NO MORE SHAME / NO MORE FEAR / NO MORE DREAD

shit is rapturous in a way that borders either parody or inspiration. giddy rosenstock is not tuned into that channel of his self awareness to figure out which. spirit comes within a mile radius of him, and he swears that he can tell. ears perk up, heartrate rattles. rack up every dog metaphor you can think of and apply. the doubting in his brain goes to pleasant white noise, muzak fed through a vocoder. he doesn't mind the danger that follows her. it mutes itself by the noise of her alone. the world narrows and blossoms in tandem.

the blush high in the apples of spirit's cheeks turn his life technicolour. nothing can be wrong.

So she thinks she's finally understanding what Giddy is on about. It's about the radio, the rattle—the mortifying, paralyzing ordeals.

She wraps her arms around him. Her embrace isn't relaxed; hopefully it's still an undeniable comfort.

did a project bc my favorite website updated their avatar options

i tried to keep to keep this accurate to what ive said on the dash in the past.

this is the height generator not the build generator or the hair generator. it's really only the outfit generator 83% accuracy on average

most characters are just based on their fc heights with a few deviations if i strongly felt my character has different vibes. i went with canon heights where those exist

if ive ever told you something different in private from what is pictured here, past me was wrong, and this is the law now

instead of setting up his own pieces, he watches spirit’s fingers at work—stares out to sea—teeters near rock cliffs without going anywhere or doing anything. such is his focus: if she tried to catch his eye now, she could not do it.

' teach me something, ' he says-suggests-demands after some consideration. ' as i’ve taught you. ' he is here as a matter of diplomacy, after all. give-and-take.

' what have you learned—on your journeys? ' craghas resumes setting up the board.

Such as—you know.

Lady Hallows sets down the final piece. It has been an almost unnerving amount of time since he said, requested, Teach me something. Less time, admittedly, since Begin, but she has not begun, either.

"I've been on ships before." She's told him this before, too; she's forgotten. "And I've gone horseback riding many times. I'm sure you haven't." As she thinks she must explain: "This is not the sort of activity that lends itself to a life of seafaring."

Her index finger balances atop the jade-sculpted game piece representing the peasant. This is, temporarily, the most interesting piece in her view.

Her second is quieter, more insistent, and arrives thrumming along the lines where her nerves haven’t quite died. It's a fucked-up kind of brave.

She kisses him back. Harder the second time, teeth scoring his bottom lip— not in defiance, not in baroque flirtation, but out of a need to make purchase, to anchor herself inside her own body for a precious second.

Leans back against the slab, feels the full chill, the slow transfer of heat, molecular and inexorable.

She tugs at him in a way that is as endearing as it is infuriating. To tether herself to a man like him for any purpose, for any duration at all, will kill her. This, too, must be studied about her: her confused will to live, her absurd survival instincts.

They're both so curious it'll make anyone sick to death.

Here's a question: what'll she do when he lifts her up by the back of the thighs, holds her so she's weightless between the brutalism of this compound and the broadness of his body? Will she kiss him back even harder, following his lead?

' one for inside, one for outside. ' come on, samira. catch up! he can't possibly wear them both at the same time. that would be preposterous. anyway—she's a doctor, isn't she? so she knows about the dangers of UV-rays. and he's a doctor too, and kind, so he'll forgive her for being ignorant of the very real threat of eye strain that exists in a sterilized bunker such as the morgue, with its omnipresent, fuck-off-bright surgical lighting. not that they have anything to do with this.

The existence of a BOGO deal doesn't explain his current penchant for accessorizing in various violations of the hospital's dress code (professionally and hygienically and practically—and so on), but she can't push him on this. She shouldn't have asked in the first place; here is the only place she was ever going to get.

"I'm aware, Doctor Matthiesen." She says his title and surname so curtly that they might as well be insults.

"Do you—" Does he know about her research? Oh, come on. Why would she even bother giving him the opportunity to answer that?

lis leans close too, staring at rachel, right-eye-left-eye-right-eye-left, trying to determine what kind of blood runs through her veins. positive? negative?

' fine! ' pause. ' i won’t quit. ' it may already be too late for that. big-boss won’t say anything during service, but lis sees a date in the back office in their future. maybe even a double-date, if rachel's invited.

a customer comes to the bar, orders something. what? who knows. lis gives him an old fashioned because that's what kind of blood runs through his veins, tosses him some of his change but not all of it, and then turns to rachel again.

Rachel blinks as rapidly as Lis's eyes shift. Again: this headache is going to ruin Saturday night for the entire back-of-house crew.

"Fine." They don't need to say it like there's still a challenge to be issued, but they do. They also don't need to glance so severely at the patron ordering a drink, but they do that, too.

"—huh." Not a bad idea! Not to Rachel, at least.

"I'd always wondered about that. Living in a storage unit long term. Do you fuck with STOUFFER'S® or LEAN CUISINE® the most? We'll have to stock up. Get a deep freezer."

They grin crookedly.

Her sensitivity will sword him twiceover. It measures all the un-touches and brings her to the brink of questioning if he still desires even a small, small square of her flesh. She guesses he favors the patch above her left breast or a piece of her throat? ... or maybe loss the need for any of it all, she doesn't know which is right ... or real ⸺ until a part of him is attached to a part of her and confirms it. And then that's all she can think of. Caught between his light and his want, warming the pool between her legs.

That sensitivity also has her spellbound with his impatience. He's mouthing her pulse from behind as his hands argue with her hems and the body-gloving of her torso that mimics the skin of her.

A few inches of under bellybutton skin is drug out, her skirt hanging on a tilt off her hip. She nearly trips moving forward ... they're not even to his room yet.

Beck's not ashamed of how hard he wants to live his life, how much he wants to see and think and experience and feel. He doesn't know better than this uninhibited, earnest need. Angel Lung has, to her credit, facilitated Beck's transformation into quite the effective communicator.

He either forgets that entirely now—or transitions into some non/post-verbal means of conveying I want I want I love I love oh fuck I hit my elbow on the wall where are my keys can you find my keys I do not care—

—wait. He does care a little bit. She's too beautiful and raw for the hallway. He fumbles blindly for her, places he knows instinctively and reveres no less for their familiarity, then uses his free hand to find his keycard. After two failed taps to the right of his lock, he scans them into his Vought-partment.

No more time is wasted. His thumbs brush over her nipples, then her collarbone—everything adored equally.

he puts his hands on the table, realizes that this won't be enough to restrain his health care practitioner's impulse to stick his fingers in the wound—or the test tube—and hides them under the table, in his lap.

' a favour from your boss? like—thanks so much for your hard work, rian. here’s some unpaid labour. feel free to do it on a saturday, as a reward. a reward from your freaky little man boss. ' he knows rian well enough to know that this really is a favour. that she's probably been jazzed as fuck just thinking about the contents of the package. ' that's cool. but have you ever heard of lego? ' putting shit together, and all that.

For now: Klaus obviously can't read minds. He was maybe put on this earth to irritate her, but he can't read minds.

"Everybody thinks you're so nice and funny and chill, but you're actually cynical as fuck. Intentionally deceptive about it, too." Rian insults Klaus offhandedly as she goes about her little unpaid work assignment.

And, yes—she does love this shit. She doesn't have many other interests outside her job; she doesn't take pride in anything but her discoveries. There's inherent satisfaction in finding a chemical compound before anybody else—and she's also of use to humanity at large, or whatever.

"You don't play with LEGOS® anymore. LEGO®or LEGOS®? How do you say it? You have to be able to tell me."