From c2df15311646d2f0b1a8a08c2eeeea000daffd45 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Madison Scott-Clary Date: Sat, 6 Jan 2024 12:40:11 -0800 Subject: [PATCH] update from sparkleup --- writing/post-self/motes/004.html | 2 +- 1 file changed, 1 insertion(+), 1 deletion(-) diff --git a/writing/post-self/motes/004.html b/writing/post-self/motes/004.html index 624100151..9e4578853 100644 --- a/writing/post-self/motes/004.html +++ b/writing/post-self/motes/004.html @@ -36,7 +36,7 @@

Motes cried. She hung limply and cried before that long-dead version of herself.

This was not supposed to happen.

Michelle/Sasha sneered through that omnipresent exhaustion. “Some mote who styles herself Motes. Some grasper-after-fame. Some fetishist who wishes only to taint the Ode with lurid visions of youth.”

-

In her free hand/paw, this ghost brought into being a dagger, silver-bladed, wood-hilted, ruby-pommeled. She reached out and slowly, almost tenderly, pressed it into Motes’s paw. Holding her wrist, she brought that paw up so that the tip of the blade was pressed against the skunk’s neck, pricking at the skin over her jugular. When she let go, Motes found her paw remained there, immobile, unresponsive to her efforts to pull it away.

+

In her free hand/paw, this ghost brought into being a dagger, silver-bladed, wood-hilted, ruby-pommeled. She reached out and slowly, almost tenderly, pressed it into Motes’s paw. Holding her wrist, she brought that paw up so that the tip of the blade was pressed against the skunk’s neck, pricking at the skin over her jugular. When she let go, Motes found her paw remained there, immobile, unresponsive to her efforts to pull it away.

“This is your kink, is it not ‘Motes’? Your fetish, ‘Speck’? ‘Skunklet’?” Sasha/Michelle leaned forward, nearly nose to nose, whispered, “‘Dóttir’?“

Motes sobbed. “Please…” she managed at last.

None of this was supposed to happen. None of this was right.