" you watch me fall apart and never intervene, " ~ * ~ * ~
a private, divergent & selective writing of kazuichi souda. by mason.
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@tankluv
" you watch me fall apart and never intervene, " ~ * ~ * ~
a private, divergent & selective writing of kazuichi souda. by mason.

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i'm not beating the semi-hiatus allegations
❝ hmm, ❞ she replies, childishly exaggerating the drawing - out of the consonant sound. ❝ maybe you're right. but it's not a shtick, you fanta - haired idiot ! ❞ pulls on his ear a bit for that one. how dare he ? ❝ i'm not gonna turn up my nose at any decent people with an appreciation for anything japanese, no matter how gross and mean they can be ! at least they have an eye for all the beauty right in front of them. ❞
❝ JESUS, SAIONJI, you sound like a little kid when you talk like that ... ❞ he sighs under his breath, but it's not truly indicative of much of anything ——— it's simply his normal way of dealing with her, of blowing his frustrations into the wind to accommodate whatever whim she's decided to pursue just then. ❝ they like it because they think it's the closest thing to american candy, or whatever. nobody who treats the elderly and the women in urashii like they do can really be that big of a fan of us and our culture, mainland or otherwise. ❞
your replies will not be perfect, and that's okay. you don't need to use ten thousand words from the thesaurus. you don't have to be shakespeare. you don't have to put pressure on yourself to put out a perfect, novella-length reply every time you sit down at your computer. this is a hobby you do for fun, not a classroom where your words are being graded at every turn - be gentle with yourself. you are doing your best. applaud yourself for your own passion and creativity. applaud yourself for trying. applaud yourself for every one liner you do, every small paragraph. applaud yourself on the days you only get one thing done - you wrote something beautiful. you did something fun. really try to love this hobby again. no one cares about word count. no one cares about the thesaurus. people follow your blog because they want to write with you. don't forget that.
would you let him into your home

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i kind of feel personally attacked by this clickbait
THE BOY WHO CAME FROM THE SOIL : オレは一体何者なのか? a study on IDENTITY, MEMORIES, and the FAMILY TREE. PSD & border by bunnieresources. written & loved by mason.
@tankluv : (chest) / symbol meme starters, accepting !
try as she might for her grand masquerade of salaciousness, the demureness that befalls her upon any genuine sexual interaction is . . . well, pathetic, really, a label miu would ascribe herself. absolutely pathetic ! pussy ass virgin shit ! so why, why in the name of fuckin' christ, did she feel so meek for the feeling of souda's rough hand pressed against her chest ?
the whites of her dentition grind against themselves, threatening to wear down into nothingness, compilation of all stress and apprehension : she'd never back down from an escapade, right ? that's what she tells herself. and she'd never lie to herself. probably. eyes were wide, wider than her typical blank - eyed stare, one part attempt in seduction and another part foray into intimidation.
his hand retreats. the mask goes back on, with a one, and a two, and a confident huff — hah !
❝ ya' like what ya' felt, grease - monkey ? they're all naturel. ❞ she means au naturel . . . which is also incorrect ! ❝ don't go cummin' in your jumpsuit, though ! there's no mommy here to wash it for you ! ❞
what the fuck was he doing? he was breathing, of course. breathe in. breathe out. crash in. crash out. knuckles turn, curl inwards, mechanical. his skin is taut, and so is hers. touch, feel, pull, twist, squeeze. she's not real, really. she's a mouth machine connected to a stomach machine connected to a birthing machine connected to god. what's a girl? he's only touched her, groped her, objectified her for a fleeting moment, but it feels like hours to him. he is taking her apart in his mind's eye — he doesn't care about her tits, he wants to feel her heart beat in his hand. he wants to push open her aortic root with a sooted digit, stain the beds of his fingernails while he sees which hole of hers can stretch wider. ... his concentration on his " fantasy " is broken by her rattling voice, and he quickly retracts his hand and stands up stiffly. he is always stiff. he looks around quickly, as if he's forgotten where he was. his lip trembles, and he paws at it dumbly, like he doesn't know how to make it stop ( as if he's not in control. ) where there would usually be a stutter, there's now a lucid and syrupy voice, deadened and dead-ended. " um ... sorry. i haven't been sleeping much lately ... " and in a seemingly insomnia-riddled burst of blunt comedy, " are you offering to be my mommy? "
ideate something bigger than this, something greater than this : benighted by her despair, she dissemble the true mikan for something illusory. she glowers, lissome hands coming to clasp one another atop her sternum. ❝ how can i help, souda - san ? ❞ may she act the part of the dancer ; surrogate for all souda's burning fervour and agonies ?
" ... shit, tsumiki, i don't know. you're the doc here, right? can't you just ... g-give me something? " his stutter gives off the impression, the concept of unassuredness, but he is anything but unconfident here. it's not bienséance, of course, to hand out your blues and whites to anybody who asks; but kazuichi is desperate, baleful, inconsolable. what was once a shell protecting his fraught inner core is now gone, and no longer does he have his dancer to express his nerves, and so he lets his worse impulses lay bare — enantiodromia. " please? " and so his emotions have rolled over like a mutt in submission, begging her to take the reins and clear him of his mange.
I felt so understood when Franz Kafka said “I am free and that is why I am lost.” and when Fleabag said “I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far I think I've been getting it wrong.” and when Pink Floyd said “Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.”

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( . . . ) 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗 some m a k e u p, 'cause i wanna at least look 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑦 before you decide to ʞɔnɟ ǝɯ ! ᵒᵇʲᵉᶜᵗᶤᶠᶤᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ᵉᵛᵃᶰᵍᵉˡᶤᶰᵉ ᵎ
it is not quite a puppeteered instance of weakly - washed sympathy ——— in some ways, she loves his pathetic contagion. putty in her hands. it feels good to play into her power fantasy : that she is the untouchable one. it is safest that way. ❝ looks like i have something in common with the military men ! now hurry up before i do something worse to the rest of your fingers. piggyback ride. now. ❞ beckons for her lily - livered steed, whispering a faint i love you too into his nape as she mounts.
and that's all he needs to keep going. he is her lucky bamboo ; require not does he of sunlight, so long as the reflection off her eyes remains. " nooo, you don't wanna be like the soldiers there! they're all gross and mean. i think you'd know that, considering the whole japanese shtick o'yours, " spoken with a sneer that's mostly joking. if he was any more serious, he'd probably get kicked in the head ... he wouldn't like that. maybe. " regardless, yeah, 't was suuuper popular. guess it was the sweetest thing the americans could find, after they got tired of eating sushi to shōyu, hehehe. "
= One track mind , One track heart =
- If I fail I'll fall apart -
multi fandom multimuse - written by chriscredits - x x xrules & muses - x
dark, sinister eyes : this is no bawcock crosswise from her. hellfire and the sun are both radiant and aglow. ❝ you were . . . ? ❞ ivories revealed in a grin that is half - parts sinister, half - parts sympathetic. ❝ souda - san . . . i know that saionji - san w- wasn't the kindest to you . . . how are you handling this ? ❞
how do you handle something like this? souda stares at his sympath for a moment : " didn't get along ... ? " what they went through never mattered ; what she said never mattered ; saionji was his catholicon, a church of his own to repent unto and give tithings. she was love — wasn't love supposed to hurt, to sting, to singe? " tsumiki ... i d-don't know what to do, " breath hitching, posture failing, tears returning, " please help me ... i-i don't want to ask, but i don't have anyone else to ... t-to turn to. "
she's merciful. at least, she thinks so. such is why she gently takes one of his parted hands, bending one of his fingers back — not to cause too much pain, just a biting reminder that she was not playing around — before wrapping her petite fingers around it afterwards and giving it a soft squeeze. ❝ you're such a disgusting idiot. buuuuut, i won't be mad at you if you buy me some konpeitō. ❞
he yelps, like a kicked mutt, and yet there is no corner for him to scamper into. so he stands there, pride far more than swallowed as she plays with him. he's still nowhere near recovered from her onslaught of insults and ... sensations, but the reassuring measure she gave his digit is enough to make him sober out of his pity, if only for a moment. " konpeitō? i-i haven't had any since i was back in urashii ... the military men there were apparently a big fan of it. " a short pause. a quick breath. a stuttering exhale. " saionji, i ... " quietly, under his breath, " i love you. " after all of that ... ?

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her name. he says her name and there's a pause from her, that sickeningly sweet expression put on hold, gaze flickering up to that of her twin sister's own. there's so much between the two of them that could be conveyed within a glance ; that's what happens when you SHARE A WOMB AND A TASTE FOR DESPAIR. that flustered expression on his face giving him away, and her smile turns into a snarl, displaying the pointed white of her teeth, the horrors of her beauty. "liar. pervert! i bet you do gross things with the magazines i'm in that leave the pages all stuck together. gross!"
she doesn't even really care about that. but what does matter was the way that he looked at her now, or rather, tried not to, as if he couldn't figure out what to do when someone was standing before him in FULL 3-D rather than something he'd dreamt up in some schematic or hentai fucking fantasy. he's already all nerves, all unsure of what to do - and he's going to be perfect, isn't he? "don't you recognise your classmate? ryota's going to want some company. sis, why don't ya get our new friend a seat. don't you wanna watch some something he's been working like, extra hard on?" emphasis on extra hard for this filthy fucking degenerate. it's fine. he looks so adorably controllable, she just can't help herself!
- @tankluv
his heartbeat quickens, and his tongue lolls out of his mouth like a sick dog. he bites down on it until he bleeds — he bites down on it until she's satisfied. he can't regulate his emotions, nor his arousal ; that's what really hurts, you do it to yourself. rubbing at his face with his sleeve, catching both tears and drool, he stammers : " i-i-i need to go, i'm sorry, i'm sorry about the — " and he feels a presence behind him, a cold one, a dark one, a calculated one. it singes his senses like acid, and he stands rigidly still, staring ( nowhere near her face, of course ) at his temptress. kazuichi doesn't look over his shoulder. he doesn't think it's smart to leave anymore.
" my classmate? " and he takes another look at ryouta, and observes him more closely this time. there is a skeleton in front of him. his skin remains, but it is pallid and his face is gaunt ; what lies behind the boy's eyes is nothing that souda wants to know of. does enoshima know? did she make it thus? he shivers. it's too warm in this room to shiver. " i don't understand — " but his body moves before his mind can, and he hesitantly sits down next to junko just as she wanted. her voice is a gentle caress, a snake in the grass. it feels good when she speaks to him, and if only for a moment, consumed again by his maladaptation, he wonders what kind of noise her nails would make when they peeled his magazines apart, how the light would hit her hèrmes rouge piment polish when she pried his legs open, how he would whimper, beg and whine as she dug them into his skin, deeper, deeper, deeper until — " ... okay. h-he's been working extra hard, after all. "
" i can be good. i can be true. "
he is her bleary - eyed proxy : in varying hues of blue and pink, they are surrogates of one another. ❝ souda - san . . . ❞ a look washed with concern, seraphic and pale with heavenly light. ❝ i'm j- just worried about you. ❞
" mikan ... " his cheeks are stained red, and as she'd correctly philosophized, his eyes are wet and seem to shimmer under the harsh fluorescent lights of his cabin. he hiccups softly, and rubs at his eyes until he sees static when he looks up at the nurse. " saionji — she ... i know you two didn't get along. " a strange way of putting it. " but we ... we were ... " he lets out a beleaguered moan, and shakily scratches at his temple until it draws blood.