she smiles, bright and polite. "stay as long as you need. finding your room in the dark won't be an easy feat."

she pauses, and in stillness she really does look like a doll. frills and bows and long, long lashes.

(and then someone pulls her that little string and she's back up again.)

"how do you suppose we pass the time? perhaps a game?"

River Marx

"oh good!" angel sighs, "i would just die if something bad happened."

she rummages around a wide fridge, sliding ingredients out of the way to reveal home-made cookies carefully stored in the back. "i know it's a little bad to start with dessert, but i made these earlier today."

she sets them on the counter, carefully removing them from their saran wrapped confines.

"chocolate chip. everyone's favorite, right?"

she slides through the kitchen like it's a dance. like she's done it her whole life. like it is her whole life.

ingredients go in here, and we leave them out there. we chop this thin, but leave this in big bites if we really want to taste it. shall we roast the garlic, or just sauté it as is? red meat could benefit from roasted garlic, put perhaps that would take too long! she drops it into a pan with butter and it sizzles.

Killian Decker

"oh."

her hand extends past the brim of her umbrella. droplets kiss at her palm and caress her wrist. for a moment, she's fascinated. as if she forgot how water feels, how it falls from dark sky, how it drags down slopes, but pools where it can.

only for a moment though.

"weren't we here for a reason?"

she looks to river, molten eyes cooling in the rain.

River Marx

"Shuppet, if you could be a doll."

(No pun intended.)

Shuppet eyes are scary up close. In the dark they are bright. Twilight cast at midnight. Lunar yellow, white clouds dimming in a dimming sky. They consume his vision as Shuppet passes through her to reach him. A steady gaze and a mean look.

Light flickers, but its eerie. Spirit fueled, blue-green and green-blue balls cast a dim light.

Then Shuppet is seemlingly gone again.

In the pokemon's place is a robed Nanette. The addition to her ensemble done impossibly quick.

"I'm Nanette. It's a pleasure to meet you, Cian."

She hasn't moved from her spot, but her head tilts. Empty eyes look into full ones.

"Perhaps it would be smartest if you were to stay here for a while."

CIAN MAHER

It's sheer, everything she has on is sheer. Thin layers layered again. Bows fasten flowing fabric, wrapped at her wrists, waist, and loose at her neck. The rest is white water, rushing down her sloping form and bubbling in brilliant ruffles at her feet.

The same bows that fasten her garment hold back her bangs too. It softens out her face, and more and more she looks like a gift. Wouldn't it be sweet: bows pulled and discarded on the floor, wrapping slipped off her shoulders.

He might not have noticed it before.

She had been turned away from him, watching herself in her full body mirror as she brushed out her hair. Still, now he can see, and it seems she's just realized it too.

"Oh no!" She exclaims, her voice more air than sound. "This is inappropriate of me."

A blush hits her cheeks, but she makes no move to cover herself. She's stopped moving altogether. She's still. A doll with ball joints and no plastic parts.

Then, just like the hallway, her light goes out, too.

CIAN MAHER

She's somewhere else.

Soo... far away.

She sways with a black ocean. Ship lights catch darkness off guard, it glitters in the spotlight. It's a show for a bored girl. The audience watches from the edge of her seat. Eyes reach over boat's ledge. Her arms rest on its cold, metal railing and atop that her head rests, too. Her cheek fattens as she leans on to it, and her eye scrunches, too.

Still, she follows the motion.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

What would happen if she jumped in?

Three, two, one.

"Hi, how do you do?"

CIAN MAHER

She smiles.

She reaches into her purse, and pulls out a unique concoction. It's appearance is like milk but its consistency is much thicker. It spreads rich across the back of her hand. Even with all the perfumes, it's scent overwhelms.

The spritzee is immediately attracted to it, coming to lick at this odd substance.

"Hi, darling. How do you do?" She coos.

Spritzee is captured.

The afternoon melted away at the customer end of a perfume counter. Lilac, rose, amber, sugar cane, jasmine. These scents bloom at the crook of her neck and across each wrist. For some it might be too much, but Nanette loves it.

The overstimulation is comforting.

She carries all of her purchases in the crook of her elbow. Both of her hands are free. Perhaps she's waiting for the sweet scent to attract a pokemon.

Oh, she's so stunning!

Oh, she's so lovely!

What a beautiful woman bouncing boobily in her beach attire! Perhaps the world slowed down to watch her, or perhaps its just the male gaze, but holy Baywatch! Nanette walks up to the arena with a smile.

A sleeping Munna descends upon the battlefield, hovering just above the pools of sand.

"Hi, how do you do," her voice sounds like a lullaby; it lulls her Munna into a deeper slumber. "I'll let the man lead."

♀ forewarn / yawn, dream eater, nightmare, moonblast, psychic, calm mind

FERNANDO SILPH

Does Cleffa know where she is?

She's stood still in the arena. Eyes an unfocused black, her blush painted rosy on her cheeks. She's a stuffed animal, head filled with cotton. She looks like one too, her tiny smile perma-stitched on her face. She laughs, Nanette can tell. A sprinkle of color descends upon a tense mood.

Nanette laughs too.

What's so funny?

"If you would be so kind as to use Charm."

Her voice is the cherry on top. A bite of sweetness before you dive in.

Cleffa turns to her opponent, several times her size, and dances. It's ingrained in her nature as apart of the Clefairy evolution chain. The tiny thing moon walks, singing a song all little pink fae know.

♀ magic guard / sing, sweet kiss, charm, encore, copycat, disarming voice

jayden cross    

taking with River Marx

she doesn’t think shes dressed inappropriately. her tea dress shows off a youthful bosom and ends just below her knee. its floral pattern and sheer layers match the lace white gloves that tint her hands three shades lighter. her manicure (a blue just to the left of what might be considered sea foam green) can still be seen through them if you were to look close enough.

perhaps it is a bit gloomy for her current ensemble, but she did bring an umbrella! it’s open now, as it’s just begun to rain again.

this isn’t inappropriate, it’s only just past 3pm after all.

when else does one wear an afternoon dress?

she’s confused because all these men are dressed in black. they surround her and her partner, faces expecting something she’s unaware of.

she’s confused because she doesn’t quite remember when she got here, but she’s smiling like she knows them. does she know them?

she looks at their faces, weighted heavy with sleep deprivation and work.

she wonders what that feels like.

nanette never tires.

“hi, hello. how do you do?”

and she never stresses.

she extends her hand for a greeting. the man looks uncertain, and if it weren’t for his facial hair you could see the roses on his cheeks bloom in full.

“h-how do you do,” his voice is just as uncertain as his expression.

“it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

he sputters. his clothes are heavy with rain.

River Marx

the way she moves is almost inhumane, automated. she glides across tile, like it’s ice and the soft padding of a nighttime slipper is a razor tipped skate. she doesn’t make a sound. not even an audino could hear her.

it’s as if she floats.

what a peculiar girl.

she stops. right at the edge of a stainless steel island, she’s frozen perfectly still. her limbs are risen, elbows crooked, her hands ready to work, and she doesn’t move a muscle.

she’s like a picture, an old painted ad from a different time.

Does your husband yawn at the dinner table? Well just wait until he tries Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup!

what a peculiar girl.

five… four… three… two… one…

what was she doing again? oh, yes!



“do you have any allergies? i would just die if something bad happened.”

it almost sounds ludicrous, such severe words plucked from pink rose petal lips.

Killian Decker