westmarvel
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Sua holds the pearl up close, studying it. It’s bigger than she thought they would be, about half the size of her thumb, a little weight in her hands. She catches herself in the mirror. In a trace, she raises her hand, raises the pearl not to her ear, but to her neck. She presses it against her skin, against the brand seared into her flesh; it’s just the right size. Sua’s heartbeat, trained and restrained, is steady as she practices, one final dress rehearsal, where the bullet will collide with her throat.
(or, two hours before doomsday, in her dressing room, sua muses about the deaths of stars)
Bookmarked by westmarvel
29 Dec 2025
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( She will still make use of this annihilative love. See how Sua still blooms in her, still withers in her? Even gone, Mizi is still a waterborne witch so loved, it ruins her. It will ruin everything that took her god from her, in return. )
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Bookmarked by westmarvel
27 Dec 2025
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( darling, there’s a part of me
i’m afraid will always be
trapped within an abstract from a moment of my life. )—
Mizi curls her arms around herself, burrowing deeper into the blanket, and closes her eyes. The rest of the prayer dies on her lips.
( In my slumber, she comes back to me in the stars. )
Bookmarked by westmarvel
25 Dec 2025
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Often, Sua suspects that aliens consider her no different from one of the dolls bearing her appearance that her mother releases every once in a while. All smooth limbs and flexible joints. Lacking any curves or complications. Hard and plain underneath the suggestive fabric, unable to feel or fulfill any carnal need, although surely, the aliens must find a way.
But the stiff plastic tongues of the dolls cannot lap someone else's saliva as Sua's tongue is doing, sucking on the sticky nectar coating Mizi's gums. Their flat chests, permanently fused with the white frills of the miniature dresses they are wearing, cannot perk up when squeezed by the hand of another girl. Most importantly, the place between their legs, lacking the outline of genitals, devoid of any desperation or craving, cannot grow squeamishly wet as Sua feels herself do, with every stroke of Mizi's tongue.
(Or: Sua turns 21. She and Mizi do their best to celebrate this passage of time.)
Bookmarked by westmarvel
25 Dec 2025
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• Um·welt •
/ˈo͝omvelt/
noun
(in ethology) the sensory world to any organism, entirely idiosyncratic to the next species' perception.
The segyein pushes his glasses up. [You're going blind.]
You're going blind. "Oh," the words echo in her mind. This must be how beached fish feel—doomed by water too warm and tides too unforgiving, knowing better than to hope but still begging for breath when the sun hits their face for that first moment of horrified marvel. Everything is so, so bright now, the lights above her searing themselves into her eyes.
"Oh," says Sua again. Her mind races. How many freckles does Mizi have? How big are the splotches of birthmarks on her right shoulder blade? How long are her eyelashes? Nails? Her hair? She has to remember. She has to. She has to.
Or, the more stars Sua cries as graduation creeps closer and Mizi falls farther from her line of sight, the more does her Umwelt decay.
Bookmarked by westmarvel
25 Dec 2025