#quirofiliac

[sadistic-softie]

I'm normal about hands...

Especially his hands. Why would I be weird about them?

uhhhhh...hmmm

#james wilson #robert sean leonard #house md #hand kink #quirofiliac

[chvnssecret]

hyunjin + hands

warnings - explicit content, 18+, quirofilia

—

his hands. the ones that caress your face after you cry. the ones that wipe away your tears with his slender thumb. the way your cheek fits so perfectly in his palm as he holds you, telling you how beautiful you are.

his hands. the ones that brush through your hair after you showered, or to simply just help you get sleepy. the ones that tuck your hair behind your ears when you don’t have any free hands. the ones that tie your hair up for you before it dangles in your dinner.

his hands. the ones that hold around your neck gently when he wants to pull you closer for a kiss. the ones that grip around your throat when he wants to knock air from your lungs. the ones that he travels from your neck to your chest.

his hands. the ones that cup your boobs so perfectly. the ones that he rubs your nipples with, twisting them between his fingers. the ones that he squeezes them together with when he fucks between them with his cock.

his hands. the ones that seem to know all your sweet spots. the ones that slowly travel down into your panties to access your clit. the ones that rub flawless circles on your nub, making you scream. the ones that enter you, so timidly, yet so desperately for you to cum on them.

his hands. the ones he uses to slap your ass and tell you that you’re a good girl. the ones he uses to grab your ass, making sure to bruise it. the ones that travel up your leg before devouring you whole.

his hands, the ones that guides his cock into your little hole. the ones that he uses to rub your pussy as he’s thrusting in and out of you. the ones he uses to tug over you whenever you’re unable to fuck him.

his hands. your favourite part of his body. the most magical hands ever.

#chvnssecret #stray kids smut #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin #hyunjin smut #hyunjinhands #quirofiliac #handfetish #handkink #smut #nominors #18+

[rissi-chan]

Cannot stop looking at this man's hands . . .

#can't stop won't stop #bg3 #baldurs gate #baldurs gate 3 #gale dekarios #baldurs gate gale #gale #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #gale bg3 #bg3 gif #quirofiliac #baldur's gate #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #wizard #wizard of waterdeep #rizzard of waterdeep

[negraarmadura]

No pain, no gain.

#me #tumblr chilenito #hands #manos #quirofiliac

[yukikorogashi]

kira's never been one for "gifts"-- especially when it came to giving. he'd much rather avoid the entire thing (what good was it for, anyway? it's just another pointless transaction.) altogether... but there's always something "convincing" him otherwise. this time, it was rohan; same as it was each and every year. this time, though, he's managed to be discreet. successfully leaving the young girl a pair of newly knitted mittens (coal black with shimmery, golden accents outlining its finely curated seams.) lying at her spot at the kishibe household's kitchen table. a note, folded in half with a deep crease, stood atop of them, merely reading out, "please be sure to show rohan your gift. he was very curious about what i'd give you. - k."

✨🎄MERĪKURISUMASU!!! 🎄✨

BEFORE REACHING THE KITCHEN SINK, Itsuki would halt in her tracks. Rewinding herself and shuffling her feet backwards (With an admirable confidence of not knocking anything over. Befitting of one whom had actually grown familiar with this house's layout-- almost as if she herself lived here), until she was standing right by the kitchen table itself.

Affirming then with wide eyes that there was indeed something on there! Something that laid RIGHT IN FRONT of where she would normally sit for meals. Something that she honestly hadn't immediately noticed, but had caught in the corner of eyes-- almost as if it were a (CHRISTMAS) GHOST!

It was as an admittedly strange sight to her. Something that she herself couldn't help but poke at her own brain about. For how could something be so UNASSUMING and yet STICK OUT LIKE A SORE THUMB?

Perhaps, it was simply because of the sights that she had grown quite accustom to seeing on there. FOOD-- all sorts of yummy, at times SUPER PRETTY DISHES (Like SUGARY FLUFFY PANCAKES!) were only ever placed on this table. And if not-- it would be so pristine that it almost seemed like they have replaced it with a BRAND NEW ONE, each and every single day.

With that said, Itsuki would eventually reach her arms over the top of the chair she'd been standing behind, and took the pair of mittens and card into her hands. Tilting her head ever so slightly, as she quickly read through what was written on there...

Hmm... hmmmm... hmmmmm! How MYSTERIOUS! Just who could this K FELLA be?

Admittedly, the first name that actually came to mind was KRAMPUS. But that didn't make sense! That bro didn't give presents (At least, from what she would remember of the folklore-- something she would further back up with evidence via a certain MOVIE)! And if he did, he would have still probably wished her a "Merry Christmas!" in his card to her!

So, there can only be ONE PERSON... ONE BRO!

Hehehe, you can't fool her, KIRA BRO! She would recognize your STYLISHNESS anywhere! Your super duper taste in HIGH QUALITY STUFF! And oh gosh, this here pair must-a cost THOUSANDS, at least!... Even if she's still not the best at playing the "PRICE IS RIGHT", running her thumbs over the super nice fabric would cause her to nod in double affirmation at that estimation. Heck, it even has GOLD on it! This was the stuff ROYALS surely wore-- Like PRINCESS ANASTASIA totally would!

And now... both KIRA BRO and her will MATCH!

Oh, Itsuki HAD TO HUG HIM, the next time she saw him. At least, a tiny little one! And she was sure that she would at least get to see him later during lunchtime, hehe! You can't hide forever, bro~

"... Sensei! SENSEEEEEE~I!!!"

And off she would go, with these STYLISH CHARCOAL MITTENS now adorning her hands. Going off to find her sensei so that she may show them to him! ... Before she had to take it off for her drawing class that day.

@quirofiliac ❤️

#(The way I went AAAAAAAA outloud when I came back with my tea to see this-- SNIIIII TAT <333) #(Tysm for sending this in!!! For blessing my girl like this!!! 😭) #(SHE HAS A SPOT AT THE TABLE NOW IM AUWHEUAWHEUA FROTHS AHWEUHAWUEH OTL) #(Also I ended up looking at someone's Sims 4 build of Rohan's house just to see what his kitchen might look like for this RAUEHUAW) #(OOMUAWUEH IM JUST SO AUEHAWUEHA @ ALL OF THIS AAAAA TY AGIAN TYYYY <333) #❄️ ASKS ❄️ #❄️ YOSHIKAGE KIRA ;; And perhaps someday I will finally UNDERSTAND just why it is that he was so QUIET ;; QUIROFILIAC 💛 ❄️ #❄️ SOMETIMES it SNOWS in APRIL ;; DIAMOND IS UNBREAKABLE VERSE ❄️ #quirofiliac #❄️ QUEUE ❄️

[kokoronohiroi]

kira offers the teen a card-- nothing more, nothing less. it's something that's not very "flashy" (it's... generic. generic in the most "generic" way possible.) yet retains just a little bit of personality: a pastel palette with the kanji somewhat curvy -- perhaps to simulate an american's cursive -- and almost like an autograph, reading out, "happy birthday". it's pinched betwixt index and thumb, the adult having averted his gaze the moment he's approached him. his other hand was stuffed deep in his pocket, clenching and unclenching repetitively (he'd do better with a stress ball.) within its depths. "here," he says shortly after, voice curt but, above all else, polite. "buy yourself something nice-- maybe giorno, too, if possible." a small smirk's touching his lips, uncertain whether it's done out of genuine care (haha.) or, rather, satire. nonetheless, a handful of yen (it's seven thousand, four hundred eighty-four to be exact. ... if that matters, considering kira's offhanded belief that okuyasu might not even know how to count.) does await the boy. eyebrows raise up after wards, as if to accompany a laugh that never comes. only then does he decide to look at okuyasu, head canting with the smirk showing itself as clear as day. "t'is the season, after all."

' um ... thanks ...? ' DESPITE INITAL hesitation , okuyasu still ( very wearily. ) takes the card and opens it's slowly. he was expecting nothing more than the most generic card ever - but ... he's thoroughly surprised to see something within it. fingers carefully examine the bills within hand , counting it up by softly repeating the numbers he saw. ' oh ... i - i didn't expect there to be anything. um , thank you ... mr. yoshikage. ' IT BURNS to address the male with such formality , but he doesn't want to seem ungrateful. truth be told - he was surprised that he had done anything to show appreciation. though , appreciation might be too much to say - considering how this might just be some kind of weird power play thing. ( especially since he mentioned giorno. ) still , the gesture is well received and he offers the elder blonde a bow.

#quirofiliac #❝ ♕ 𝙖 𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧. / answered asks. #❝ ♕ 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩. / ic. #( THANK U SNII THIS IS VERY CUTE n a lil evil bc of the giorno thing <3 ) #( okuyasu always weary as fuck whenever kira gifts him something ) #( he aint never trusting that bitch i fear )

[etcnnante]

@quirofiliac asked ! : “i changed him, you know. some might say, ah… for the better too.” @ okuyasu 🫶

' sh - shut UP ! ' AGGRESSION WAS his instinctual response when it came to the condesending blonde that taunted okuyasu with haunting accusations and even harsh truths. what else could be said ? trying to mend any inkling of their frayed dynamic is enough to cause stomach to turn ... and even throwing a threat towards the elder blonde's way could end up souring his relationship with their shared counterpart ---- -- having to merely compromise with insufferable notions such as this. ' y - you don't do nothin' besides infect people's lives like a parasite ... and soon enough giorno will see that ! then you'll be sorry ... ' SUPPRESSING THE boiling emotions that festered deep within chest was enough to cause teeth to grit and grind , trying to avoid an over - blown altercation that delinquent teen seemingly wanted to egg on despite dire consequences. it couldn't be helped ---- -- the whole ordeal reminiscent of poking a bear for him , tempted to see if he could truly be victorious against barbaric yet intellectual rival.

#quirofiliac #█ ▌ 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙚. / answered asks. #█ ▌ 𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙚 𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙚. / ic. #█ ▌ 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙮 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩. / okuyasu. #█ ▌ 𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙪𝙣𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚. / v . part 4. #( oh god okuyasu is having thoughts please step back or else his brain might EXPLODE ) #( i kid ofc BUT THIS POOR BOY ....!!!!! LET HIM LIVE !!!!! PLEASEEE !!!! ) #( okuyasu cant go a day w/o kira fuckin' w him tho and i cant help but laugh at that thought )

[rottingkiss]

( @quirofiliac // starter call )

What is HAPPENING? Nothing about this. . .feels RIGHT. Joe glances over his shoulder to see if he can locate this specific child's mother nearby. If he recalls correctly, the kid belongs to one of Kira's small circle of friends. What is her name? Shinobu? He hasn't had the true pleasure of meeting her outside of one or two run-ins in the grocery store. She's nowhere to be seen. She didn't dump him at Kira's house for the day, right? No, it's school hours. . .It really IS becoming a pattern. Within the the last week, Joe had observed that this peculiar boy marches straight to the salaryman's house and snoop around the property with a camera instead of heading in the opposite direction of the school bus stop.

The American presses himself against the shady tree until the bark begins to dig into the thin material of his shirt. So far, Hayato Kawajiri hasn't noticed he's developed a shadow of his own. Joe holds his breath for a second or two when the boy scans his surroundings before jogging off to god knows where. Before he's completely out of sight, Joe fumbles with his own cellphone to snap a few blurry pictures of the unfolding scene. A hand lifts upward to adjust the ballcap he adorns when on missions like this, nails digging into the cloth as his mind tries to put together WHY Kira is being stalked by a child.

Nothing comes to mind other than this child has developed a crush of some sorts, is a peeping tom in the making, or simply making a weird scrapbook of the neighbors. What should Joe do: confront the stalker or let it go? Call the police? Contact his guardian? Ah, he ought to warn the victim in all of this: his good friend Kira. Let Hayato think he's getting away with this sort of behaviour. Kira can then decide what to do with this information.

After waiting a few heartbeats to make sure that Hayato is truly gone, Joe emerges from the shadows and marches straight up to the front door. Before he gives a few knocks to the wood, he quickly removes his investigation hat. No need to appear threatening or out of sorts!

#💋 — JOE GOLDBERG 💋 #💋 — YOU (Series) 💋 #quirofiliac #joe vc are you being bullied????

[trehontin]

@quirofiliac

are your... "acquaintances" always this whiny.

" They are soldiers and comrades. But to answer your question: no, they are not. Just some subjects, as they happen to come, seem to be more of a bother than it is worth. "

#quirofiliac #☆ [ ic ] #☆ [ verse ] hueco mundo #[ lmao help #kira just: : | u live like that hu ] #☆ [ 02 ] quirofiliac

[adsevel]

" So--- " It was so rare to put a literal stop in his sentence just with a presence alone he has yet to fully understand and fully comprehend. After all, catching Kisuke off-guard was a fairly grand undertaking and yet Yoshikage's presence had done so only after a few seconds, even though the man, in particular, was not the reason.

No, it was the entity sitting right next to him, staring wide-eyed, cat-like [ something like a gargoyle, perhaps? ], gaze flickering from the tea the shopkeeper was about to prepare, back to his person as if trying to figure out if he was all the more worthwhile for his master [ was that the right term? ] to be around. " ---what exactly is he? Or she? They, maybe? " Crossing it all off as he went in his blinking confusion, tilting his head marginally to the side just to realise that this being followed said gesture before its head snapped back instantly and to the opposite with a bigger tilt.

It was like a cat, wasn't it? " Do they want something to eat? I can not quite tell~ " || @quirofiliac | starter call ♡

#quirofiliac #☆ [ ic ] #☆ [ 02 ] quirofiliac #[ we very briefly talked about this :} #i found it cute so here we go ♡ ]

[superfrnky]

@quirofiliac​

here’s a hint: show kira your girlfriend’s hands. 😊

     “ eh -- !! i ain’t showing you anything, ya SUPER weirdo !! “

#THOSE ARE MY HANDS TO LOOK AT AND HOLD AND CHERISH!!! #ily tho.. #quirofiliac

[ongewensta]

thick, rough fingers curled around the neck of the bottle on the shelf before him, the stink of liquor still on his breath, intoxication barely influencing his coordination or judgement —- or so he thought. alonzo wasn’t particularly familiar with japan, his japanese bare bones enough to hold a conversation, pronunciation muddled by a thick, unforgiving italian accent; the remnants of his former marriage driving him further into despair, eagerness to learn interrupted by the need for revenge. it was then he noticed the presence of another beside him, a much more formal appearing japanese man, one whose struggles didn’t seep into his appearance. a brief narrowing of the eyes illustrated alonzo’s frustration, his hatred of other men not one of rightful anti-patriarchal criticism, but instead of a belief that he was superior to all of them. including @quirofiliac. swiftly, his expression recovered into a “neutral” one, obscuring sincere resentment. perhaps … a facade was necessary, a kind one.

“ are you looking for something specific? ” low, gravelly voice betrayed little of his true nature, dark hues remaining fixated on the blond beside him. “ i can grab it if you want. ” mockery in disguise. how pathetic. i have the upper hand. —- all while incapable of obscuring his repugnant liquor-induced scent. “ or do you want recommendations? ”

#ic : alonzo. #quirofiliac #hey. check this out. [ starts a war ]

[lunarscaled]

-> The plastic of the basket handle bends beneath their tight grip, the meat of their palm where the joint of their thumb met with the rest of their hand uncomfortably stuff as a twinging cramp radiates into their fingers; they couldn't afford to lose their hands, they anxiously think. Their Stand required that they pull the bowstring to fire, and it was infinitely easier to do with fingers than it was their teeth or any other part of their body. They know people set records all the time for pulling amazing shots without a limb or two, but it really couldn't be them, it wasn't practical for their circumstance. ( not that people choose that. a second feeling beneath their worry bubbles up: they should be more grateful for the body they have, as much as it is used against them. this terrible, blood-stained hull that gave them hands to hold others with also gave them a bile-scorched throat when they couldn't hack it the first few times---dividing up a body, that is. their blessed body, which prays in church pews and crawls on their knees, begging for forgiveness while their shoes are still leaving tacky, red footprints behind them. their disgusting vessel, which protects them not from themselves, or God, or anyone, and especially not from him. )

The following thought comes about that, really, it's not their hands that are the issue, but that they can't seem to find enough space between the two of them. They could put themselves anywhere in the grocery store and they know he would still find them, like a curse. Like a law. Their shoes hit the tile floor in a barely restrained rush that wants to break into a run; they want whatever rope or chain that has caught their ankle to release them. They want people to look away.

-> They turn a hard right and head towards the nearest aisle with the fewest people in it regardless of if they had business there or not. They're falsely perusing the many stacked bottles of vitamins and holding their basket too close to their body though it is empty, as if taking it were removing an integral part of themselves. They can't hide behind comfort items here---no locked doors or stolen away dark spaces. There was no space under kitchen sink with cold pipes pressing against their cheek, the sound of dripping water steadier than their heart. Their stare, unfocused, darts back and forth between earth-colored bottles with their ears straining to stay in touch with the sounds around them: the buzz of ceiling lights too bright for this late in the day, the squeaky wheel of someone's shopping cart an aisle over, someone talking aloud about their dinner plans and don't forget to grab green onions and the sticky peel of a child's shoe off the linoleum floor. Footsteps, footsteps, footsteps; their tap tap tapping making Lyric's pulse jump on the end of a string. A yo-yo that you can't get to work quite right.

Keep moving. It's all they know how to do.

-> They try to think of anything they might actually have reason to shop for, one hand fisting a bottle of iron pills. They weren't anemic but they had been feeling dizzy lately at the sight of their own blood. Watching it run down a drain in thin lines made their skin itch; they washed their hair so much and yet it still seemed to stink of copper---that's right. They should buy more shampoo. Something stronger, this time it will get the smell out for sure. Their hair was in the best shape it had ever been because they severed its ends with a knife and brushed out loose strands even if it pulled on their scalp and hurt, because nobody would suspect it then, right? No one would look at someone with well-kept hair and suspect their hands were blackened with someone else's life. They sympathize with Lady Macbeth, scrubbing her hands raw, because Lyric felt that way too. They're burning all their clothes with stains on them because they won't come out ( never mind that he told them in extensive detail how to. never mind that he ridicules them for making a mess they didn't ask for. they couldn't be salvaged, like themselves, it was better to just get rid of them and buy new ones even if it meant their whole wardrobe came down to three different colors and as many cheap t-shirts as they could buy because they keep going through them. )

The hair products aisle isn't that far over. Lyric lingers around the corner at the end near the wall and waits for a woman with a basket full of nail polish and new makeup to make her pick, something pink and bubbly, and leave before they shuffle through the space ( and it really is shuffling. little footsteps like they're afraid to walk too confidently, like someone will suspect they've already stolen something. ) There are shelves and shelves of matching bottles promising rejuvenation and dandruff-free and split ends restorer. Lyric cares about none of it. Some even specify specific hair types, and how the hell would they know what that was? Who knew anything about the type of hair they had? It was just hair. Some days Lyric wants to cut it all off with a straight razor, bleach it and become someone else. Some days they want to impersonate the body of their brother because they think it will make them a better person, and yet they cannot. It would be too close to tampering with a dead body, because they were the same.

Lyric picks the strongest smell they can find. It doesn't matter what it is, as long as it drowns the fountain-penny-water smell out.

( just because no one had said anything about it yet didn't mean it wasn't there. )

-> The weight in the basket is some comfort. It grounds them to the space: for now, they are alone ( though it would likely not stay that way. ) If they had made a shopping list in advance and brought it with them, what would they have put on it? Perhaps if they go about their business like any other person, if Kira approached them again it would be easier to put space between them with the facade that he was a stranger, a freak. Who followed "girls" around in the grocery store trying to get their attention but some kind of kidnapper? All those missing persons cases---no one could blame them for being afraid, could they? They were just looking out for themselves! They can't be too cautious, it's dark out after all, perhaps the police should escort them to their car, or home. That was reasonable action for a "young lady", wasn't it? ( not that Lyric was a girl or a lady. not that they had any intention of pretending to be such. but other people's assumptions took an inch for a mile: they kept their hair long and people cast their opinion of them without a second thought. )

They slow their anxious footsteps, stretch the stride more, walk normally. They pick a bodywash in a brightly colored bottle since they're here, something lavender scented to help them sleep, and wonder if all the artificial smells will finally drown out the anxious itching in the back of their throat that they can't seem to get rid of. The ever-present urge to hold back their bangs and vomit all their feelings out. ( ...maybe they should cut it. Ah, but that would prevent them from hiding behind it like they often do. its length kept other people out as much as it seemed to hinder them. )

-> They're careful not to linger in any aisle too long, lest they be discovered again, but their attention can only be drawn in so many directions; every time they tried to focus on browsing normally so they didn't end up with a basket of useless things, they could not spread their focus thin over all the sounds around them. Could not listen for anyone approaching to flee in advance. They avoid the crowded spaces for the open-late interior garden section, full of bouquets and blooming house plants, smelling like soil and mist---maybe they should have one. They used to keep plants as a pass time when they had the space, but the apartments in Morioh were cramped at best and prisons at worst. There wasn't much room for anything except them and a futon and some necessities in the kitchen, an old tv they got at a used appliance store, a little radio some old lady was getting rid of anyways. But maybe they could make space. Maybe a houseplant would bring them ease in a way they hadn't thought of before, they had always liked being closer to nature than to people. If they could abandon this life right now and vanish into the woods, they would ( but is that because you want to be free or because you want to escape? are you releasing your bonds or hiding like an animal? )

Buried in their thoughts, they are unaware that someone has come close to them. When they are aware, it is already too late. The broad leaves of a standing fern cast a shadow over their head, one front obscuring their vision, but they know. Their organs seem to drop right out of them; the mess on the floor is humiliating, just like their terrified face, passing over for a second with pinprick pupils in the same second their feet are already turning away. The basket no longer feels like a comfort. They want to throw it at him and run.

They don't get far enough to even start.

"--- ---Nn!"

-> He doesn't have to bruise them further for them to wind up, shoulders hunched, some scream on the tip of their tongue of don't touch me! that never comes out. Before they can find their footing or their lost guts, he has reined them in to match pace, hand on their far shoulder that helps him keep them in place like a handle or a bridle. They know when they go home and look at themselves in the steamed-up bathroom mirror and wonder if the person looking into the mirror and the person looking back are the same, they will see the bruise where his fingers are digging into right now and it will make them sick. They will push the heel of their palm into it like a dirt stain, try to rub out of their skin and only succeed in giving themselves more pain and no relief; it will haunt them for days, a reminder: he doesn't have to be there to keep them in check. They will hide it with wrapped bandages and long sleeves like an open wound, cover themselves in layers---a sense of guilt will fill their gut. Every time they remember it, their appetite will diminish, their hands will shake. Right now, the feeling of his fingers digging into the joint that makes them visibly twist and wince is just someone pushing their handprint into soft clay. The permanence doesn't come until its dried up and fired.

-> They try to open their mouth. His fingers, splayed in their thick hair ( they don't want them there! don't touch them don't touch them don't touch them--- ), suddenly are a weight that pushes them forward with a quiet hiss that burns in their neck and spine ( both hands on the handle of their basket squeeze down. they want to hit him with it. they want to drop it and fake a tantrum, or a seizure, or anything that will get someone's attention, but they are stiff. they are desperately clutching their shopping like a terrified bystander to a car wreck---their own tragedy is the body caught between shrapnel and the wheel and the front of the truck that collided with it. nobody could hope of getting them out in time, and so they are forced to hang with a shard of glass lodged through their abdomen until they bleed out, all the agony of their broken ribs finally setting in. ) They don't feel good. Lyric can see the little blue, worn dress shoes the woman next to them wears when she comes close only to keep walking away. They almost reach a hand out to her. Almost dare to beg for help, but who were they kidding. Who would believe them? Who would even think to look at them as anything other than a complaining teenager trying to cause a disturbance, and while that could draw attention to them, it would not get them away. If anything, they'd be expected to leave with him, as a real child. They would be expected to forfeit all control to the "adults" of the situation. They grind their teeth.

"Fuck you." they seethe under their breath. He might not even hear it. It's probably better if he doesn't.

-> They're being hauled around again and they hate it. Their anxiety self-preserves by catalyzing into anger, the more frightened they become of him the more angry they are that they should have to endure being frightened in the first place. Who was he but a man? Mortal, faulty, prone to ego and assumptions. Who was he to be dragging them around like this, their shoulder and skull sore, rushing them through aisles with their head kept tucked with politeness---excuse me, pardon me, do you mind? Every time they drag their heels he just pushes them straight through it until they're afraid they'll trip and land in their face; every turn he chooses is one Lyric wants to try to seperate from him, knowing they may be openly dragged back if they continue to resist, and yet they must. In every small way, they must. They don't feel like they have a scrap of dignity left without it and it frightens them.

They see the bathroom before they recognize where they're going to end up.

-> They wonder, for just a moment, if he's going to honestly swirlie them like some kind of prank. It's almost hysterical to think about. Just one more humiliation for the chart; first you can't defend yourself in public, now you can't save yourself in private either. ( the bathroom door squeaks on its hinges. just as they enter they smell smoke but can't learn where it comes from. the inside smells of drain cleaner, wet tissue, bleach and hand soap in an awful mixture that makes them feel displaced. unreal. ) They lose their footing when he turns into the closest free stall and shoves them first; they feel their heel slip on a waxed tile and fall, twisted and clutching their basket to not spill, onto the toilet seat ( they're lucky it has a lid. ) In the small space their cowardice climbs up their throat: bile, trembling mouth, a cold sweat in an already cold space, a hole being seared into their gut. In their unwanted recline the toes of their shoes reach just past his, legs sprawled to not be heel-first against his shins. He looks down on them. It both terrifies them towards compliance and also makes them want to throw a fit. To stomp and kick and bang their shoes against the door until someone HAS to come, loud beside his abdomen, over and over again; BANG! BANG! BANG! they want the door to hang pitifully from it's hinges---they want to see him disheveled and destitute, with his teeth broken on the porcelain rim. They want to get up and scream in his face until their throat is hoarse and they feel better, because what really matters here is how they feel, right? Isn't it? Didn't they matter?

They mumble something under their breath.

They don't have to look up to see his eyes when the door latch clicks. They wouldn't want to even if they could.

"I don't need your help."

Was this help?

" 'M not gonna follow this fake-ass domestic shit. I'm going home."

@quirofiliac moved from X for beta

#quirofiliac #⭐ well you're a 'real man' and you do what you can. you only take as much as you can grab with two hands ( quirofiliac. ) #⋇ SO CATCH ME UP I’M GETTIN OUT OF HERE: JOJO’S BIZARRE ADVENTURE #⋇ DIAMONDS ON THE FLOOR: PART 4 #long post cw #car crash cw #its just used as a metaphor but jic

[za-baransu]

@quirofiliac ah, so you hear it too.

" See it. " He would need to converse with His Majesty about all those - unexpected - visitors inside the Palace. Even though he had been given a note formerly that someone of a different background had come to visit [ was that the whole truth? ] and was to be cared for as a guest, it still did little to sway Jugram's perception of the obvious.

This was a human.

But he also knew that powers held were of interest to their Emperor.

" Only upon nightfall, that is. I am not quite interested nor tolerant enough of what I perceive to be willing to access the same powers over the day. " Not with all that was going on. Not with all that he would need to keep controlled. Alas, it made for some interesting pastime whenever he felt like merely sitting and resting, having a glass of his preferred cognac or wine. Regardless of what else was going on.

" You seem to be rather familiar with the happenstance? "

#quirofiliac #☆ [ ic ] #[ and once again kira gets into a conversation he wants out of as soon as possible KADJHAD #love that for us :) ] #☆ [ 01 ] quirofiliac