#cicada wing earrings

[cicada-sunset]

Cicada wing earrings ready for you. For sale on Etsy .

[vpofcookies]

💥 Bug 👏 wing 👏 earrings 💥

[the-monkey-ruler]

Journey to the West-ARPG (2019) 西遊外傳-封神榜 : 西遊ARPG手游

Date: July 27, 2020 Platform: iPhone / Android Developer: GoPlayGames Publisher: GoPlayGames Genre: Strategy / PVP fighting Type: Retelling

Summary:

"Journey to the West" can be loved by fairy friends, giving us great confidence to bring more exciting and fun games to everyone!

Source: https://www.facebook.com/legendsofgods/

Link: N/A

[homura]

girl prince

[feyisntdead]

i need to meet more faekin but fae in a rabid dryad decomposing creature kind of way

[qingxin-dream]

“My Sweet Angel”

summary | months of repressed feelings bubble to the surface one night, but you’re fast asleep while wanderer is lost in his own thoughts secretly pining for you. but, uh…pining might be an understatement. (art credits: @/1eternalstar on twitter).

warnings | wanderer is down so bad, obsession, profanity, smut [18+, MDNI], dubcon, female-bodied reader, somnophilia, aphrodisiac/drugging, masturbation, edging/orgasm denial, oral f!receiving, bondage, temperature/element play, worship, slight degradation/praise, creampie

genre | pure, filthy smut (happy kinktober!🎃)

word count | 2.8k

pairing | wanderer x reader

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

A small, breathless gasp ripples through the silence of the night. The sound of crickets and cicadas is but a low roar in the background, barely enough to mask the melody of your traveling companion’s sweet, subdued moans. Merely a foot away is your sleeping form, quietly snoozing with your pretty lashes resting on your cheeks. Your silhouette is ethereal, like an angel banished from heaven finding solace in the moonlight with her wings tucked safely away.

Wanderer’s attention ceaselessly gravitated toward you. It seemed to be a natural reaction. Instinctual, even. He admired you with the deepest devotion, seconds turning into hours. There was a part of him, something long buried and locked away, which surfaced in his chest like a breath of fresh air.

Your hair cascades perfectly over your shoulders, framing the soft shape of your face. Your rosy lips part in a faint sigh. The occasional incoherent mumble of your dreams causes his ears to perk up, hoping to catch a glimpse of what your little fantasies are made of. Your exposed stomach when you roll over with a groan and the magnetic curve of your legs make his eyes darken with lust.

Archons, he had way too much time in his hands every night. Thankfully you were blissfully unaware that puppets didn’t need any sleep.

He cursed to himself between sharp, ragged intakes, his needy violet eyes reflecting the luminescence of the moon, raking over your curves with a carnal glint. Looking back, he had all the opportunities in the world to stop that nagging desire churning within his chest.

But Wanderer was selfish. Once he got a taste of your affection, consider him a starved man.

His thoughts about you would twist and tangle his emotions until it utterly choked him of any sensibility. Love and lust are more than just a slippery slope. The puppet was free-falling in the abyss of your pheromones. The best part is you were completely clueless to these intimate escapades of his.

Could you blame such a depraved, touch-starved puppet?

The nights all seemed to blend together like this. Waiting patiently for you to snore gently before he let his fingers ghost your figure, assuring him that you wouldn’t wake up anytime soon. One hand would devote itself to exploring every bit of skin you had to offer while the other palmed the growing bulge in his shorts.

Like a moth to a flame, he became utterly entranced with the glow of your skin beneath the moon. You are like a goddess laying beautifully upon your altar of silken bedsheets, awaiting the devout worship of his soft prayers and saccharine lips.

His fingers grazed your shoulder, trailing down your arm and leaving tiny goosebumps in its wake. He let his hand mesh carefully into the dip of your waist, imperceptibly squeezing it just enough to fan the flames of his imagination. He was in another dimension entirely, wishing for the day you’d beg for his touch.

Wanderer takes his lower lip between his teeth harshly, dipping his hand beneath his shorts to tug the tip of his thick cock with growing fervor. Precum had already wet the slit of his tip, lubricating each teasing thrust of his hand over his dick. Meanwhile, he continued his journey down the round, plump curve of your hips.

Hips that were meant for childbearing.

He takes a fistful of your nightgown momentarily as his cock aches in his hand, yearning for release so soon. For fuck’s sake, why is the image of you bred full with his seed so goddamn hot?

His movements came to an abrupt halt at the lacy end of your little nightgown. He had to know what you were wearing beneath that silky dress. The idea of making a mess all over your cute panties, covering them generously in his cum, only edged him further. Or, even better, he’d love to fuck his creamy load all over your drenched folds before sliding back in for another round.

Wanderer had to make a concerted effort to reel in his filthy daydreams, struggling to keep his hands from trembling on you. He managed to slip the nightgown higher and higher up your smooth thighs, a lump quickly forming in the puppet’s throat.

He’s not sure if he could handle seeing you so vulnerable without ripping your clothes off and fucking you to his heart’s content right then and there. No, no, no... After all this endless waiting and pining for many torturous months, he couldn’t ruin this with a fleeting moment of insatiable want. He pauses, collecting himself for a brief moment.

The puppet’s pupils dilated into pools of audacious desire upon seeing the dainty black undergarments hugging your plush hip. It was lacy with a beautiful floral design, enrapturing his gaze all the way down to your cunt. Wanderer couldn’t help himself, reaching out subconsciously to brush his thumb against your clit through your panties.

“I wanna fuck you so bad… so bad,” he whispers, his voice just an octave higher with desperation as he continues to fist his throbbing cock. The friction of his hand isn’t enough. It couldn’t come close to the immaculate sensation of your slick pussy enveloping his cock, dragging the tip slowly from your clit to your fluttering, empty hole. But that would be insane, he couldn’t.

You didn’t seem to move a muscle in response to his touch. Meanwhile, Wanderer is struggling like a fool to restrain himself, it is almost comical. He could feel his impending orgasm, forcing his hand to slow down with longer, more intermittent strokes to stop from practically bursting at the seams.

Eventually, he found the courage to nudge the cloth of your black panties aside, revealing your pretty little pussy lips glistening with need. The puppet’s violet irises swirl with power, nearly drunk on the mere thought of pleasuring you in secret like this. Why else would you wear such a sexy little garment for him?

A dull, burning sensation coated his lungs as his thumb nestled into your bare clit, resolving himself to carefully lean down and relieve his parched throat with a kitten lick of your folds. It was a miracle that you hadn’t stirred in your sleep too much, yet the part of him reckless with lust wanted you to wake up while he was tongue-deep in your cunt. He dived between your labia again with his mouth, exhaling a soft, guttural moan into your hole after another good lick.

“Mm, so fucking good… I know you fucking like this, baby,” Wanderer mumbles, wrapping his arms around your hips to secure you in place as he freely drags his tongue across your folds and clit skillfully, placing an occasional kiss here and there. Your thighs subconsciously tense with pleasure.

Had he known you would taste so divine, he would’ve devoured your pussy a long time ago. Shifting slightly so that he could lay completely on his stomach, Wanderer eagerly laps at your cunt and fucks his leaking cock into the mattress. Shit, it is too easy for him to lose sight of himself and tug at your hips possessively, not hesitating to fuck you messily with his tongue.

It’s when he got a little too hasty slurping on your pussy with a particularly lascivious moan that you grumble in your sleep. Wanderer freezes, peering over your pelvis like a predator defending his prize with a piercing violet glare.

There is no way you could possibly wake up. Not now. Not when he’s so close. He deduces that the twitch in your sleep must be from that little aphrodisiac he slipped in your evening tea with him. The puppet had made a nice concoction of tasteless drugs to keep you both asleep and all sensitive just for him.

Wanderer is confident that his potion had its intended effect, but just in case—with a flick of his wrist, he ties your hands together on the headboard with a cool, pressurized ring of Anemo energy. He towers over you, a giddy smirk spreading across his lips seeing you so helpless to his desires.

He had read that cute pocket diary of yours gushing over him like he’s your high school sweetheart, don’t worry. You both know these feelings are mutual. But let’s be honest, he’d much rather you gush on his cock over and over until your pussy can’t take it anymore. And you’ve been dreaming about it too, he’s seen it with his own eyes.

Positioning himself between your legs, the puppet slaps his thick cock on your stomach, measuring it up to your belly button where his pink tip mushrooms. There’s no question that his dick would bottom out inside your walls, maybe if he’s lucky he could see his thrusts bulge in your lower stomach. He’d love to pound you deep enough to truly bury his cum inside you, plugging it with his pulsing cock until he’s sure you’re nice and bred.

No, no, he reminds himself again. He has to savor his time with you—make love to you like you rightfully deserve. There will be plenty of opportunities to fuck you senseless later, despite how badly he wants it now.

The tip of his cock trails down to your folds, tucking his length under your panties. Using one hand to guide his cock against your soaking core, the other rests on your inner thigh as he grinds against you slowly. Wanderer grits his teeth at the feeling, sucking in a sharp breath and brushing his thumb lovingly against your sensitive inner thigh. It’s everything he’s ever imagined and more.

He’s forced to bite his knuckles, nearly choking on his own pathetic whines of pleasure. His thrusts grow faster, using your lingerie to keep his cock pressed firmly between your folds.

His words are a ravenous, hoarse whisper, begging you in your sleep. “Shit, shit, shit, you’re gonna make me cum…! Can I put it in? C-Can I please put it in?”

Wanderer knows what your answer will be, grinding sloppily on your drenched cunt while he grabs your breast. He wishes he could hear you say it. But he can feel the way your sweet little hole clenches around nothing every time his tip rubs your clit just right, and that’s enough for him.

It takes no effort to snap the thin straps of your lacy panties in haste, quickly tossing the garment aside indiscriminately. It’s too much, fuck, you look too perfect. Before he knows it, Wanderer pushes his tip inside your sopping entrance, gazing with wonder at how you suck him in like a good slut. Such a good fucking slut, hugging the first inch of his hard cock like you never wanted to let go.

Your spongy walls subconsciously react to his every motion, tightening around the puppet’s cock with unprecedented strength. He hisses, materializing a blue chained choker around your neck with his Anemo abilities and yanking you forward. His girth splits you apart, sliding inside your throbbing cunt inch by every tantalizing inch, until he can meet you halfway and kiss your whimpering, tender lips.

“Goddamn you,” Wanderer growls into the kiss, harshly biting onto your lip. He doesn’t draw blood, but tends to your bruised skin thereafter with a gentler, half-apologetic kiss. “You feel so fucking good, take me so fucking good… mm…”

His hips draw back, your walls noticeably empty in his absence. Snapping forward, his huge cock plunges into your depths with a delightfully lewd smack, causing him to chuckle under his breath. The puppet carefully lays you back on the pillow, planting his arms on either side of your head so that his vision is filled with only your beautiful face.

Once Wanderer begins to establish a rhythm, there’s no stopping him. Every drag of his veiny cock against your sensitive walls is utterly addicting, he had to come back for more and more. He moans and whines your name into your delicate little neck, taking the flesh into his mouth to suck and mark you as his own.

He is panting over you like an animal in heat. “I can feel you squeezing me, angel. I know you love it. ‘M gonna use that pretty little pussy of yours.”

Your body twitches beneath him as his lips leave no crevice untouched by his kisses or hickeys, a smattering of small red and purple blotches dotting your skin from your neck to your breasts. All the while, the puppet had to throttle his pace again, almost giving in to the ecstasy. You were definitely getting close too, he could feel it in the way you clenched around him greedily.

Swirling his tongue around your cute nipple, Wanderer suckles it briefly with a pop of his mouth, admiring his work on the canvas of your gorgeous body. He leaned back, hooking his hands under your calves to press your knees to your chest. If only he had a Kamera to capture the mesmerizing image of your legs spread so good for him with a perfect shot of your cunt wrapped around his tip.

He could tell this position had your walls enveloping his length even tighter than before, angling his cock deep towards that special spot inside you that would have your toes curling. “God, (Y/N), you look so fucking sexy like this.”

It is killing him—the sensation of your hole desperately clinging to the inch of his cock sheathed within you. The puppet keeps your legs pushed back and snakes a hand down to your clit once more, which had obviously been aching for attention. He’s lost in the contours of your folds all splayed out for him, so much so that he lets a globule of his spit drip over your clit to mix with your juices.

You are squirming slightly in your sleep from all the stimulation, but he doesn’t care. The euphoric feeling of teetering on the edge of an incredible orgasm has Wanderer stripped of any sense of reason. He nudges his cock halfway inside you at a delectably slow pace, reveling in your body’s subtle reactions to his teasing.

“Yeah, baby? You wanna fucking cum?” Wanderer whispers hotly over you, circling your clit faster. There’s already a delicious ring of your essence gathering at the base of his cock.

“Cum…” you mumble in a daze, your eyelashes fluttering open slowly. Your expression is contorted into a helpless plea, licking and biting your bottom lip as you sleepily notice his cock nestled between your thighs.

Wanderer’s eyes snap to yours in disbelief. You’re lucid, but asking for more. He begins to chuckle lowly, and reaches to caress your cheek. “You want it, hm? Speak up.”

He continues to fuck you at an excruciatingly slow pace, waiting patiently for you to beg for his seed. He wanted you in tears, squirting all over him like a good girl. Your moans encourage him to go deeper.

“Please, Wanderer,” you struggle to curl your fingers in his indigo locks under the effects of the drugs. “K-keep going, feels too good. Fill me up, please…”

“Like this?” The puppet smirks, forcefully thrusting his huge cock to the brim inside of you. He relishes in your lovely cries of pleasure and pain, swallowing them in a passionate kiss as he fucks you with reckless abandon.

You could barely hiccup a response, sloppily kissing back as Wanderer abuses your tight hole. He has you pinned against the creaky mattress, holding your face with his thumb on your chin to keep your mouth open. Every noise of ecstasy is his to claim and taste on your tongue.

“Mine, baby, all mine. Say it for me,” Wanderer moans, adoring the cock-drunk glimmer in your clouded eyes.

Squeezing your eyes shut suddenly, your eyebrows furrowed together as you suddenly felt your orgasm build at a rapid speed. You whined against the Anemo cuffs restraining your wrists above your head. “Yours! Oh my god, I’m yours. I’m gonna fucking cum, please, please give it me…!”

“Mhmm, yeah c’mon baby, lemme see you cum for me, so good for me, yeah?” he praises, kissing you roughly as he snaps his hips into you. It’s impossible to deny his insatiable need for you any longer, painting your walls white with spurts of his hot seed in a series of profanity-laden grunts.

Your eyes nearly roll back as your orgasm washes over you, legs trembling around him. The continuous twitch of his cock has you arching your back, taking every last drop of his cum until your cunt can’t hold any more. It leaks out, creaming your folds and his cock nicely.

Once you both catch your breath and lock eyes, you feel your cunt ache to be filled once more. Noticing how you trap him with your legs around his hips, Wanderer realizes the aphrodisiac must have been stronger than he anticipated.

You smile sweetly. “M-maybe one more?”

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated. my masterlist.

[sarahisslytherin]

•❣•୨୧ 𝙙𝙧𝙪𝙣𝙠 𝙖𝙨 𝙙𝙧𝙪𝙣𝙠 ୨୧•❣•

felix catton x reader

summary: after seeing felix continuously surrounded by girls at his birthday party, you try your hardest not to get drunk on jealousy.

contains: jealousy, angst, fluff? oh, and like a million references to drinking.

a/n: this one's for all my fellow retroactive jealousy girlies out there! yey mental illness! wrote most of this at 2am so don't mind the elusive ending.

word count: 0.8k

the cicadas have been droning on for what feels like an eternity as you wait for felix beneath the minotaur statue at the maze’s heart. the inky sky above you stretches on beyond the garden walls, fractured by an array of white-hot stars. you cross your arms, tap your heel briskly against the earth, indicating your frustration to no one but yourself. all night you’d watched girl after girl fawn over felix, linking their arms into his own, batting their lashes with an evident goal. you couldn’t watch any longer, stomping away towards the maze, wishing for nothing more than to get so lost you would never be found. nevertheless, you have been. 

“so this is where you’d disappeared to.” felix sighs, golden angel wings glimmering in the moonlight. “i’ve been looking for you all over.”

“surprised you even noticed i’d gone.” you scoff.

felix purses his lips. “i’m sensing some tension. what have i done now, hm?” 

he cocks his head at that, a confused look about his features. he holds up an offering, a bottle of fine wine he’s clearly been helping himself to. you refuse it, try teasing him to forget your emotional turmoil, but it comes out all wrong. “wouldn’t you rather get drunk with your fan club?” 

felix wastes no time towering above you, a gentle hand clasping your chin, a soft pair of lips pressing your own. “are you jealous, love?” he asks, and you can practically hear his smirk. “this has to be cutest thing. sure, maybe they were a little enthusiastic, but you know i only have eyes for you.”

“oh, hush!” you whine, swatting his hand away. “why don’t you go bother one of your girlfriends.” you know you’re being petty, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“i only have one.” he says, voice gravelly and stern. “and don’t you forget it.”

felix has grown to be well-versed in the art of comforting you. he knows you often feel insecure or not worth his time, a concept he will never truly grasp, in spite his best efforts. what he doesn’t know is the gut-wrenching feeling of imagining your lover leaving you for someone else. the knowledge that he loved someone else before you, who knows how many. you try to fight it, remind yourself this is a natural thing and in no way his fault.

“i’m sorry.” you click your tongue. “i don’t mean to be annoying or toxic.” your voice takes on an edge, a subtle quiver only a trained ear such as felix’s could detect.

“hey, none of that.” he playfully scolds, enveloping you in strong arms. “you’re the only girl for me, you know that. i’ll remind you as many times as you need.”

“why do i feel like this?” you asked. “you’re nothing but understanding and loyal.”

he gives you a warm smile, plants a kiss atop your head. “it’ll pass, love. trust me.” there’s a silence so heavy neither you knows how to break it.

“want a drink?” he asks, holding up the wine. felix smirks as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. perhaps a bit of humor will do the trick. “in a way you’re kind of an alcoholic, you know, only drunk on jealousy.” 

you give him a roll of the eyes and a faux laugh. “at least i’m not an actual drunk.” you tease as you take the bottle from him. 

“we all have our faults.” he jests. “you feel better?”

“sort of.” you sigh, but you realize it’s a lie as you start to spiral once again. you wonder if you’ll ever be able to harness those feelings of yours that lead you to this state. the jealousy that feeds you manufactured visions of felix`s past, one where he was happier with someone who wasn’t you. one where another person slept on your side of the bed, touched him the way you do. you know it isn’t real (not anymore), but the mind can be quite a convincing thing —

“love?” you hear felix say, and suddenly you’re on a staircase; your makeup is fresh, the night still young. “you look amazing!” he says proudly as he takes a drag of his cigarette. it’s the first he’s seen of you this evening, and he can’t stop himself from drinking in the sight before him. it was all in your head. now the party has just begun and your mind will not stray. the vicious cycle will not repeat itself. there will be no comforting, no drying of unnecessary tears tonight. you will focus on the man, the angel before you and steer clear of the maze of jealousy. yes, you will get drunk tonight, drunk on open-mouthed kisses, drunk on someone who wants you and only you.

[littlealienproducts]

Cicada Wing Stained Glass Earrings by MonarchTradingCo

[riaki]

— last train at 25 o' clock | suguru geto x reader fluff(???)/light angst @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat please take this bc coffee shop geto is gonna take a bit

it's 1am in the morning, the train platform's a ghost town, and the hum of the vending machine is all the noise in the world as you and suguru wait for the last ride home after a mission.

wc : 2.6k cw : brief mentions of blood ; references to hidden inventory arc , shoko typical smoking , probably some other stuff i'm forgettin not proofread!!!! also he may be ooc srry

i cooked this up last minute cus i remembered my promise of posting every weekend last week so my bad if u can tell its rushed lol post hidden inventory pre defection

suguru remembers it like it was yesterday.

the song of summer insects reaches your ear as you clamber up to the train station platform; a pandemonium of cicadas and crickets that sing odes to the full moon in the sky partially curtained by dark clouds and the dew on the grass that's begun to form.

"damn, it's hot." you muttered, wiping your forehead as your arm shot out to grab the dirty railing, white paint cracked and peeled as a splinter pricks your fingers and you flinch. suguru follows after you; a small hum is your acknowledgment.

"careful. shoko doesn't like dealing with splinters," he says from behind you, stepping up the stairs two at a time to straighten up on the train platform, hands in his pockets. “i don’t have reversed curse technique healing either.” there's the smell of a storm in the air, and the lights overhead buzz and flicker with the intermittent beat of a moth's wings. you just give a dip of your head in acknowledgement as you pry your hand away from the railing, the scent of old wood lingering on your hand as you wipe off the dust clinging to your palm on your pants.

(geez, you two have no sense for these types of things.)

suguru holds a hand out, and you take it eagerly to let him pull you up the last step, before politely letting go and slipping it back into his pocket once more. you let out an exhausted sigh and stand up, rubbing your tired eyes as you look around.

the platform is deserted save for the stray cat beneath the station bench, sniffing at a clump of weeds growing from the metal leg. there's a vending machine up against the wall to the elevator, an obnoxious painted 'out of order' sign on the lift's muddy glass doors, stained with dust, dirt, and fingerprints. there's some... creative graffiti on the wall, and a starch yellow section of caution tape flutters in the humid evening wind.

the cat scratches at the concrete floor, and its matted white fur and crystal blue eyes remind you of someone. you glance up at suguru, poking his arm to get his attention.

"look. it's satoru." you huffed, still a little loose for breath as you reach out and grab his shoulder, leaning against him for support. the dark-haired boy just laughs a little, taking his phone out to snap a picture and no doubt send it to the white-haired brat. "i see it." he leans a little closer to you; it's subtle, and you don't notice it, but the way his shoulders sag just so you have an easier time holding on speaks volumes. "don't send it to him! he's probably asleep right now. think it's past his evening sugar high?" you asked, glancing up at him with a tilt of your head.

"most likely. i think he got sent on another solo mission today." there's a tiny bitter bite to suguru's voice that underlines its usual velvetiness; like an ocean current beneath the waves that you only find once you've been dragged underwater. you don't say anything about it, though. the sleeves of his uniform crumple beneath your fingers when they curl into the fabric, a shiver running down your spine as goosebumps spring up on your skin like shroom caps after the summer rain.

suguru is observant.

"you cold? you can have my jacket." it's immediate, and his voice is as smooth as cream silk and marble as he shrugs your hand off (much to your dismay-- shown with a bite to your cheek) to unbutton his uniform jacket, slipping it off his shoulders and offering it to you. when you stand there, feeling a little daze and a lot tired, he just smiles, shoving it in your face with a low chuckle that sounds like honey pouring from a jar.

"you sure? you can hug a cursed spirit if you get cold, 'cus you're not getting it back." you sighed after a moment, reluctantly taking his jacket and tugging it over your shoulders. it's warm, and it smells like his cologne- like some natural incense that soothes your nerves and loosens your body to the marrow in your weary bones. you bury your nose in it and forget to think about the warm hue on your cheeks that you'll later chalk up to the humid air.

"i'm sure." the cat by the bench perks up, staring directly in your direction. it yawns, before bounding away, disappearing behind the vending machine with a flick of its cloud white tail. the machine is missing a few rows of drinks, but the green of a melon soda can that's far too saturated to have a name to the original fruit and the cream and red of a yakult bottle are enough to catch your eyes beneath the harsh light of the display.

"still don't understand how you get cold on a night like this, though." he makes a gesture towards 'this' with one hand, fingers flexing in a way that makes your heart flutter unreasonably.

a moment of silence passes; you can see the distant lights of some prefecture over the hill, and your mind briefly wanders to rainy afternoons, puddles reflecting the red neon of passing cars and distorted faces under plastic umbrellas sandwiched between painted concrete and a dark sky.

"you want a drink? on me, as thanks." you say, breaking the sound of silence and nodding towards the vending machine as you look up at suguru. it takes him a moment to respond, so you use the opportunity to admire his profile; the slope of his nose, the deep hazel of his eyes that shine a copper rust beneath the pale yellow light overhead. his hair is a little messy; it's falling out of its slicked back bun, a product of your earlier fight. there's a scrape on your ankle from tripping through the bush in an attempt to put distance between the curse when you had been engaged earlier; it still stings. there's a tightness to his jaw, you notice- and some part of you wishes you could take it for yourself.

the section of dark hair in front of his face sways as he turns to look down at you, gaze charting the corners of your face (your cheeks look soft, he notes) before he opens his mouth to speak.

one kick to the machine, a disappointed frown when nothing comes out, and two yen bills later, the pop of can tabs fills your ears as condensation seeps into your skin, a pleasant relief from the heaviness of the summer air. it's too much when the cold side of a drink is pressed to your cheek, though-- and you let out a yelp of protest, shooting a quick glare up at suguru, who just laughs it off and takes a sip of his drink.

you down a sip of your own; it's a sweet fruit tea that's your go to whenever it's hot out. sweet, citrusy, like starfruit. it tastes like a summer of youth and a warm blue spring. it's pleasant.

a distant rumble echoes from the dark horizon, and both of your gazes simultaneously snap towards it-- at last, you think. the last train is here. you adjust suguru's jacket around your shoulders, catching a whiff of something that smells like rosemary and new leather as his voice fills your ears.

it's an easy night when you pass the threshold and step into the train car, speckled white floors and blue hard seats greeting you. somewhere, there's a ticket stuffed into one of your pockets; a memento of late evenings that blend into early mornings when there's a bruise on your face and a knick on suguru's wrist that soothe themselves with the harmony of small talk and sensation of fizzling bubbles in cold metal cans as the train jostles you along. you're sitting, and he's standing, one arm on the hangers overhead as you talk about everything and nothing. he catches himself every now and then, watching with minimal interest as the sliding doors part themselves like gateways to the afterlife for ghost passengers. it's not your stop yet; far from it.

"say, suguru-- do you miss going on missions with satoru?" you asked after a moment, fingers drumming against your knees as the automated voice overhead announces the next stop, empty farm plots and tangles of wire passing by as the lights inside cozy houses dim and go off.

he doesn't answer that, so you just look out the window.

(suguru, you gettin' enough sleep? heatstroke?)

"how's the cut on your leg?" he finally murmurs after a moment, his eyelids heavy before he tears his gaze away from a tacky advertising on the wall and back to your scrunched nose.

"annoying." you just sighed, and you watched as he gave a small smile; his eyes fluttering shut, long lashes resting against his cheeks. you wondered if the wings of a butterfly would be heavy enough to weigh them down.

he moves after a second, sitting down one seat away from you in a swift motion and beckoning for you to lift your leg. you comply, not entirely sure where it's going- until he gently rolls the hem of your pant leg up, pressing the cold edge of his half-empty soda to the angry red scratch, and you wince a little before letting out one, long sigh. you melt into the chair, feeling like a senior citizen with a hunched back and one too many shrine visits under a bleached kyoto sun.

"thanks." you mumbled, leaning your head against the window as the train jostles ever so slightly to its own tracked rhythm.

he just hums in response, pulling a worn bandaid out of his pocket; the plastic top has pen smudges on it and the white wax gets caught between his pearly teeth as he tugs it off, taking time to make sure he positions the healing strip properly before flattening it down on your leg.

"shoko makes no sense when she talks about her reversed curse technique, so this'll do." he says quietly, and you let yourself fall into the pool of molasses that comes from his throat as you close your eyes, feeling the dull sensation of pain drain from your muscles and melt away like the first waves of spring and the ripple of lake water as a lone sakura petal disturbs the mirrored blue surface.

"i could learn it." you said after a moment, pressing your lips together in an attempt to snuff out the feeling of his fingers lingering on your skin, toying with the loose edge of the bandaid. he just snorts, and you crack one eye open to glare at him.

the rest of the train ride is spent in silence; you slip in and out of a hazy sleep, and you're faintly aware of the timeline-- somehow, your drink ends up on his lips. your head ends up on his shoulder, and your ears pick up his quickened heartbeat. his warmth is nothing like the humidity that clings to your skin like a layer of smoke and vapor, accompanied by sticky dango and raucous laughter weaving between the sounds of fireworks and the crunch of dirt beneath pairs of geta. he smells like home and his soft hair tickles your face as your little breaths squeeze past your parted lips, a warmth like bumping shoulders and linking fingers seeping into your body like the steady stream of fine sand in an hourglass. a warmth like empty classrooms lit by golden hour; windows cracked open to let in a fresh breeze as the faint smell of cigarette smoke drifts up to the room from the brunette and her lighter beneath the patch of shade from a tree in the courtyard below.

(need a light?)

this is how it's been for the past month. tired mumbles and hushed murmurs exchanged between two people who are more than friends but less than lovers after each harrowing mission; shared drinks and linked pinkies, the warmth that stains cheeks rosy when fingers that look small against calloused ones brush with another hand reaching for the metal pole on the train. heavy silence as you fall asleep on his shoulder; faint tingles when his fingers graze your knuckles as he stares at the dark reflection in the windows across. even the windows know how to make him relax.

one day, it'll be just him. a white bird stained black by apollo's hand in a sea of dirty geese, silent as the others hawk and squawk for a place on the lake. one hand hooked around the hard plastic of a hanger, supporting heavy shoulders with weight that could rival atlas' burden. a boy so tired of being beaten by the waves that he succumbs to the undercurrent with the same practice as before, only the paint on the railings has chipped past repair and not even the greenery of the countryside can touch the stains on the windows to his soul; eyes that used to shine with mirth and crinkle with gentle smiles become sunken and heavy with experience more suited to those a decade older.

he'd already chosen his path when he offered his jacket to you; when he laughed at the way you'd sneezed after investigating the patch of weed that had captured the stray cat's attention from before. and he knew that you'd noticed, and he knew that you'd try, and he knew that he wouldn't let you.

he knew when he woke you up with a gentle nudge to the forehead, suppressing the fluttering feeling in the heart he didn't know he still had when you made a grumpy tired face and stood up with much effort and a stumble or two.

(damn monkeys.)

it was easy nights like these that he'd eventually miss the most. walking you back to your dorm, past the candy wrappers and empty cola cans in the halls stained with imaginary blood and passing glances. departing with a kiss goodbye when he knew you were too drowsy and delirious to be able to remember it come morning.

the swing of a jazz rhythm would get stuck in his throat when you stumbled, only catching yourself from the jolt of the train's stop by latching a hand onto his wrist like some evil little lamprey and muttering a small 'sorry'. he'd laugh it off, collect the empty bottles of drinks of debt, and tug on the sleeve of his jacket on your arms, gently helping you off the platform as your pant leg slid back down to cover the bandaid on your leg, rough fabric scratching away the ghost of his touch on your skin. he wished it would just stay for a little longer.

and when the morning came and you woke up in your bed with his scent on the fabric of your shirt, you'd do it all over again. the only part of the terrible cycle he ever took pleasure in. even when the vile taste of a cursed spirit sunk into his stomach, it would be washed away with the right pop and fizzle of sugary drink followed by an even sweeter kiss to the knot between his tired eyes.

there was nothing about your time together he wouldn't ever miss.

you'd be his past, his present, and his afterlife. even when it was his turn to get off the ghost train and step past those sliding doors that held new meaning, you were the last thought on his mind.

one day, he hopes to see you again, when the last train comes in the night so late it could be considered early morning and the platform can relive old memories of peeling paint on a past summer spring once more.

hope u guys enjoyed the catoru cameo my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !

[tunastime]

no place for strangers

in which BigB realizes that there are a significant number of difference sbetween him and his friends, and in which BigB decides he doesn’t really care that much.

(2333 words)

A portion of the night sky, night for only a fraction of time, is blotted out by the shape of two dark, mottled-grey wings. 

He supposes he's a little jealous of that, the wings, how they shed loose feathers, how they flutter and swish and practically make no noise at all when extended. He's a bit jealous of Grian, known Watcher, much more powerful, hands twisted in the reigns of his own creation—the games. He's as much a pawn in this one as he has been in the others. But unlike BigB, he's hungry. The killing doesn't do it for him. Neither does the dying. Grian’s new—the Watchers don’t let him stay full. They chastise him for a million things and make sure he suffers, and at this point, BigB watches it happen. There isn’t much left he can do. He does less Watching and more supervising.

Maybe he's jealous of Pearl, with thin black and gold wings like a moth, ears wispy and pointed up toward the sky. The way her drooping eyes never dim, the way they both glow, silver and gold. She’s got it just as good as him, doesn’t she? Secretive and distant. Away enough to matter but not enough to cause a fuss.

But maybe he isn't. Isn't there something lurking behind his eyes when he stares at his reflection too long? Wouldn't redstone glow in his presence? Wouldn't the forest go silent and the earth hold its breath as he waited, as he watched? Wasn't there the purple remnant of where he once stood?

It doesn't matter. BigB stares up at the messy splotch that is Grian against the night sky and sighs something profound. He tried to understand him. To love him. But Grian is a widow, and everyone that loves him suffers the same. They just have, actually. Joel and Jimmy. And now Grian perches and watches and BigB watches him and there's a muted sting behind his eyes as he does. Grian doesn't turn. But his wings flutter.

"Good to know that some things stay the same," BigB says, cutting through the warm night air with a voice he hopes matches it, but he isn't sure. Grian hums, mostly questioning. His feet stay planted. BigB starts to scale the wall.

"Don't know what you mean by that," Grian questions. He turns his head slightly to the sound of BigB climbing the ladder to the top, but doesn't do much else.

"You," BigB huffs. He rests his hands on the top of the wall, pulling himself over the flat edge. He swings his legs over, and his heels bounce against the cobbles. It’s an uncomfortable resting place. He watches Grian shift from foot to foot, and wonders if the same cobbles are digging into the soles of his feet, the same way they dig into the underside of BigB’s thighs. 

“Me?” Grian parrots. His eyes flick over to BigB, quick, but not so quick that BigB doesn’t catch the nervous glint of them. He rests back on his hands. The rough rock presses back against his palms, cold and uncomfortable. Luckily, the air around them is thick with humidity, heat, and a faint metallic smell. And the hum of cicadas. Their drone blocks out everything else, except the words bouncing around in BigB’s head.

"You're still no good at the emotions thing, are you?" he asks. He tilts his head as he says it, cocking it to one side as he looks over at Grian. He watches Grian’s nose wrinkle, the beginnings of his teeth baring back, as if he could bite and make anything more than an impression. BigB almost laughs. He gets it, he really does. 

The thing about Grian is that he’s not an easy shape to love, and an even less easy shape to hold. Like every bird, he fears being caged, and arms are no more than a cage, and someone holding his heart is no more than a cage, so he can’t sit still, even now, even on the edge of a wall. BigB watches his wings twitch. They’re gorgeous, but there’s a sharp line through them where the flight feathers should be. They’re not much more than deadweight. Anyway—where was he? Right. Grian. Impossible to love, impossible to hold. A widow, of sorts. The words tumbled out of Scar’s mouth one time, scorned and scoffed. Grian was no more than a widow mourning the first partner he took—Scar—trying to find someone who fit the hole but wasn’t him. 

But Grian kills. Who could say it was even his fault? Scar. BigB. Jimmy. Joel. Everyone he tries to love, in any shape, dies. He’s forced to starve. He’s forced to feed a higher cause. 

BigB can see Grian’s calloused fingers from here, at least the pale shape of them, balanced over his shins as his wrists drape over the sharp edge of his knee. He studies him in the dim lighting before he looks away, feeling something curdling in his stomach. BigB knows his time is short. Unremarkable. And normally forgotten. That doesn’t really bother him, though. He knows the importance of his impression, here. But he wants to tug this string, just once. He knows where all the strings lie—even his own, unfortunately. Maybe that’s the one thing he knows better than Grian—he’s aware of the outcome before it happens. He doesn’t have to stop to wonder what his odds are.

“That’s not nice,” Grian begins, and BigB shrugs. The cicadas stop singing. BigB’s voice cuts through the night like a knife, cool and even.

“I’m just being honest,” he starts. He watches the stone of the clock tower for movement, eyes flicking over the shape in the dark. “Jimmy and Joel just died and you’re already trying to replace them.”

Grian huffs. He sounds indignant, almost twinged with hurt. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

BigB raises his eyebrows, tilts his head again. Grian catches his eye for a second longer, this time, and his eyes are dark and wide. His jaw is tightly set. He looks like, at any moment, his lips might curl back and expose blunt, powerless teeth. BigB wonders what that might feel like—surely unpleasant, to have someone bite down on you with the intent to do harm, but he wonders if Grian could kill him on purpose and if it might rid him of anything. It might make the smell of guilt worse, actually.

“I think you do,” BigB says.

“Enlighten me, then,” Grian grits out, teeth closing around the words with a sharp snap. “Since I can feel you trying to figure me out.”

“Not me,” BigB says. Grian shuts his eyes, pinching his eyebrows together, before he twists his body around, fast enough to hear the slight pop of his spine as it cracks. BigB can feel the hair rise on the back of his neck as Grian searches, eyes scorching the earth for any sign of—

“Pearl—”

BigB hums, but it sounds more like a laugh.

“You’re just no good at it,” he says after a beat. Grian resettles, but his wings stay fluffed, body tight with tension. He radiates energy like a coil tightly wound. BigB can feel it seeping into the seams of him, and shifts as it prickles over his skin. He leans back on his hands a little further, hoping they can carry the weight. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know what that means, BigB,” Grian sighs, short and through his nose. His hair blows into his face. “What d’you—” He sighs again, cutting himself off with a wave of his hand. 

He seems annoyed about the whole prospect of their conversation. It’s not unfounded, honestly. BigB did just climb up the ladder and start unpacking years worth of issues in front of Grian, trying to dig at the soft, bleeding center of the thing. He’s pretty sure Joel’s blood is still under his fingernails. He’s not sure if he saw it all happen. He definitely didn’t see Jimmy’s body hit the ground. Lucky, that. He’s not sure if he could watch people so used to flying be unable to use their wings when they needed it most. He thinks he might’ve seen Joel in the moment before Jimmy disappeared—Joel who was never one to let fear and grief trump anger. Or maybe the anger was his grief, like it was Tango’s, or Scar’s. Not that he saw much of that, either. Stories, mostly, things that get passed around a dim campfire at the end of the world. 

Jimmy was probably just a near-lifeless body in Joel's arms, right before he was gone. Poor guy. Grian didn’t even get to them in time before it was too late. He was too late for Joel, too. Joel was ash before Grian could even make his mouth into the shape of his name. BigB wonders if they got a grave. Grian was good at building graves, so he’d like to think so. It only made sense. Grian seemed to get over it faster when there was something to mourn to.

BigB takes a second to think, pressing his tongue between his back teeth. The air is quiet around them, still, like it, too, holds the tension in Grian’s spine, like it might be twisting it taut. 

“You just don’t understand how it works, you’re not good at grieving, and you’re not good at the whole grief thing, either.” BigB shrugs again, shoulders lifting just enough to be visible. He’s still not watching Grian, as much as Grian isn’t watching him, aside from the hum of them both, something wholly inhuman brushing shoulders with something that craved humanity more than anything else in the world, but could never figure out how to get it. 

“You don’t get it.”

“I do.” Grian starts.

“No, you don’t,” BigB turns toward him, finally, furrowing his eyebrows. “Grian, dude—you’re faking this whole human thing to begin with, and it’s not working—”

Grian whips around to face him. His face is sharp, jaw set. “Stop—”

BigB waves him off. His voice, unlike Grian’s, stays level, twinged with annoyance, rather than anything else. 

“You don’t understand what you should be guilty of, but you’re feeling it like it’s like…rotting something inside of you but you still don’t know why, and jeez, Grian, you’ve made it a crime for you to feel something.” 

He sighs, waving his hands around as if it could help bolster his point any further. He feels something ache in his chest—something aching to explain it in a way that Grian could understand, in a way that he wouldn’t just fight. Grian visibly bristles, feathers on his ears rising, the red and yellow tips of them stark in the night, even in the lantern light. 

“You’re on this planet too, you know, you’re allowed to let yourself feel. Messy and gross as it is. I mean, they died, man, is that anything?”

Grian swallows. BigB doesn’t watch the bob of his throat, or the way his feathers are still raised in alert as he jerks his head away. He follows Grian’s line of sight down the clock tower, where Bdubs and Cleo are talking. Bdubs looks over after a second. BigB feels a cold line run down his spine, but refuses to break his gaze. There are no sounds now, not even of his own heartbeat.

“No,” Grian manages.

BigB relaxes. Something of an easy smile finds his face, softening the shape of his eyes and the line of his jaw. He shakes his head. Grian shies away from him, but his feathers lower, and his posture sinks. He finally lowers himself to a sit, throwing his legs over the side of the wall. His hands cradle in his lap, and he stares into the palms of them. BigB remembers them as calloused, cold, and hard to hold properly. But he’s sure someone out there enjoys them. 

“You’re a really bad liar,” he laughs. Grian shakes his head. His voice is much quieter as he speaks.

“I don’t care. I don’t care.”

BigB turns his head. There, for a short moment in the moonlight, he watches the shape of Grian’s left shoulder turned toward him. They rise and fall as he breathes, shudder when he sniffs and sighs, move as he shifts his body, likely feeling those same, cold, hard cobbles pressing into the soft back of his legs. He sees where the back meets the wing, where the wing relaxes down and where feathers brush stone. He sees where they rest against the cobbles, half held and half upright, as if he wants to be ready to leap at a moment's notice. As if he doesn’t know that he, too, would die on impact. BigB reaches out, settling one soft hand on his shoulder. Grian tenses, but does not jump. 

“‘S alright, buddy.”

Instead, Grian deflates. BigB runs his thumb over the side of his shoulder, a friendly, comforting thing, as Grian leans back to his hand. His posture sinks to the touch, muscles weakening, wings folding back and down. Every molecule of his body, and BigB almost feels this in the air, grows heavy and tired at the subtle comfort. Grian draws what he can from it before he speaks. His voice sounds even, now, and tired.

“I miss them…” He starts. He swallows. “I missed you, too. I missed Scar.”

BigB sighs, giving Grian’s shoulder a long, warm squeeze before he lets go. Grian sways but catches himself on his hands. His body stays curved into itself. 

“I know,” BigB says. “But you’ll never be over it if you never break that cycle.”

Grian shrugs. The steel starts to slip back into his voice, firm. 

“I will when I win.”

BigB smiles.

“Maybe,” he says. He’s not sure he can see the end of that string yet, but the results don’t exactly look promising. “Who knows what’s in the cards?”

[katarinanavane]

Real cicada wing jewelry! I just started making the clockwork wing earrings, and restocked a bunch of other cicada jewelry as well. No animals were harmed, all are made from 17 year cicadas (brood x from 2021) collected after their natural deaths.

[artistalley]

Pine Cone Mushroom Earrings

by artist @emmikatjohnson

This whimsical display is composed of materials including foraged cicada wings, hand-collected cobwebs, hand-picked Montana wildflowers, reclaimed velour, reclaimed 4-inch heart-shaped free-standing brass plated frame with glass, and adhesive.

Can’t get enough @emmikatjohnson art? Good news—use code Ilikeyourshoelaces for 10% off any order from her store.

[magicalshopping]

♡ Cicada Wings Earrings ♡

[summertimemusician]

Linktober Day 9

Deity

*sneezes after downing coffee* Well irl stuff got in the way so I'm way behind my original schedule for these and for Linktober but here we go with another arguably short one, fuelled purely by self indulgence, headcanons, spite against my linguist essays that kept me from keeping to schedule, severe sleep deprivation, a shout out to the Ender Lilies soundtrack and Majora's Mask soundtrack, and Nintendo for not clarifying anything about the lore so I'm snatching what I can and making it my own lol. Look, when you fíxate so much on details the Zelda team doesn't elaborate on you have to fill in the gaps with what you can.

As always can be read as romantic or platonic, technically in a LU context but not explicitly in it by itself.

The Lord of the Mountain liked hearing people sing.

In a way, it wasn’t a surprise, Hylia and the Golden Three each had their ballads and symphonies and minuets, each splendid and with cuts of their divinity in it, Farore was fond of lightning and forest alive minuets, and you could swear Farosh sparked just a bit brighter when one would him the beginnings of the Minuet of the Forest near their spring, Din was fond of boleros, fiery and alive and howling with the echo of flame touching earth that made a shine run through Dinraal’s scales, Nayru, in contrast, was much fonder of blizzard and river quiet serenades, the songs of contemplation at first snow ringing clear when Naydra curled around it’s spring, content to be free of Malice.

And of course Hylia had her ballads and lullabies, perfectly fitting to her display of divinity, of honey days and vast bird like wings, of ambered summers to come and to pass and dazzling solar storms of starlight and sunlight sparking through the human form of her descendants and heroes. So in a way, you weren’t surprised at all that the Lord of the Mountain – Satori, with a familiar touch of londsleite divinity, the hunt of the woodland beasts and diamondscar adoration for the Hero of the Wilds, similar in glory to the Light Spirits petrichor and vermeil fondness for the Hero of the Twilight – liked to listen to people sing. What you were surprised was how it attempted to follow along, it’s head across your lap the second you sat down in the clearing, a gentle hum on back of it’s throat, an owl’s cry and a cicada’s humming and faintly, chirring purring as presses it’s faces into your hands, a gentle request for petting.

It was adorable, even with the faint notes of the chill of clear spring water on winter and the livewire feeling of magic, like holding your hand too close to a flame but not quite touching it.

A low chuckle brushes against the back of your mind, a feeling like biting on ice, the prowl of a wild beast and the build up of lightning and light used to create his blade, the amused affection of a warrior reconvening with their brother in arms, you think you see the bone ivory of the Deity’s hair on the side of your vision, though you know he’s not physically there, ‘He likes you.’

You hum, gently patting behind it’s ears, pushing through the chill, gracefully not mentioning the burning with a smile at the mythic being’s faint chirring, birdsong and the wind through cherry blossoms that sparkle like rose quartz, “Well I quite like him too, I can see where it’s gentleness comes from.”

The ghost of a touch over your hair, the caress of lightning striking over your skin and the hair on the back of your neck pricking up and the crisp cold of winter, the chill of the ending and the flame of a new dawn, of new days, the phantom of magnolias and spring water on your tongue. The fragrance of pine, daffodils and blood soaked lilies on ashen fields on your senses, gentle and careful, marking but not claiming, ‘Only because it’s you, beloved. It’s not something easily given.’

You sigh, shakily composing yourself, you let yourself relax into the phantom sensation. Of hopes and dreams and healed suffering, of the divinity of hunt turned into protection and lightning given form, of tangled timelines and crystalized memories, “I know. It does not change my opinion, either way.”

To be the subject of a god’s care and regard was dangerous, after all. For the human and the deity in question, you know the stories from your world well, of the effects of Hylia on First and Sky, of Twilight and the personification of the Twilight Realm and the spirits of his land, of Wild and clawing from death’s embrace into that of the wilderness.

Knew how the fact the Fierce Deity’s mere proximity causing pain on those who changed him into hunting for hunt’s sake into protection for the sake of someone else cut deeper than even the ever encroaching entropy all beings must one day face. It was no wonder the Song of Healing was his creation, to want to ease the burden.

You gladly grant him some peace, in turn, even if it wasn’t much. It’s the least you can do, for always having his ways of watching over your heroes.

“Join me? We can make a duet.”

You feel more than see him shift, ephemeral, fleeting, gentle against the edges of your existence, as foreign to Hyrule as your own, sparking over your spine as you feel ozone and rust on your teeth. Satori is humming again to match the rumble of thunder in the man’s voice, the heralding of songs of war and elegies for the dead, ‘Of course, though I’m afraid I do not know many songs, besides…’

“It’s alright,”, you smile faintly, there’s a white ocarina in his hands, as he leans, a spectre against your side, “I’ll teach you some of my own, though you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t remember all the lyrics.”

‘It would be my honor to learn.’

You think he smiles, from the fluttering of something ancient and long forgotten against your side.

You sing to Satori and the Chain, a small respite of familiar and forgotten tunes, the Lord of the Mountain hums along. The Fierce Deity’s song cutting through any nightmares that may ail your heroes for another night.

When the dawn of a new day comes, the feeling of divinity against your skin feels just a bit more obvious, sinking into every crack of your being like a shroud, falling over your boys like a veil, reflecting the breath of eternity over Hyrule.

(First gives you a look that’s half exasperation, half understanding. Sky pointedly sticks to your side as Time looks you over, markings deep with vibrant color. You shrug with a helpless smile as you feel the lightest brushes of Hylia’s fond days of gold and starlit summers days against the Lord of the Mountains warm, luminous affection and the Fierce Deity’s smug, but content lonsdaleite smile.)

[somnambulant-seraphim]

The weather is getting colder here, so I can layer more comfortably now! Here's a couple of warm brownish outfits I've worn.

Yesterday I wore a sweater and sweater vest with a corduroy skirt, as well as acorn earrings, some crystal necklaces (cicada and wire tree), as well as stone and ring necklaces.

Today I'm wearing a sweater over my newspaper skirt, with a couple of layered skirts for some extra warmth. I'm also wearing insect wing earrings, and some more sea-themed necklaces with an ammonite fossil, a shell, sea glass and octopus locket.

[mickules]

Rule# 15 Never taunt someone with hurtful names

---

Have you heard what they say?

About what's hiding underneath the stage? You can hear it late at night, rhythmically knocking against the hollow underside of the wood, the soft thump of its feet as it leaves damp footprints across the floor. The smattering of laughter.

They call it a Zashiki warashi, a harmless, mischievous child spirit. But that's wrong.

you'll know if you look through the slats of the stage, you'll see the shimmer of a carpet of insect wings, and the discarded, wingless, rolled up bodies of flies.

So hold your tongue. Never let her overhear a put down or a taunt, even if you think it's in jest, because they say she delights in such diatribes, and she loathes to be alone.

You'll start to feel her presence, White silk, red spider lilies in the corners of your eyes, the pad of her footsteps, the trail of her obi across the floor. Gleefully watching, crowing at your jibes, encouraging your insults, escalating your cruelty. you cannot help it, as the words tumble from your mouth, her laugher in your ears, the sharp staccato stings of a koto.

People shed you like cicada shells Your words no longer your own, actions not your own, You're like an ant under her gaze. Your feet move in a dance you never learned the steps for. Her Dance Macabre.

[rule#14] [rule#16]