family is like.

After dinner, the 2 return to Ena's room. Ena and Mafuyu have a heart-to-heart about what Mafuyu's feelings towards her mother. When Mafuyu expresses how she's afraid of letting down her mother, Ena starts to understand. Ena herself had similar feelings about Shinei, but while Mafuyu has suppressed her true self out of fear, Ena rebels and strives to continue doing what she loves.

This conversation also gets Ena to reflect on her own relationship with Shinei, realising that although their relationship is pretty much unsalvagable, she respects him as an artist and acknowledges that he didn't have bad intentions. Akito had previously talked to Shinei and told Ena that Shinei just didn't want to see Ena fail like several of his artist friends. Ena doesn't forgive him for this, continuing to avoid him as best as she can despite coming to an understanding.

Later at 1 AM, the two log on to Nightcord for their Niigo meeting. As Mafuyu starts to work on lyrics, Ena notices how focused she is. Although Mafuyu claims to have no dreams or aspirations of her own, her expression while she writes tells Ena something else. Seeing this, Ena gains inspiration for her art project and starts to draw.

Silently, Ena prays. Seeing how Mafuyu is like doing what she loves, Ena wishes that someday, Mafuyu will break out of her shell. That one day, Mafuyu will be free of her mother's chains, doing what she loves, no longer suppressing herself to make others happy.

This... this is an incredible event. It reflects EnaMafu's development, especially Ena's. From not being able to understand eachother (something that Marionette's event song, Jackpot Sad Girl highlights) to empathy and concern and even love (of the platonic type! or romantic idk up to you). It highlights why Ena and Mafuyu are important in eachother's lives, and how they have a role no one else can fill.

And that's pretty much all the major EnaMafu stories! Since then, Mafuyu has gotten closer and closer to finally escaping her mother. Some key events are Immiscible Discord, where Kanade reveals herself as Mafuyu's music friend and swears to ASHN Mama that she will never leave Mafuyu's side after realising there is nothing like love in her heart for Mafuyu. Another one is Our Escape for Survival, where Mizuki tells Mafuyu that sometimes, running away from your problems is okay as long as you face them someday.

(i... i really like mafuyu's card in this event. 1. RAIN MOTIF! not posting mizuki's but she's giving mafuyu an umbrella and getting drenched herself in it!!!!!! 2. holy hell that hairstyle and the piercings. i need it to come home during the rerun or i WILL die)

This all culminates in Niigo's final event before 3rd Anniversary, Saying Goodbye to My Persona. Here, Mafuyu finally cuts the strings binding her and admits her true feelings to her mother.

ASHN Mama, of course, rejects this. She is unable to comprehend that Mafuyu has been suffering all this time. She throws Mafuyu's phone into the fish tank and in response, Mafuyu runs out into the rain (!). Niigo search for her, and eventually it is Kanade who finds her. They hug, sharing in eachother's warmth in spite of the cold rain.

And that's where we're at with Niigo! Their next event is in like under a week so we WILL find out where their story goes soon... Ena and Mafuyu are now 3rd years, and Mafuyu is living with Kanade!

Why Ship EnaMafu?

I have been an EnaMafu fanatic since Pale Colour (my PRSK account proves it but I do not currently have screenshots...). They're opposites, yet they complement eachother so well. They're able to relate because they've both been mistreated by their parents, yet unable to comprehend because they reacted so differently to it. Mafuyu hiding away parts of herself and Ena becoming bolder, trying to rebel even if it hurts her.

They're able to see through eachother, and their bluntness (Ena due to her personality, and Mafuyu because she is unable to understand why her words might hurt) is something so unique to Ena And Mafuyu. They've become key parts of eachothers' lives, despite their initial conflict. Although Mafuyu has difficulty showing it (writing issues lol) Ena like all members of Niigo is someone she cares deeply about. And Ena, who has always been stubbornly supporting Niigo, slowly starts to open her heart up to someone she used to hate.

They also have 3 cover songs that highlight their similarities. Hello/How are you, about a lonely girl who just wants her voice to be heard (this is the one i think is kanghansailom). Hurting for a very hurtful pain, a song about, well... pain (i am not a vocaloid expert sorry). And my personal favourite, Love me love me love me which can be interpreted in a number of ways but is mainly about a girl crying out, desperate to be loved.

All of this drives me Up The Wall. I love their dynamic and development over the 3 years I've known them. I may be biased (I own like $100 SGD of Ena merch) but I really, really love EnaMafu!!!

So Why Does This Remind Me Of BL?

(this one is mainly for my bl mutuals you can skip this if you want)

The obvious answer is that I am unwell and like making my interests about eachother.

A slightly more serious answer would be that many have compared EnaMafu's dynamic and tropes to yaoi. Contrary to popular belief I do not read or watch yaoi so I cannot confirm this. But it sounds about right!

The actual answer is that it's because some BL characters have arcs that are similar to this. As I have pointed out many many times, Ena reminds me a LOT of Kanghan (Dangerous Romance). From the dad problems to how they've changed because of Mafuyu and Sailom (on Ena's side it's a group effort! But come on).

They're also very ChopperBen to me in quite a few ways. The obvious one being the parental problems (let's be real here.) but also how to me, ChopperBen have a certain level of... Misunderstanding... between them. They've led different lives and been through different things and have different personalities which is why the Bathroom Fight happens!!! Of course there are more feelings below it but it goes down to their fundamental differences in the end. Which is pretty much early EnaMafu.

(also because i erm. the enamafu fic i wrote from ena's pov is a scrapped ben pov chopperben fic? certain elements of it, not the whole thing lol. i was thinking about how ben likes to play off his very serious wants as jokes and how he can barely speak his honest thoughts, then i went, Wait A Minute. and wrote 500 words. you can read it here)

This is pretty much why my PerthChimon wishlist looks something like,

miserable teenagers (this one is likely knowing GMMTV)

unable to understand eachother for some reason (and its not funny)

burdened by natural talent and fears being untalented (self explanatory)

THANK YOU for reading my absurdly long post. I adore PRSK and EnaMafu and they've been my personality for 3 years and counting (PerthChimon gives them competition). You can listen to Someday, This Wish's event song I Nandesu here!

(and of course thank you @naomi-obsessions for reading and supporting my very unhinged enamafu posting <3_<3)

#gaiaxyposting #prsk #enamafu #mafuena #thats all im tagging have fun everyon(#gaiaxymeta

6 notes · View notes

dear-mrs-otome · 2 years

Text

Silvio Ricci - Main Story - Chp 01

Standard Disclaimer: I do this for fun. I don’t, and never would, claim to be proficient at JP. There will be mistakes herein. There will be dialogue I choose to smooth out or change, because it feels choppy just straight translating. There will be the occasional snarky aside and irreverence and just plain summarizing. If you’re looking for 100% pure accuracy, without commentary or localizing, this is not for you. If you don’t mind that…then proceed, and I hope you enjoy! And please, support your local localizer (they make this stuff look easy) and Cybird by playing the games and routes when they come to English.

~~~~~~~~

In his room in Benitoite, Silvio wakes up one morning to the sound of waves as usual. It’s clear there’s been some fuccin going on in this bed, but he’s alone now - he always kicks his partners out the moment they’re finished, so as to never have to wake up next to anyone.

He pours a drink of water from the (golden, of course) jug beside his bed, and is chugging it, thirsty af. But he catches a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror and curses at the sight of lipstick marks on his body - marks that only smear when he tries to rub them off with his hand.

“Disgusting…” He scowls, but gives up on the attempt, and goes back to drinking his water to quench his dry throat.

The first prince of Benitoite’s mornings always begin like this. Parched.

~~~~~~~~

It’s a few days after the 4-country summit in Rhodolite took place, and Sariel and Rio are both oddly busy with duties. Emma is left strangely to her own devices, when…

“Yo, woman, let’s go.”

Her door is kicked in, peaceful morning ruined by Silvio strolling in her bedroom. Silvio, AKA can’t use his hands to open a door like a normal person, has to wear all that expensive gaudy clothes and jewelry, and is currently giving her his best haughty rich asshole look.

She asks where the heck they’re going, it’s the first she’s heard of this, and he replies that he only needs her to agree to someone like him - he’s in need of entertaining, and she’s the one to do it.

She’s wtf-ing over this ridiculous demand, still not totally with it even, and he grabs her hand and starts hauling her off. She demands he explain, at LEAST, and he says he figured he’d have her serve him breakfast. As she’s still boggling over this, he reminds her how he’d told her the other day she’d have the opportunity to make things up to him until he’s satisfied (for the champagne that Rio ‘accidentally’ spilled on him at the summit gala to save her in the Act 2 prologue).

She hadn’t thought he was actually serious then, but it seems he was - and she’s freaking out because she’s totally alone now too. Nobody to go to bat for her here...and she’s wondering if he suspected as much when he came to make this demand. He reminds her she can’t really say no, and silently she has to agree that she can’t refuse him.

There’s already breakfast laid out in the parlor when they arrive, a spread fit for a king that’s far more luxurious than even the Rhodolite princes usually eat, she notices. He’s eating and she ends up almost mesmerized by how impeccable and elegant his manners are, despite his arrogant ass exterior. At least, she is until he starts demanding something to drink.

She points out the rose tea that’s right there, but he wants something COLD he insists. She’s grumbling inside that this is the sort of thing a maid would usually take care of, but strangely there doesn’t seem to be one at his meal. She’s eaten with the other princes often enough by now to know that’s the usual case.

It seems obvious he’s paid off people left and right to get her maneuvered into serving him breakfast.

She comes back shortly with cold tea prepared, and presents it to him…but he only returns a grin that makes her nervous. “For a noblewoman, you can't seem to offer someone a cup the right way, can you?”

She manages to reply that it’s because she’s never played waiter before, but inside she’s dismayed to realize there’s some kind of ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ way to hand someone a cup?!? Silvio’s clearly watching with a keen eye, missing nothing, and she KNOWS he’s gotta be staying in Rhodolite for more than just to have her and Rio make things up to him. It’s obvious he’s trying to figure out who she is - so she reminds herself she has to be careful.

“I’m certain I won’t be able to serve you to your satisfaction.” She tries to make her excuses politely. “Shall I call for the maid?”

He points out that that wouldn’t be her making up for her transgression if someone else serves him. “Besides….from now on, you’ll be my hostess.”

“Oh, okay…” She answers on reflex, and then stops. “No, wait - what was that?”

She’s thinking frantically - she hadn’t heard anything about serving as hostess to Silvio, not from Sariel or such. He goes on to say how he'd gotten the okay to stay in Rhodolite for an extended period of time, and if he's gonna be here awhile he's gonna need someone to entertain him.

She tries to say that he should have someone better suited to diplomacy doing that, not her, but he's not taking no for an answer. Even if she protests that she has other duties to attend to, he scowls that she should get permission to attend him - and remember that this alliance hinges on her.

This is getting way outta control but she can feel her hands are being tied. If Silvio suspects something about her real identity, she can't risk him discovering it or turning this into something that breaks their countries' alliance.

He says don't worry he'll only take up her mornings and evenings, and she's dismayed to hear he's going to want her evenings too, prompting him to scowl at the sour look on her face when she questions that.

He pinches her nose and she's telling herself…put up with it, put up with it, he's royalty and all that jazz…

Imperiously, he says he's having a party tonight for some Rhodolite merchants, and she's going to be there to serve. She’s not seeing a good way out of this, even if she talks to Sariel…but she gives it one last shot by trying to brush it off as a good joke, which only earns her a smirk and an ominous promise to work her twice as hard for her impertinence.

~~~~~~

Later…

A smiling Rio is asking Emma to condone murdering the gaudy bastard in Sariel’s office, as she tries to calm him down. She’d made a beeline here the moment she’d escaped Silvio that morning and told them both what had happened.

A dismayed Sariel admits they were well-played, but he’d suspected something had been up since the sudden incidents that came up and required his and Rio’s attention that morning had to do with merchants. Silvio clearly plotted this all out, Sariel confirms to her.

Rio’s protesting that he can’t let Emma be Silvio’s hostess, least of all when he’s the one who dumped the champagne on him. He’s determined to go have a ‘chat’ with Silvio about being the sole person to make amends for that, but Sariel yanks him back by the collar and scolds him for being a bad dog before he can get more than a step towards the door.

He’s reiterating how much trouble Silvio went through just to get to Emma, it’s clear he’s focused on her, and she says aloud that this is really about him trying to find out who she is, isn’t it?

They discuss how Silvio’s clever and realized something about her has to do with the state of their country - if he finds out she’s Belle, that’ll expose the fact that they’ve been hiding the truth about the king’s death from their ally. Which needless to say, would be Very Bad if they ended up left high and dry.

Damned if they do and damned if they don’t though…even if they told the truth about the king, there’s the chance that Benitoite would try to take advantage of the chaos and try to benefit from it themselves. It’s a heavy burden she’s carrying right now, one that could crush her with one wrong move.

Sariel assures her he’ll think of SOMETHING to try and do about this, but for the moment she’s got no choice but to go along with this party tonight and try to make it through as best she can. She’s nervous, but she feels confident in Sariel’s training to help her be a noblewoman, and she didn’t take the job of Belle to half-ass anything.

She also kinds wants to stick it to that tyrant, she admits to herself.

Pleased, Sariel bids Rio to accompany her, saying he’ll make sure he’s not waylaid tonight, and a grateful Rio vows to protect her from Silvio that evening no matter what.

“His aim probably isn’t just to discover Emma’s true identity…” Rio muses, and Emma presses him - Silvio has some other purpose?

“Maybe...I’ll tell you about it someday,” Rio says to her, and she sees sadness flash across his expression.

Realizing it might not be something he wants to tell her she assures him she’ll wait until whenever he’s ready to talk, and a blushing Rio gushes about how much he loves her kind self which she waves off with her usual grace.

Sariel reminds them to let him know if things get too hairy, he’s got a duty to keep not just Emma but Rio safe as well, which Rio is grateful for. Regretting his show of gratitude when a moment later, Sariel hands him a veritable stack of work to accomplish in return.

She feels as if they can handle any situation when she’s with the both of them, and the anxieties Silvio had raised all fade away…at least, until that night comes.

~~~~~~

The party is out in the garden, where Silvio is so blinged out he practically hurts her eyes. The people in attendance are pretty glitzy as well, as if also wealthy merchants - a glimpse into a world that’s utterly foreign to her. But more than all the finery and glamor what stands out to her is the rose petals scattered everywhere, trod carelessly under the partygoers’ feet.

It might be a scene of beauty to some, but it makes her uncomfortable for some reason. It feels tacky and wrong.

Rio notes her discomfort as she’s staring mutely at the tableau, but she waves it off as nothing and shoves back the feelings she can’t place. Making her way over to Silvio where he’s lounging on the sofa, forced to step on rose petals herself as she approaches…and every step she finds it harder and harder to breathe.

Silvio gives her props for showing up, but he’s displeased she brought the shitty dog with her. Rio reminds him that he’s her butler, and where Emma goes he goes. Claiming to be shorthanded with staff, Silvio orders Rio to help the servers out - clearly trying to keep him away from Emma, she realizes, which doesn’t help her misgivings either.

Rio refuses to leave Emma, and Silvio makes a thinly veiled threat to escalate this to diplomatic issue if he doesn’t get his way of having Emma entertain him. She tries offering to go help the staff herself, but he reminds her of what he’d said that morning, that her job was to serve him and entertain him.

“Or is there some reason why you absolutely need your butler glued to your side?” Silvio challenges. "If so, tell me. If it’s a good reason, I’ll consider it. And you, damn dog, keep your mouth shut. I’m asking her.”

Rio just glares in angry silence, and she’s stewing over how Silvio’s done nothing but make her look stupid so far - implying that she’s an easy mark without Sariel or Rio around to run interference for her. Needled by this, she asks Rio if he can go ahead and help the staff out.

He finally agrees, but warns Silvio that he won’t stand for anyone disrespecting his mistress, foreign bigshot or not. Silvio dismisses him as a rabid dog, and Emma has to assure her on-the-verge-of-murder butler that she’ll be fine before he’ll finally leave.

No choice now but to grit her teeth and make it through this, really.

“Woman, your place is here.” Silvio pats at the seat next to himself, closer than she’d like to be. Realizing that being a hostess to him is different from maid duty.

She sits down as far away from him as she can, indulging in her tiny defiances, but Silvio just hooks an arm around her waist and the exotic scent of his cologne surrounds her. She protests his idea of ‘entertaining’ but he reminds her no talking back as he orders her to pour a drink.

Patience, patience we will not rip this asshole a new one, she reminds herself as she complies, though she half shoves the glass of rose wine at him.

One of the blinged-out party guests comments on how they didn’t know Silvio had a ‘cherished flower’ in Rhodolite, but Silvio dismisses the idea. She’s not pretty enough for that sort of thing, though a sassy woman every once in awhile isn’t so bad, he muses. The merchant says he’ll make note of the fact that Silvio would get tired of beautiful flowers if constantly surrounded by them…and Emma’s unable to even muster a smile in return as the man gives her a once-over, as if appraising her value.

She gets the impression that by ‘cherished flower’ they mean something like a mistress…and the thought that anyone would mistake her for Silvio's lover is all kinds of nope.

“Don’t just sit there with your head down and a pout on your face,” Silvio tells her. “I told you to entertain me.”

She makes her excuses, trying to coach herself to smile. Reminding herself the future of her country is at stake here, so she’s gotta squash her bad feels and put up with it…but somehow Silvio doesn’t seem satisfied.

“She’s a rare flower indeed,” the merchant agrees. “For in your presence, Prince Silvio, every flower would blossom beautifully.”

Silvio poses the idea that a flower like this might be worth the effort, grinning as he reaches out and breaks off a nearby rose beautifully in bloom. Playing with it in his hand for a moment before he crushes it, the sight of petals spilling out between his fingers burning itself into her eyes.

“Stop…please,” she begs, and goes on when he looks her way, unable to stay silent. “Don’t trample on any more of our roses.”

“I thought you were in a strangely bad mood, maybe that’s why,” Silvio observes.

She’s livid and finally realizes the why - it’s because he’s been disrespecting these roses, the symbol of her country. It makes her feel as if something precious to her is being trashed, and it sickens her so much she can’t even put it into words.

Silvio reminds her that he bought everything here, he has a right to do what he chooses with his possessions, and she has to admit to herself that he’s right. She doesn’t have grounds to speak up when his money’s made this all his.

His smirk flattens. “You’ve got a sassy look in your eyes,” he states, but she only holds her peace. “If you want to get your way so badly, why not just kill me?”

She’s taken aback by that random suggestion, still trying to process it when he says he’ll even offer her the chance. With a haughty smirk tilting the corner of his mouth he lifts her up to kneel on his lap, and tells her how if she’s got an opinion she wants to get across, she’d best show him the guts to do so even if it means killing him. But if she can’t follow through, she’d best not talk back.

She’s only silent, still reeling, as he taunts her to try wringing his neck because you can’t win a fight with words alone right?

It’s so far beyond the pale…she tries to get up, but he grabs her hand and forces it to his throat. All the guests surrounding them are looking on, drinks in hand and laughing, as if taking in a sideshow at the circus or something. She’s wondering to herself if she’s some sort of comic relief to them, if it’s really so laughable of her to be so angry over someone trampling and trashing the roses.

“They’re all on my side, not yours. Do you know why?” Silvio presses her. “Because I bring them benefits. But you, you bring them nothing. What you say is worthless. All you’re doing is embarrassing yourself in front of everyone. Powerless and wretched…you’ll never be my equal. So you’d better think for a second about what it means to stand up to me.”

She may never have been so miserable in her entire life. She can sense Rio’s murder-rage even from here, and somehow Silvio seems to be enjoying himself. She knows that a hostess’ role is to please guests, but she loathes this sort of ‘entertainment’.

Still though, she has to just endure it for now. Confronted by the overwhelming power that money bestows, she can do nothing but tremble with these feelings that have no other outlet.

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 02 >>

#spoiler #spoilers #ikemen prince spoilers #ikepri spoilers #mrs o loves salty seadogs #mrs o's translations of dubious quality #ikepri silvio main story

139 notes · View notes

yourbestpalpercy · 3 months

Text

Everest stood before Mr. Grizz, genuinely shocked he could fit in the metro. His tiny, glowing, bright white eyes stared into hers. “..Tartar, I don’t think he likes me…” Everest whispered to Tartar and stepped back.

“Oh relax, I promise you he won’t hurt you. you should probably take off the coat though…now that I notice it’s definitely made of mammal fur,” Tartar said, staring at the wolf head that made up the hood. Everest didn’t even hesitate throwing off the coat. She hated it anyway, it was so itchy!! She only kept it because she knew she wouldn’t make it down the mountain without it.

Mr. Grizz’s glare seemed to settle a little. “And you’re a real human..” Mr. Grizz reached down a sharp claw and trailed it down Everest’s nose and to her neck.

Tartar quickly pulled Everest away, “Grizzy, you’re scaring her. I do give you credit though. She’s got quite the tough exterior!” Tartar gently hit Everest on the head. “Bonk!”

“Ow-...” Everest glared slightly at Tartar. “And yes, I’m a real human…” She slowly ducked behind Tartar, trying to hide herself from Mr. Grizz’s silent glare. “Aww, she’s hiding behind me! What happened to that rough and tough personality you lead with?” A deep blue tentacle with a light green end suddenly wrapped around her and shook her lightly, pulling her out from behind Tartar. It was coming from Tartar’s back. “Wh–! How-!?” Everest kicked her legs weakly before Tartar brought her close and hugged her, “I’ve always had it! It’s one of the many things I’ve learned to hide. Messing with DNA is worth a few changes, don’t you think?”

“I wonder what would happen if you touched either the sanitized ink or the fuzzy goop…” Tartar hummed, squinting at Everest. “Hmm…oh well! We’ll answer that question later!” Tartar grinned a cruel grin.

Tartar suddenly dropped Everest, patting her on the head afterwards before the tentacle tucked back away. “Anyways! I believe Everest here will be a better addition to Kamabo and Grizzco than even we know. After all, humans are incredibly smart and crafty. Key word: Crafty. I’ll have to run a few tests though to see Everest’s full capabilities…”

“CQ!” Tartar suddenly shouted rather loudly, almost making Everest jump off the platform by accident. There was no response from the sea cucumber in case you were wondering. “CQ!!” Tartar shouted again, even louder this time. Everest now covered her ears. Mr. Grizz only folded his ears down. “CQ!!!” Still no response from the sea cucumber.

Tartar groaned and unscrewed his face to pull out a strange device. Just as he pressed the main button, he froze. Everest just…sat there, a little disgusted. Everest slowly looked up at Mr. Grizz and pointed at Tartar, “Is he…?” Mr. Grizz only nodded silently.

“Skkkrkkgrrk! AW-WEEE- AW-WEEE- RREEGEGEGGEGE– Aw wee awee…!” Tartar stood there, completely still as these strange noises poured out from him. “Are we sure he’s..” “Yes, he’s perfectly fine, he’s just buffering a little. He’s a 12,000 year old AI. He has these little buffering periods very, very often. We’re- I’m planning on giving him an upgrade soon. Don’t tell him I said that though, he can’t hear me like this and I want it to remain a surprise.”

Everest approached Tartar and waved her hand near his face, “Don’t give him more things to register!” Mr. Grizz hissed rather roughly, lightly tapping Everest on the head with his claw.

“How long will it take for him to come back online?” Everest asked, now staring at Tartar’s dead eyes. “A little while, kid. Believe me, I’m used to this,” Mr. Grizz said with a bit of a chuckle in his voice.

“Now then,” He placed a sharp paw on Everest’s shoulder. “You’re going to tell me the exact mountain you and your cult stayed on. I’m wiping them out before they can harm the last mammals left over…” Mr. Grizz hissed, glaring down at Everest. “Uhm- I don’t think Tartar would appreciate that…” Everest responded. “He can handle it for a bit, but if you’re that worried, I’ll spare some of them…” Mr. Grizz made sure to stay sounding cold.

“Uhm..okay, fine, it was Mount Everest, my mother believed I would become the new chieftain, hence naming me Everest. Regardless, it’s not too high up, just when you start seeing Pallas Cats…” Everest stepped away from Mr. Grizz as Tartar finally came back online.

His device buzzed as a holographic screen appeared in front of him. There was a small, deep blue sea cucumber on some train controls. “Hey Tartar,” He pulled a lever above him, causing a loud horn to sound, “I’ve got another octarian coming your way…already preparing tests and-.”

Tartar cut him off, “Let it go, I need tests for something else. Or, more importantly…someone else!” That tentacle came back and grabbed Everest, pulling her into view of the sea cucumber.

Despite the sea cucumber’s lack of facial features, Everest could clearly see the confusion and shock appear on their face. “Is that–?”

“Yes! Yes it is! Her name’s Everest, CQ! Regardless, I need a few tests for her. Nothing ink related, humans don’t have ink. I’m not having her collect Thangs…” Everest wondered if CQ(?) could see how done she was with Tartar holding her using his tentacle.

“Well- that’s pretty much impossible. My tests are made for octarians! Not…not extinct creatures..” CQ gestured to Tartar and then Everest.

“Simple, she can use her golfclub to attack. Just set her up against…uh…oh,” In that moment, Tartar realized that all the ‘enemies’ for the tests were solely susceptible to ink.

“Ha! You’re just as unprepared!” CQ teased Tartar, a little harshly.

Slowly, Tartar looked around the screen at Mr. Grizz, “No, I don’t do ‘tests’. And I doubt the salmonids are going to let a bear anywhere near them. I’m kind of a grizzly bear, y’know, the main predator for Salmon? Maybe you can talk to Smollusk-...no, no, also impossible, maybe even more so because his “enemies” are digital.

Everest suddenly huffed and wiggled her arms free, over Tartar’s tentacle, “Or maybe I can just fight the octarians!? I’m not susceptible to ink!”

“Aw, and what do you think you’ll do to them?” Tartar said, almost in a mocking tone.

“HEAD TRAUMA! Just like I did to you earlier with my golf club!” Finally, Everest slipped through Tartar’s grasp as he let her go and hid the tentacle.

“Oh. Well, I suppose that would work. Hm, alrighty then. CQ, please start preparing the tests, over and out!” Before CQ could argue, Tartar pressed the button again and tucked away the remote.

Finally, everything was calming down a little.

Everest just sighed, rubbing her temples. “Is that everything? Are we done here…?”

Everest asked before a card was given to her.

“Almost, Everest. I nearly forgot, you’ll need these things to get around the Deep Sea Metro,” Everest took the card from Tartar and stared at its details.

“And this is…?” Everest looked at Tartar before a secondary object was handed to her, a hand held machine.

“Your CQ-80 and a CQ Card,” Tartar then added with a scoff and a sideways glance, “They’re so bad…” Everest stared at the objects silently as Tartar continued, “Guard them with your lizzife, because if you lose them, you’ll be [ERROR].”

Everest couldn’t stop herself from looking worried. That sounded…ominous…very, very ominous.

Tartar must’ve noticed her worry because he suddenly broke into loud giggles, “I’m kidding! That’s the prerecorded message for the octarians… You’ll be perfectly safe though!” Tartar gave Everest a rough pat on the head. “Now you just need to wait for CQ to arrive and hop onto Outie 5000!” Tartar tilted his head to the side, folding his hands together and smiling.

“...?”

“...?” Tartar looked a little concerned by Everest’s own concerned look, “Well- I didn’t name it! Don’t look at me!” Tartar pressed his hands to his chest before dropping them.

Mr. Grizz only rolled his eyes before taking Tartar into a base in the floor to talk to him. “I’ll assume you two are done and I’m already a little fed up. Tartar, we need to be-” Mr. Grizz’s voice cut off. He shot Everest a cold look as he slammed the lid shut.

The train slowly pulled up besides Everest, allowing her to hop on. “Uck…I have no idea why Tartar thinks this is a good idea…” CQ murmured as he came through and got Everest situated, “In fact, going to be brutally honest, I’ll be shocked if you don’t even manage to drown on the first test,” With that, CQ left to get the other people situated. And Everest? Everest felt sick to her stomach at the thought.

Glancing around, there were a few other sea creatures on the train who, for the most part, didn’t care that Everest was human.

The…jellyfish? Erm, no, the sea angels only tried to poke her from time to time.

There was a large isopod who only shrugged and said, “Well, the world is full of surprises. Humans being around still is just one of those many shocks.”

The gulper eels…made Everest nervous. She tried to avoid them as much as possible, especially when the comment, “You’re a cutie! Oh! I could just literally eat you up!” came up..multiple times.

The flashlight fish just stared with fear in their eyes.

And the blobfish (named Fredrick by my irl friend)? He literally couldn’t care less.

Everest still felt like she stuck out like a sore thumb…

“Know..exactly how…child feels…” A ghostly voice spoke, almost right behind Everest.

Everest jumped back, looking up at the roof of the train now. She nearly hit whatever it was with her golf club.

The thing above her though…it just looked like a jellyfish. Its eyes shined with tears as the lights along its body glowed softly. “Hiii….” It reached down a tendril before sniffling. “The train is…scary…” The jellyfish quivered suddenly. “Veryy very louuud…” She brought in her tendrils and whimpered softly.

Everest only tilted her head and placed her club to her side. “You’re very soft looking…” Everest mumbled before shaking her head and responding coldly, “I’m not scared of the train,” Everest glared at the blobfish to her left and then some flashlight fish and gulper eels to her right, “I’m scared of its passengers…” Everest balled her fists a little.

“hhmmmh…I’m Jelly…” Jelly reached out a shaky tendril.

“Mmh,” Everest glared at the tendril before she grabbed it and gave it a gentle shake. “I’m Everest. Named after the largest mountain in the world.”

Jelly drew her tendril back into her body, shuddering out, “Waaarm…so, so, so waaaaarm…!”

“Is…that a bad thing?” Jelly poked Everest’s head and started to feel her face. “...Yes? No? Ugh!” Everest pulled away, “Why does no one in this metro understand personal space!?”

Jelly whimpered and shuddered again, the tendril leaving, “sorrryyyy…warmth is…it’s raaare down heeerree…”

Everest just rolled her eyes, “Alright well, what stop are you getting off at?”

“Mmnmnmnmhhmmnm…” Is all that came out of Jelly’s mouth.

“Mmnmnmnmhhmmnm?” Everest struggled to copy the noise.

“Caaan’t…remmbrrr…” Jelly responded. “waaannt..to sleeeeep…nevver eber..wake up…” Jelly whispered, slowly closing her eyes.

“Oh, well, I’m getting off at…” Everest shakily used the strange device, pulling up a large map of the Metro. There had to be about a million twisting pathways, all colored various colors. It was genuinely overwhelming to look at.

“Uhhh…” Everest looked over the map with all its colors. ‘...TARTAR NEVER EXPLAINED HOW TO USE THIS STUPID DEVICE!!’ Everest tightened her grip on the machine, half tempted to smash it into the ground. “Liiine…EEEEEE???” Everest looked over at Jelly, quickly realizing she had fallen asleep.

“Oh…” Everest stared at the jelly before shaking her head and just sighing and selecting a random station. “I’ll figure it out soon…I guess…”

‘For now though, it’s time for me to fight…’

#commander tartar #oc writing #splatoon #CQ splatoon

6 notes · View notes