#shotputd

@shotputd : [ CHALLENGE ]

miu's   oft   accustomed   herself   to   her   defensive   display   of   harlotry,   the   veneer   of   sexiness   and   experience   that   she   wears   like   unblotted   lipstick.   and   she's   eager   to   blab   about   her   worldliness,   attempt   to   smear   it   in   others'   faces   like   her   only   form   of   solace   in   such   a   cruel   and   unforgiving   world.   but   to   be   heard   is   to   be   dismissed   :   she's   never   quite   readied   herself   to   have   her   vitriol   challenged   nor   questioned,   only   have   her   words   defenestrated   from   value   or   power.

the   scene   is   set,   rantaro's   fingers   delicately   elevating   her   chin   upwards,   lips   firm   against   hers   —   roseate   hues   painting   a   physiognomy   of   much   unfamiliar   tenderness,   passion.   especially   granted   .   .   .   well,   she's   never   been   kissed   before,   nothing   beyond   a   chaste   peck   on   the   cheek,   nothing   compared   to   the   fervor   of   the   connection   between   the   two.   the   intimacy,   while   aberrant,   was   not   unwelcome,   and   for   as   long   as   the   duration   of   the   buss,   she's   praying   it   is   perpetual.

❝   ahh,   mossballs   .   .   .   where'd'ja   learn   something   like   that   ?   ❞

@shotputd : (yank) / symbol meme starters, accepting !

not   particularly   careful,   perhaps   verging   even   on   careless   in   her   walking   —   machinations   of   the   augmented,   cyber   -   woman   in   her   proud   strides   alongside   her   green   -   haired   compatriot.   there's   utmost   confidence   in   her   strides   ;   big   tits,   banging   body,   hourglass   waist,   rantaro'd   best   soak   up   all   her   excellence   lest   it   overflows   out   of   him   without   restraint   !

and   so   perhaps   she's   caught   up   in   her   own   fantasy   world,   gears   whirring   and   grinding   against   one   another,   as   she's   sure   rantaro's   fantasizing   about   her   whirring   and   grinding   against   him,   miu   does   not   notice   the   sharp   stiletto   heel   of   her   right   boot   catch   against   the   indentations   of   the   sidewalk.   she   trips.   well,   she   thinks   she   does,   presumes   she   does,   until   she   feels   a   hand   wrap   around   her   outstretched   wrist,   other   arm   constricting   around   her   waist   to   pull   her   back   to   her   feet.

and,   scene.

❝   hyah   !   wow,   thanks   for   that   one,   moss   balls.   ❞   a   pause   to   allow   for   the   contortion   of   her   lips   into   a   wicked   grin.   ❝   saaay,   show   me   if   the   carpets   match   the   drapes   ?   like,   as   a   fuckin'   thank   you   !   ❞

everything, everywhere, all at once meme ( accepting ) + @shotputd // rantaro

nobody REALLY KNOWS HER, do they? what a pity. how sad! well, not really - after all, how could they? junko buries it all, and even she struggles to pull apart the web she's woven! even yasuke, the only boy who'd ever managed to challenge her, found himself confounded, manipulated and wrapped around her little finger... her affection more a liability than it was something to soften her motivation. a thing to kill, if only to taste what tragedy could do for her, how despair could warp her heart in unexpected ways! oh.. it was bone chilling, wasn't it? to cry, to love, to have known it was all done by her own, twisting hand, it was...

it was what she'd been searching for, wasn't it?

it doubles down on her motivation. and junko commits herself to the part, even if she finds herself bored playing the model, the fashionista, THAT GIRL. what a pity that that, of all things, was what people hung about her neck, as if her brilliance wasn't enough on its own, it needed be a part of a prettier package, a stunning completeness. and returning to hope's peak... well. it's only the start for her. the intercom zzzz-es and the door thunks ; and she was inside the gates that held out the unwashed masses from the reserve course, yawning audibly as her heels clip at the tiled flooring cleanly. black, white, black ,white... she'd melt into it all. it's lacquer like a puddle of ink, like fresh made paper. she could get lost, in a feeling like that.

a hand pulls ; stopping her in her tracks. and there's an ick that travels up her spine for it, a sudden sharpness to the gaze that cuts towards its owner, blue contacts still in, her immaculate form poised, feline and DANGEROUS. but there, instead, is a boy... all calm and centered, his voice a softer lull to it than she expects.

❛ i saw your face on a billboard and — this is silly — i wondered if you remembered me… ❜

    The eccentric dress of the other intrigued the princess. It was then she decided to make her introduction. Perhaps she could use some of the slang – her friends had taught her. “Your dressing style is hella dope!” She could not deny she was a bit jealous of the other’s freedom of expression. Ever constrained by her monarch status, she had an image to maintain for her family. Though sometimes it meant repressing herself to fit the mold of the Ultimate Princess. “I’m Sonia! It is completely radical to make your acquaintance.”