#tannin sensitivity

[tetrabytez]

Part Two

Reblog if you vote for sample size, please!

Part One

[treecakes]

i love apple juice and apple cider truly they are delicious but unless i want a migraine that lasts all day i will have to abstain =____=

[amygdalae]

i think im gonna try drinking my coffee black from now on. 4got i ran out of half n half this morning but it honestly wasnt that bad

[clouds-of-wings]

I got a coffee grinder a while back and it is such a heavy responsibility. Coffee tastes about 5 times as good if it's freshly ground beans rather than powder that's been sitting on/in my fridge for 2 months. But my grinder doesn't grind as finely, so I tend to use more coffee all in all. Still figuring out the ideal amount.

Yesterday I overdid it. I had an absolutely perfect cup of coffee that tasted amazing and perfect. I did that at 3pm. The rest of the day was great! I was in the best mood and got lots of things done! Coffee doesn't make me shit my guts out, it doesn't make me tired, it doesn't give me acid reflux or elevated heart rate, it just gives me energy and happiness. Caffeine and I are friends!

Also, last night I was able to fall asleep at around 5am, after hours of nervosity, heart palpitations and what can only be described as fever hallucinations without the fever. Around 4 they started featuring black tentacles increasingly. Not in a sexy way. RIIIIIIP.

If caffeine is my friend, it's the manic pixie dream girl friend who goes "hey, wanna sit on the roof and watch the stars?" at 2 in the morning.

[extervus]

Think I'm gonna become a mead kinda guy

[nerdomancer]

it's like... what if a good fancy jam. was mead.

God bless alcohol from the Renaissance fair

[nanamineedstherapy]

Mouth to Meat

Cannibal Yakuza Sukuna X [Retracted] F!Reader

Summary: Dr. Y/N L/N is tasked with profiling Ryomen Sukuna, a feared yakuza boss known for his violent tendencies and taste for human flesh. Through a series of therapy sessions, she gains his trust—or so it seems. But Sukuna isn’t the only predator in the room. Behind Y/N’s professional demeanor hides a secret far darker than even Sukuna’s sins. When the masks drop, it’s clear: monsters don’t always look like him.

Trigger Warnings: This chapter contains themes of manipulation, torture, obsessive behavior, and violence (murder), twisted relationships, blood & gore, talks of cannibalism but none actually happening, sadistic behavior, manipulative characters, psychological horror, smut between aged-up characters who are a little OC (maybe idk.) If any of these subjects are sensitive for you, please proceed with caution or consider skipping this chapter.

A/N: I had to write this chapter because I couldn't let the bitch walk into the sunset with Sukuna without consequences. If you came here looking for sanity—you’re in the wrong place. If you came for blood, mind games, and a couple so unhinged they’d make Bonnie and Clyde look like amateurs—welcome home.

Previous Chapter 3 - Unravelling the first Red Threads (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 4 - Love Like a Blade to the Throat (Final Chapter)

20 years later - Prague, Czech Republic

Somewhere within a palace of glass and grandeur.

The scent of roasting flesh wove through the corridors like a lover’s whisper, curling into the opulent sitting room where she sat, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that bled light from the cloudy day onto the polished parquet.

Outside, the city stretched like a breathing tapestry—cobblestone veins pulsing with life, gothic spires cutting against the deep violet sky—a place of history, of culture, of meat .

She sipped her tea, an exquisite Darjeeling that Uraume had steeped to perfection, the delicate tannins swirling on her tongue, mixing with the ghost of her last meal.

A violinist played in the streets below, a haunting melody rising through the cold air, as if mourning something that hadn't yet died.

Sukuna was away, wrapped up in his Yakuza affairs—uninteresting, irrelevant. His business did not concern her unless it bled into her pleasures. And at this moment, her pleasure was solitude. The slow, methodical unraveling of the next course.

She ran a gloved finger along the gilded rim of her cup, watching the city breathe. The people—faceless, nameless, meaningless—walked beneath her like ants in a glass colony, unaware of their place in the food chain. She could already tell which ones would be worth her time. The elderly, too chewy. The sick, too bitter. The common, too dull.

Then there were the rarities. The ones who smelled of something divine.

She never discriminated. Child, woman, man—if they met her standard, they were meat. She appreciated the fine subtleties: the tender sweetness of youth, the complexity of a well-lived life, the marbled richness of one who indulged in excess. A trained palate could tell everything from scent alone—stress, diet, fear.

The best ones always had a touch of regret, like a delicate aging wine just before its peak.

From the lower levels of the palace, Uraume’s voice murmured instructions to the kitchen staff, knives gliding, bones cracking—the rhythmic symphony of preparation. The air carried the aroma of caramelizing fat, slow-roasted, methodically seasoned. A new acquisition.

A former artist, if she recalled correctly. He had smelled of oil paints and ambition—an excellent vintage.

A faint smile touched her lips as she traced patterns in the condensation on the windowpane.

The Japanese government had been searching for her and Sukuna for years, their relentless pursuit as amusing as it was futile. They had no face to chase and no name to whisper in their war rooms. She was a chameleon, slipping through their fingers like smoke, shifting personas like silk dresses.

She had once been a respected scientist, a leading mind in psychiatric evaluation. They had placed criminals before her, monsters they could not comprehend, and she had dissected them with words sharper than any scalpel.

But none had fascinated her. None had been worthy.

Not until him.

Sukuna.

Now how useful he’d been.

Nanami Kento had smelled of regret, of burnt-out ideals, of controlled rage masked beneath a meticulous routine. It had made his flesh all the more exquisite, the tension of his being seared into every bite.

Gojo Satoru had been more of a curiosity than a meal. A man who reeked of arrogance and saccharine defiance, the taste of him was almost overwhelming—too bright, too indulgent, like a dessert meant to be consumed in small, rare portions. And yet she had devoured him.

Together, they formed a rare combination of different types of meat that complemented each other beautifully. In fact, one could argue that they worked better in tandem than they did alone. The scent of sandalwood and petrichor still overwhelmed her senses whenever she thought of them. They were the only pair she had Sukuna personally age and dry, allowing them to indulge in small, exquisite quantities from time to time.

Their deaths had been art, a composition of pain and revelation. The moment they had realized what she was, what she had always been, had been sublime.

A deep, satisfied breath filled her lungs.

The violinist below finished her song.

A pause.

Then the next piece began—something somber, something hungry.

She smiled, taking another sip of her tea.

One day she’d invite her in for tea, and she’d never breathe again.

Suddenly, the cold kiss of metal pressed against her throat. A whisper of steel, a lover’s caress. The sharp edge bit in, precise, shallow—just enough to let warmth bloom against her skin. The scent of iron curled into the air, mingling with the fading notes of her tea.

She did not flinch.

Instead, she exhaled slowly, setting the cup down with a masterful grace. The porcelain barely whispered against the saucer. Outside, the city droned on, oblivious.

“Who are you?” She mused, voice carrying the weight of detached amusement.

“Doesn’t matter.”

The voice behind her was young. Rough with amusement, tinged with something manic, something starving. Close—too close. His breath skimmed the shell of her ear, warm and cloying with the scent of strawberry candy. That scent—familiar but off, like a memory half-rotted in the recess of her mind.

“All that matters is you are dying.”

A chuckle rumbled low in his throat, the kind that belonged to men who enjoyed carving smiles into others.

Her fingers traced the condensation on the windowpane. “At the very least,” she murmured, unbothered, “I should know who gets the privilege of killing me.”

He laughed, the sound sharp and wild, like the crackle of a fire before it swallowed a home.

“I don’t fulfill my food’s desires.”

So naive. So green.

Whoever this child was, he did not know her.

Did not recognize the years of artistry, the refinement of her craft.

But he would learn.

Her eyes flicked to his hand’s reflection in the glass, catching the faintest silhouette—a shadow barely restrained by flesh. Young. Vibrant. Pulsing with a thrill he did not yet understand.

“And Uraume?” She asked lightly, tilting her head just so. A calculated distraction. “They don’t fit your palate?”

The knife remained against her throat, but the air shifted.

“I don’t like pet meat,” he said with a rumbling laugh, something unhinged curling in his voice.

Her tongue pressed against the back of her teeth. That was when she noticed it. The stillness.

Beneath her, the kitchen, once alive with the symphony of knives and fire, was silent. The staff—silent.

Not even the fire crackled anymore.

The palace was dead.

Her lips curled, amusement flickering beneath her growing hunger.

He had cleaned her table before she could even taste his work.

That was a shame.

And yet, this boy—this laughing, overgrown child—had gotten inside. Past Sukuna’s guards. Past Uraume. That in itself was... commendable .

He would taste divine.

He would taste even better if she hunted him for Sukuna before he came back.

She started her plan. The one that had never failed her before because ‘men always led with their dicks.’

Not that anyone had dared to come after her before this, so the situation would be… unique .

“I know I’m a few years older than you,” she mused, voice as smooth as the tea she had been sipping. “But I’d really like to taste you before I die.”

The blade didn’t waver.

She leaned ever so slightly into it—a delicate pressure, a dance of power.

His grip tensed.

“I can show you things you haven’t even imagined.” She let the words drip like honey, her voice lilting with something dangerous. “Might even ruin you for the rest of your life. Make you compare every woman you meet to me. And if you’ve gotten past the homeowner’s guards, then..." A small, sultry pause. “You must be worthy of a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

His laughter came abruptly, sharp and sudden, like the crack of a gunshot in an empty hall.

“Ahh, sorry, lady.”

He pulled away, hand gripping her jaw instead, forcing her gaze toward the figure—she hadn't noticed—standing in the corner.

Unmoving. Watching.

A man, twenties. Tall. Dark hair unruly, eyes shadowed with something that did not belong in the face of someone young.

Her brain flicked between them. The one behind her—grinning, feral—and the other, silent, still, with the patience of a predator that knew it would eat eventually.

“My boyfriend over there wouldn’t like that very much.”

A slow, teasing drawl.

“And I’m very loyal.”

The boy behind her—her would-be killer—let go of her jaw and took a step in front of her and crouched his gladiator form before her like a child observing a caged bird.

Close enough that the scent of him filled her lungs again—sweet, nostalgic. He reminded her of someone, but not enough. The base notes were there but not the full body of the scent.

Something was wrong.

Something was off .

“Besides,” he continued, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips beneath the large hood, the only part that was visible, “even if I wasn’t loyal and into women…” A pause, like he was savoring it. “I don’t think old hags with sloppy trail would appeal to me.”

Her blood boiled .

She was not old . Just… forties .

She was refined .

At worst, a cougar .

Her grip flexed against the armrest of her chair, nails pressing into the fabric. Her eyes flicked to the silent one in the corner again, his gaze steady, unreadable.

The boy in front of her smirked wider, tilting his head as if he could hear the rage simmering in her bones.

“Besides—” he drawled, a teasing lilt in his voice. “We’re related, Auntie .”

The room went still.

Something curdled in her stomach as he lifted a hand to his hood, peeling it back to reveal—

No.

The hair.

The shape of the jaw.

The way the light caught his features, so damnably familiar but younger, softer, unweathered by the years—

Yuji.

And yet—no.

This was something else entirely.

His grin sharpened, bright and bloodthirsty.

“Long time no see, Aunt.”

She did not let her expression waver.

“I thought you died in childbirth.”

Her voice was smooth, measured, revealing nothing. The wound at her throat was still bleeding, staining the delicate fabric of her dress, but she did not falter.

A lesser creature would have trembled. Would have broken under the weight of inevitability.

But she was not lesser.

Yuji grinned at her, bright and sharp, all teeth and madness. “Aww, well, we can’t all be lucky now, Aunt, can we?” He finished by booping her nose as he stood up to his full mountain height.

There was nothing human in his eyes.

No warmth. No mercy.

Not the kind of insanity she had known in her past lovers, in the men who thought themselves monsters but were simply misguided.

No, this was something else entirely.

This was a creature who would kill her, carve out her ribs, and dance inside the hollow of her corpse, laughing all the while.

He was like her, but tactless.

Her mind turned, cold and quick.

This was bad.

Sukuna’s relationship with Yuji’s family had never been cordial. This would not end well for her.

Not unless she could find an opening.

She refused to die on her knees. She refused to die, caught off-guard.

But before she could move, the other one—the silent one—shifted.

The dark-haired man stepped forward to say something, but Yuji grabbed him by the waist, pulling him flush against his chest in one fluid motion.

She watched as Yuji’s grip tightened possessively before he devoured the other man’s mouth. A hungry, desperate kiss, all sharp edges and insanity.

The raven-haired one stiffened, then let out a low chuckle against Yuji’s lips, something quiet and knowing, something that sent a ripple of unease down her spine. He blushed when Yuji grabbed his ass, his arms tightening around Yuji as he whispered something low, something only for Yuji to hear.

Yuji’s eyes lit up.

“Really?” His voice was laced with anticipation. He dragged his teeth along Megumi’s jaw, breathless. “Ah, Megumi, I can’t wait. I’ll give you anything you want. Whenever and wherever you want it.”

The—Megumi, apparently—blushed deeper.

Yuji kissed him again, slow and lingering, as if he’d  just offered Yuji something of value.

It didn’t matter.

None of this did.

Sukuna would be here soon, and these two would be dead.

She pressed the hidden emergency button beneath the window, her fingers barely brushing the smooth surface before retracting.

She cleared her throat, hoping to stall them with empty words.

But then—

The glint of steel.

A flash of silver.

The butcher’s knife buried deep in her throat.

The impact stole her breath. A vicious, grotesque intrusion that sent a violent shudder through her body as the blade tore into her carotid artery.

Her hand flew to the wound instinctively, fingers pressing against the gaping, bleeding maw at her neck, but it was already over.

Yuji’s voice ripped through the room.

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking to Megumi!”

His face was painted in her blood, crimson streaks dripping from his chin, spattered across his cheekbones like a masterpiece of slaughter.

And he still hadn’t moved his other hand from Megumi’s waist.

Still hadn’t looked at her when he plunged the blade in deeper, twisting it viciously, backhanded, with the same ease as one might swat away an insect.

Her vision blurred.

She felt the warmth of her own life spilling down her chest, soaking into the fabric of her dress, pooling at her feet.

No.

No, this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

Her breath hitched, gurgling as blood filled her lungs, drowning her from the inside out. Her body convulsed, her fingers trembling as they clutched at her own throat, her own wound, desperate and useless.

Yuji barely spared her another glance, his attention already back on Megumi, his lips curling in delight as if she were nothing more than an afterthought.

Nothing more than meat.

Her body sagged forward, her consciousness slipping—

And the last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her whole was the way Megumi smirked against Yuji’s lips, eyes glinting with something ancient, something feral, something that whispered—

‘You never stood a chance.’

She was dead.

Should have been dead.

Should have succumbed to the darkness seeping into her veins, to the heat of her own blood pooling beneath her like a grotesque lover’s embrace.

But she wasn’t… dead .

Not yet.

With the last remnants of her strength, she moved.

Ripped the blade from her throat, lunged—

Yuji caught her effortlessly.

Like she was nothing.

Like she was a toy whose final act of defiance only amused him.

With an almost bored flick of his wrist, he sent her sprawling onto the cold marble, her body smacking against the ground with a wet, sickening sound. Before she could recover, before she could even breathe, he was on top of her, straddling her hips, his full weight pressing into her lungs, into her ribs, into her very existence.

She gasped. The world narrowed to the warmth of his breath, the press of his steel thighs caging her in, the sickly-sweet scent of strawberry candy, thick and artificial, tainting the coppery tang of her own blood.

Yuji leaned in close, his lips ghosting over her throat where she bled out, inhaling deeply.

“Aww, the hag fights.”

His voice was honeyed mockery, dripping with amusement.

She glared at him.

He grinned, sharp and wolfish, his nose grazing the sticky, open wound at her throat.

“Ahh, you smell nice.” He exhaled, letting the warmth of his breath trail down her skin. “But I’m not sophisticated like you, Aunt. I can’t even point out what you smell like.”

She clenched her teeth, fury crackling through her veins.

“Aww, are you mad because you’re going to be eaten?” he murmured, tilting his head, “or because you’ll be eaten by someone so uncultured?”

She wanted to spit at him, to carve her rage into his flesh, but her body was no longer hers to control.

The corners of his lips curled, delighting in her weakening form.

The edges of her vision blurred. Her limbs felt leaden. The air, thick with blood, became harder and harder to pull into her failing lungs.

Yuji tsked, shaking his head as he sat back, still straddling her, still watching the light fade from her eyes.

“I guess the mystery dies with you.” He pouted, disappointed. “Such a shame. I thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

His fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, almost tender if not for the cruelty in his touch.

“You were my hero once,” he murmured, voice softer now, as if he were speaking to a childhood ghost. Then, with a sneer, he added, “And yet, you die like everyone else—pathetic. Gasping for air.”

He stood, her body already cooling beneath him.

Her vision darkened. The last thing she saw was Megumi, silent and watchful, stepping forward to press a bottle of bleach into Yuji’s waiting hand.

Yuji grinned, kissed Megumi’s cheek, and then—

The stench of chemicals flooded her senses.

The burn was instant. It set her nerves ablaze.

She screamed.

And he laughed.

She screamed again, her body thrashing weakly against the inevitable, her own agony peeling her mind apart like a scalpel to flesh—

And he laughed louder, tilting his head.

The last thing she felt was fire.

The last thing she heard was Megumi’s low, amused chuckle as Yuji whispered something against his lips.

Then—nothing.

The body was still warm when Yuji whipped his face of her blood and shoved Megumi onto the nearest table.

The same table she had sat at just moments ago, sipping her tea, watching the city below like some untouchable queen.

Now, she was nothing more than a stain on the floor.

With a smooth motion from one hand, Yuji’s hoodie hit the ground, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the play of muscles shifting as he rolled his shoulders. His breath was heavy, the scent of blood and bleach clinging to his skin like perfume.

Megumi barely had time to react before Yuji’s hands were on him— grabbing, pulling, owning .

He smirked against his boyfriend’s lips.

They fucked right next to her body.

Yuji bit his neck in return, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to leave a mark that would linger.

Megumi’s head tipped back, his voice breaking into something raw, something real.

The palace walls swallowed his cries, but the floors beneath them carried the sound two stories down.

They didn’t care.

Not when Yuji’s fingers dug into Megumi’s thighs, gripping tight, possessive, worshipping in a way only a monster could.

Not when Megumi's nails raked over Yuji’s shoulders, down his spine, carving half-moons into muscle until he, unknowingly, drew bits of blood as he shuddered under him.

Not when Yuji leaned down, peppering lazy kisses along Megumi’s jaw, down his throat, whispering, “You drive me insane, babe. I love you, so… so so much.” Each word punctuated by a deep thursts that had Megumi ascending.

And Megumi—Megumi, who never surrendered, who fought against every chain the world tried to place on him—simply whispered back, breathless, ruined, “I... I love you.”

Yuji tugged his hair, making space for himself so that he could leave his marks undisturbed. Biting and licking while his movements never slowed down.

The doors slammed open, the room shaking with Sukuna’s presence before he even spoke.

“What the fuck are you doing here, brat?” His voice was a growl, venomous and sharp. His crimson eyes flared, scanning the room— blood, bleach, a corpse.

Then his gaze snapped to Megumi.

His eyes darkened.

“And why the hell is your whore here?”

Megumi flinched, his dazed mind barely processing the insult.

Instinctively, his head dipped, pressing against Yuji’s chest, letting Yuji’s larger frame shield him from Sukuna’s line of sight.

Yuji, however—oh, Yuji did not pause.

Did not falter.

Did not even acknowledge the shift in atmosphere.

Instead, he turned his head, growling over his shoulder, voice thick with warning, dripping with something feral.

“Don’t fucking call him a whore.”

No threat. No bravado. No posturing.

Just a statement of fact.

Sukuna’s expression twitched.

Something flickered in those crimson eyes.

But whatever rage threatened to boil over, whatever punishment he had prepared, was forgotten when Yuji turned back to Megumi and continued—as Yuji felt him clench around him.

The sex was always good with Yuji, but the moments like these were what made Megumi turned on for Yuji impossibly more.

Not the voyeurism, definitely not.

Not the power.

But the devotions.

Megumi trembled, overwhelmed, undone, his entire body wrecked from the sheer force of it.

The last push, the final claim, and Megumi’s entire body shattered.

His teeth sank into Yuji’s shoulder to stifle his voice, his breath stuttering, drowning in sensation.

Yuji—strong, brutal, relentless—pressed kisses over Megumi’s hair, whispering low praises against his damp skin.

He followed soon after, burying himself deep, his fingers gripping Megumi’s waist just rough enough to hold him still, but never enough to bruise.

Even in pleasure, Yuji never hurt him.

A moment passed.

Then another.

The world slowed, settled, the tension shifting from chaos to something intimate.

Still covering him, still inside, Yuji reached for the throw blanket on the couch and draped it over Megumi’s body before pressing a soft kiss and pulling out.

Megumi, oversensitive and in love, almost whined at the loss.

Yuji kissed his nose to shush him.

Megumi, still dazed, still shaking, flushed at the warmth of it.

Yuji smirked, his voice dropping low, intimate, teasing.

“We’ll continue this in a bit.”

Megumi shivered.

He simply nodded, weakly tugging his hoodie over his head.

Yuji once dressed turned to face Sukuna, who had long since given up trying to understand whatever the hell this was. He was busy thinking.

The scent of bleach clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

His eyes flickered between the cooling corpse on the floor and the empty space where his most trusted guards should have been.

Uraume was still missing.

His staff—missing.

His castle—silent.

And standing before him now, with all the arrogance of a cat that had just torn open a bird’s throat and left it twitching in the dirt, was Yuji.

The brat yawned, stretching as if this were a casual visit. He tugged his hoodie into place, nonchalant, unbothered, unshaken.

“I came to talk retirement plans, Unc.”

Sukuna’s eyes darkened.

The casualness. The audacity.

“I will kill you,” Sukuna growled, voice low, filled with venom. Then, with a wicked sneer, he added, “Then I’ll rape your whore.”

The words were designed to provoke.

Yuji’s brows twitched, but instead of the usual explosion—the feral, bloodthirsty rage Sukuna had come to expect from him ever since learning of his existence a few months ago—Yuji smirked.

Because Yuji knew.

Knew that not reacting would send Sukuna spiraling faster than any violent outburst ever could.

“How, though?” Yuji tilted his head, voice mockingly curious. “It’s not like you’ll live long enough for that.”

Sukuna’s scowl deepened. “Threats don’t work on me.”

"Ahh, but don’t you wanna know where she went?” Yuji asked lazily. Like he didn’t really care.

Sukuna had gotten an emergency pop-up; he didn’t think it was serious; he thought she was misusing it again because she just wanted some dick in the middle of the day.

Then realization slithered into his veins like ice water.

His gaze darted to the corner by the windows.

The corner where she always sat.

The dress—the dress he had bought her a few days ago, flickred to recognition—now just another piece of ruined fabric, clinging to a lifeless body.

Bleached.

Burned.

Destroyed beyond recognition.

A sound tore from Sukuna’s throat, something raw, something he didn’t recognize.

Rage?

No.

No, it was something worse.

Yuji barely gave him a moment to process before he moved.

Fast.

Effortless.

Like he was born to kill kings.

The same massive knife drove straight into Sukuna’s skull.

Sukuna fell to his knees.

Blood poured, thick and hot, down his face, into his mouth. His body screamed at him to fight, to consume the brat and spit his bones out across the marble floor—

But he couldn’t.

His limbs refused to obey.

Yuji crouched beside him on all fours, watching with the fascination of a child pulling the wings off an insect.

Sukuna growled, lips parting to curse him, to end him—

But his tongue was useless.

His voice was gone.

The knife in his skull was cutting through everything.

He knew.

He was dying.

“Damn, Unc,” Yuji mused, tapping the handle of the knife like it was nothing more than a misplaced ornament. “I expected more.”

Sukuna’s fingers twitched, reaching, reaching—

Yuji tsked, shaking his head.

“Pathetic,” he sighed. “You know, I was gonna eat you fancy-like. High fashion. Cannibal couture.” He grinned, teeth flashing, eyes glinting with unhinged amusement. “But now? Nah. I think I’ll deep fry your ass. Serve you up with ketchup. Maybe even wrap you in a burrito with some gas station nacho cheese.”

Sukuna’s vision blurred.

His limbs weakened.

He was crawling now.

Dragging himself across the floor, inch by inch, toward her.

Yuji let him.

Watched, entertained, before lazily kicking away the furniture Sukuna tried to use for support.

“Oops.”

Sukuna barely heard it.

Barely cared.

His fingers brushed against hers.

Cold.

Lifeless.

She had gone before him.

And now—he was following.

His vision blackened.

The last thing he heard was Yuji’s voice, light, teasing, victorious.

“You know, Uncle, it’s kinda funny,” he hummed. “I did in a day what the Japanese spies couldn’t do in years.”

And then—

Darkness.

---

Japan

The scent of burnt flesh still lingered in Megumi’s nostrils as he stood by the Mustang GT , eyes hidden behind sunglasses, hands in his pockets, waiting.

The city was alive behind him—the murmur of passing cars, the distant wail of sirens. Tokyo never stopped.

Neither did they.

He could still recall how they had to tie Sukuna along with his woman to a boulder and sink him in the ocean. Being cannibals sounded absolutely disgusting to both him and Yuji; it was more to piss her and Sukuna off in there final moments.

A woman and her son approaching broke him out of his thoughts.

The woman—blonde, aged by grief rather than years—moved stiffly, as if the weight of her own bones was too much to bear. Her son, broad-shouldered, protective, walked beside her like a silent bodyguard, one hand resting on her shoulder as if that could shield her from reality. He had to grow up too quickly when his older brother, some long white-haired idiot, got kidnapped by Y/N years ago, and they serched but found absolutely nothing until he met Megumi in college.

Megumi didn’t acknowledge them beyond extending his hand. The woman pressed a thick envelope of cash into his palm, fingers trembling.

He took it without looking.

In exchange, he handed her his envelope.

Inside was—photographs.

The last remnants of the woman she had spent decades searching for.

The last proof that her nightmare had an ending.

Her breath hitched as she flipped through them, her shoulders sagging with a relief that was almost indistinguishable from sorrow. Tears rolled down her cheeks, silent, exhausted.

Megumi turned to the son, offering him the envelope of cash back.

“Take this,” he said, voice as flat as dead air. ��Leave the country. Never return.”

The son hesitated and looked at Megumi like he wanted to say something. But in the end, he took the money.

And they left.

Megumi watched Todo and his mother, Yuki Tsukumo, disappear into the Tokyo sunlight.

It had been years since Megumi first realized the world wasn’t made of heroes and villains—just predators and prey.

When he was a child, someone had killed his father’s best friend, his godfather, Gojo Satoru, Japan’s former defense minister. The same person had slaughtered Gojo’s husband, Nanami Kento, the nation’s most renowned psychiatric scientist for the criminally insane.

The murderer was never caught.

Not because there was no evidence. Not because there were no suspects.

But because no one ever saw the culprits again.

The perfect crime.

Or so they thought.

When Megumi entered university, he found him.

Itadori Yuji.

Shy, socially awkward, nerdy Yuji.

Yuji, who stuttered when Megumi looked at him too long.

Yuji, who was too eager to please, too quick to latch onto Megumi’s words like they were commandments from God.

Yuji, whose hands twitched when he thought no one was looking.

Yuji, who would do anything for him.

That was when Megumi knew.

Someone had to replace Geto Suguru after his unfortunate suicide.

And who better than Megumi himself.

The plan he had crafted with Higuruma would succeed. And it did.

Yuji wasn’t just insane.

He was Megumi’s brand of insane.

The problem was his family.

Toji and his sisters Maki and Mai were now breathing down his neck to let them ‘protect’ Megumi from Yuji.

He wasn’t supposed to become this insane.

They were watching, waiting for proof that Yuji had rotted beyond repair.

That he was too far gone.

For Megumi to kill him and clear his own name, forever.

They didn’t understand.

Yuji wasn’t a mistake.

Yuji was in love.

And Megumi didn’t want a love that came with boundaries wrapped in ‘unconditional’ packaging.

Megumi didn’t want a love who wouldn’t kill for him

Once he knew what he could have, he didn’t want to get back to dating a partner who would turn into just another ordinary 9-to-5 nobody—some lifeless, gutless thing that spent years chasing him only to grow fat and complacent the second he confessed.

Someone who’d let their body and mind wither, who would suck the life from him, siphon his ideas, drain his passion until he was nothing but a husk.

Sucking up his energy and drive and keep taking and taking until there is nothing left to take, then one day wake up and tell Megumi he’s changed. He’s not socially acceptable in one way or the other; he isn’t this or that when they never look at themselves.

No.

Megumi didn’t want it at any cost.

He wanted Yuji.

Because Yuji would never stop chasing him.

Yuji would never stop seeing him, loving him, prioritizing him over everything and everyone—even his own blood.

Yuji would never become complacent in any way that hurts Megumi.

Megumi wanted a love that could burn the world down for him all the while smiling about it.

And Yuji gave him that.

For seven years now, Yuji had proven it, time and time again.

He had slit throats and burned bodies and erased entire bloodlines for him.

He had made Megumi the center of his universe.

And Megumi would never settle for less.

So he decided.

He opened the car door with a click and slid inside.

Warm arms wrapped around him immediately.

Yuji’s lips ghosted over his temple, lingering, slow.

“You look like a hot celebrity in sunglasses, Megumi,” Yuji murmured in his ear, voice husky. “Keep wearing those.”

Megumi grumbled, but his face betrayed him, the blush creeping up his neck.

Yuji grinned, turned the ignition and shifted gears.

The Mustang GT roared to life, leaving the past in flames behind them.

A/N: And that concludes this love story—if you can even call it that. A relationship built on devotion, manipulation and an unholy amount of meat.

All Works Masterlist

[chobani-flip]

@bucktommypositivityweek

prompt: what they love most about each other (yeah, idk... i just realised that this was happening like an hour ago? i was wondering why so many fics had a similar theme today... oh well... im not sure what this is, but it definitely is. enjoy?)

--

so there's this line that buck heard at a wedding once. it was while he was working as a bartender in peru, and this american couple who'd met in the bar he worked at during his shift decided to get married there.

and Sex-on-the-Beach-Easy-On-The-Cranberry-Juice said to Dark-And-Stormy: "how do i love thee, let me count the ways"

which made buck look up from where he'd been mixing up a margarita because: thee? really? but then Sex-on-the-Beach-Easy-On-The-Cranberry-Juice went on to list a truly ridiculous list of attributes which made buck sigh a little wistfully and wonder what it was like to have someone to love like that.

(who'd love you back)

he thought he'd found it with abby, but well...

and with taylor he sometimes lay awake at night rolling the words over on his tongue like bobby taught him you should do with wine, to actually have a chance at tasting some of the insane things the labels promise. but back then how do i love thee, let me count the ways always left a vague fuzziness all over his mouth, all grippy tannin.

(they weren't right for each other, buck knew that now. maybe they could have worked if they'd met sooner, or later, but not then.)

"evan?"

"hmmm?"

"the seatbelt?"

oh. slowly, buck blinked at tommy through the warm cabin light. he'd had just the mai tai at the bar, but it'd been a while since he'd had anything besides an occassional beer and he could feel the alcohol hitting him more than usual.

it made the interior of tommy's car blur just a little as he turned his head to reach for the seatbelt. it made him grin wide and stupid into tommy's lovely face as he smiled his crow's feet smile with his eyes and turned the key in the ignition.

a single sure turn of the wrist. buck loved tommy's hands. big. wide. and big. and the bone, the one that stuck out a little at the wrist. the one that hen smacked him for laughing at it for the hundredth time when he was helping her learn anatomy with flashcards. pisiform bone. buck loved it too.

"you ok?" "i like your hands"

they didn't speak at once, but tommy had barely finished his question when buck began his confession so it was very nearly the same thing. tommy threw his own hand a slightly bemused look before reaching for the gearshift and changing gear.

because tommy drove manual. buck loved to watch the muscles of his legs contract and release in perfect synchronicity as he released the clutch and stepped on the gas.

he wore jeans tonight for their meet-up with hen and karen. buck loved how they fit around his thighs, made him kinda wanna bite them.

and then move up and taste his hipbones again, and bury his nose in the hair at the base of tommy's cock and suck at the sensitive skin of his balls and-

"evan, you know i love to hear you talk but i really need you to shut up now. im glad you like how tight my jeans are but they're really fucking tight."

buck blinked a little faster at being brought back from his daydream, licked his dry lips and realized the sudden absence of sound vibrating his vocal cords.

huh.

tommy was throwing him little looks in between checking the side mirrors, smiling, maybe a little bit in disbelief. buck loved the way his upper lip grew thinner the wider he smiled. he also loved to bite on the fuller bottom lip.

how do i love thee, let me count the ways

buck bit his own lip to keep from grinning and, with the aftertaste of rum and sugar smooth at the back of his throat, went on with his list.

[thatswhatsushesaid]

Okay I am in fact intrigued now - what is a blackwater biotope? 🐟

tumblr has GOT to get better about actually giving me notifications when i receive asks--i'm so sorry for leaving you hanging, anon!

i want to preface this first by saying i am NOT an ecologist and i'm not really in the hobby anymore, so if my observations are out of date and someone who IS in the hobby sees this.... please be niceys to me. also i'd like to clear up a bit of confusion/ambiguity around the difference between biotope vs a biotype, because in the aquarium and fishkeeping hobby they are similar, but hardcore aquascapers will roast you like a christmas chestnut if you conflate the two together, and i refuse to be responsible for that lol. so!

biotopes:

a biotope in ecology refers to the real physical conditions of a specific geographical region where plants and animals live, e.g. the small, near-stagnant pools of low-pH water where most wild betta species exist in their indigenous range, mostly in indonesia. in the fishkeeping and aquascaping hobby, the goal with creating a biotope aquarium is to use only those components in your build that the fish would naturally encounter in their native range. in short, the goal for a biotope aquarium of any kind is to create the most authentic replica of a fish's native environment as you can.

so for wild type betta species like betta rubra (my faves), betta uberis, betta imbellis, etc., to create a blackwater biotope aquarium, this means you will be building an aquarium with:

1. very slow-moving water, accomplished through either baffling the flow of the water out of a traditional output valve from your filter, or through using a sponge filter (my preference) and hiding it from view so it doesn't disrupt ~the aesthetic~;

2. aquatic plants native to the area where your fish live naturally, like bucephalandra;

3. a hardscape (aka sticks and rocks for design and to give the fish things to explore, and to encourage the growth of biofilm and other microfauna) made up of the same types of wood that you would find at the bottom of these slow-moving creeks and pools of water in indonesia;

4. a substrate (aquarium soil and stuff that hangs out on the soil) composed of pH-lowering soil and decaying plant matter that will release tannins, giving the water that 'black' appearance. the water isn't dirty despite what some people think. in fact, dirty water (aka water with lots of nitrites and nitrates, particulates and high ammonia) won't sustain much of anything in it, particularly not fish that are sensitive to fluctuations in water parameters the way most wild betta species are;

5. if you're creating a community tank (aka a tank with multiple species of fish in it, which i would only recommend in an aquarium with a capacity of at least 20 gallons), a biotope aquarium should only include species of fish that your centrepiece species (a wild betta, for example) is likely to encounter in its native range. a good example of this would be adding little chilli rasboras to a tank with wild bettas in it, because they're a very small and non-aggressive species of schooling fish, and most of the smaller wild betta species will co-exist peacefully with them.

conversely--

biotypes:

the goal with a biotype aquarium isn't authenticity, but to use what is available to a given aquarist in their specific location to recreate the best possible alternative to the biotope their fish would experience in the wild. a very good biotype build is almost indistinguishable from a very good biotope build at first glance, because you are going to find similar ecosystems in different parts of the world; e.g., there are blackwater biotopes in the amazon rainforest, and there are blackwater biotopes in indonesia, because the conditions to create these biotopes developed concurrently but in different parts of the world. this is actually why invasive species are such an issue; there's actually a species of larger wild betta that can be found in parts of the amazon now, not because it evolved there naturally, but because they escaped from captivity and the conditions in the amazon tributaries are virtually identical to those that allowed them to thrive in their native habitat.

(tangent: i'm personally more of an advocate of biotype aquariums than biotopes because i find them more accessible to most people, and because where possible i do think we should be using what is available to us in our specific regions of the world when building aquariums. that said, while i won't say that habitat destruction isn't a real concern when it comes to sourcing items from these regions for biotope builds, because it is, it still isn't a key driver of habitat destruction or species being placed at risk; there has been a lot of very good work in recent decades between local communities and importers, where funds from importing stay with the local communities, who then try to do more work to create sustainable conditions for the fish. it's not perfect, but nothing is, and i think people who immediately jump down the throats of aquarists who do import their fish and other supplies should press pause on their outrage and try looking up some of the work being done by these communities on the ground in south america and south/southeast asia. tl;dr if you want to have a thriving captive population of something to reduce reliance on importing, you do occasionally need to import wild fish to introduce greater variety into the gene pool. anyway we can talk about that later if someone wants to.)

so, to build out a biotype aquarium for wild bettas, to continue using them as my example:

1. you still need that same, slow-moving flow! and you accomplish it the same way, but maybe you don't care as much if the filter is visible lol;

2. maybe you can't find the right aquatic plant species at your local shops for a biotope aquarium, but you can find species that grow in a similar environment. so you buy and use that instead.

3. same with the hardscape, and the substrate. i have literally used fallen canadian maple branches in my builds, i just try to clean them first before i add them to the tank.

4. maybe you can't find chilli rasboras at your shop, but you can find neon tetras, which are another micro schooling species that can exist comfortably in a wide range of water conditions. your betta really won't be able to tell the difference anyway lol.

so there you have it! a high level breakdown of biotopes vs biotypes, which i am realizing now was not really what you were asking since you were more curious about blackwater biotopes specifically, rip 😭

[honestlyvan]

I’m kind of afraid to ask, but when’s the last time you deep cleaned your coffee maker?

I haven’t made drip coffee in a month and I fully forgot how it makes me feel nauseous and also my eyeballs hurt and now I’m tired and basically drip coffee is awful

[tetrabytez]

Something that I've personally wondered about for a long time.

You know the drill. Reblog for sample size.

Part Two

[handweavers]

my mother has asked me to ask “that weaver friend of yours” lol — do you have experience dyeing linen? what does the process look like for natural vs synthetic dyes?

happy to be that weaver friend of yours 🥰❤️ dyeing linen is basically the same as dyeing cotton or any other cellulose fiber, so any synthetic dye that works for cotton will also work for linen. a professional grade fiber reactive dye like procion mx or dharma's procion (here) dyes cellulose fiber without heat, and the process is quick and painless. it just involves a large bucket, water, the dye powder and the cloth you wish to dye. i have little experience with rit dye so i'm not sure if you'd need heat for that, but procion dye is higher quality, comes in a lot more colours than rit, and a 2oz container is like $2 usd and goes a long way

the natural dye process for linen takes a lot longer than the procion dye process and requires several steps. cellulose fibers really don't like to take dyes so you basically have to do a bunch of alchemy to convince it to do what you want (compared to protein fibers like wool and silk which love dyes and only need some gentle nudges)

naturally dyeing linen depends on the dye you'd wish to use, but the process is essentially: scouring, mordanting, and dyeing. it's really important that you scour linen especially because it contains a lot of pectins that prevent dye from penetrating the fiber, so a harsh scouring is best (ie. washing it with hot water and ph neutral soap, even to the point of boiling the cloth. linen can take a lot of heat and is better for it, cotton is more sensitive) you'll probably have to do this before dyeing it with the synthetic dye too for best results

most natural dyes require that you mordant the cloth before dyeing. some dyes don't require a mordant (indigo is the big one, but if you're working with onion skins or other materials that contain tannins this is also true. however mordanting the cloth before dyeing with tannins or even mordanting with tannins is still recommended for better colour performance long-term unless you're working with indigo in which case using a mordant can actually cause problems) but if you're unsure, assume that you need to apply a mordant. you essentially have to simmer the cloth in a hot pot with either a material that contains tannins (tannic acid), a natural bio-accumulator of aluminum (symplocos), or use a metal salt (alum acetate is best for cellulose, but iron and copper salts can also be used. the metal salts route requires more safety precautions esp if you use copper salt, you can't dump that down the drain) your choice of mordant impacts the final colour with different mordants shifting the chemical reaction that happens in the cloth when you dye it

with cotton and linen, after you use the mordant you need to use either a chalk or wheat bran bath to remove excess mordant from the cloth, esp if you use alum acetate, otherwise it can leave a whitish cast over the cloth and also impede dyeing lol. wheat bran baths tend to cause a warmer tone to the final dyed cloth, chalk baths cause a cooler tone. i only use wheat bran baths bc i prefer the warmth and i get the bran cheaply at my local punjabi grocer

only then can you dye the cloth, again unless you're working with a dye like coffee or tea or onion skins OR indigo. linen really doesn't like to take natural dyes unless you do all the above steps, it's stubborn. the dye process itself depends on what dye you use and you can do stuff like solar dyeing if you don't want to simmer it in a pot on a stove. if you plan to go the natural dye route lmk and i can send you some scans of a book i have that contains precise instructions for preparing linen for dyeing

[liminaltrolls]

Get to Know Your Mutuals

Never done one of these before but got tagged by @diescm !

Favorite Color: always changing, but some constants are black, peach, coral, and seafoam!

Currently Reading: not as much as I should, but most recently caught up on Lore Rekindled

Currently watching: rewatching The Resident with @penumbratrolls, but also watching a playthrough of the first Fallout on my own time

Currently craving: the quesabirria tacos from a local restraint 🤤

Coffee or tea: tea of the southern sweet or arizona green variety! Unfortunately I'm too sensitive to bitter tastes to enjoy most teas or brewing my own that aren't sweeter herbal teas with plenty of milk to bind off whatever tannins are left. Coffee is similar in that I can only drink it when it's more milk with some coffee and SO much sugar

I tag (and feel free to ignore this is you aren't interested):

@ase-trollplays @wandering-trolls @mageofspacemultiverse

and anyone else who want to join in!

[copperbadge]

you mentioned being a supertaster, do you like wine? I went to a wine tasting thing for 3 weeks having never tried wine before. Everybody there waxed poetic about all the fruit and wood and leather they could taste in the wine. I was smelling everything they described and more and was very excited to take my first sip and nearly spit it out cartoon style. All I taste is pure alcohol. But I can smell all the details.

I tried many, many varieties of red and white wine over those 3 weeks. They all tasted like slightly different types of sweet vomit. The organizer thought I might be a supertaster. Or maybe it's an acquired taste.

If you've tried wine, what does it taste like to you?

Well, supertasting has a wide variety of ways it can manifest -- some people are more sensitive to sweet or bitter, some people can discern multiple flavors in a drink or dish while others just get one dominant flavor. Like one person might be able to get all kinds of flavors from a glass of wine as a supertaster, while others like you might only get "alcohol".

For me it's complicated by the fact that I didn't drink at all until I was in my mid-twenties, and also the fact that red wine for me usually results in a stabbing headache within about half an hour of drinking it. There are people who aren't supertasters who have a flavor sensitivity to tannin, so for some people wine really is just "bitter fruit juice" -- I think I described it once as "fruit-flavored paint thinner". Because I'm sensitive to tannins the bitter flavor is mostly what I get, even in white wine; or for example, with beer I usually only get hops flavor. But I also don't get the smells you get -- wine smells sickly and nauseating to me, I think in part because I know it tastes bad.

So, there are a few options -- one is that it might just be a taste you haven't acquired yet, two is that you might have a sensitivity to tannins without being a supertaster, and three is that you might be a supertaster with that particular sensitivity. There are tests you can do to see if you're a supertaster -- if you google "supertaster test strips" you should find several companies selling them. That's how mine was confirmed.

The fact you get the nice smells without the nice flavors suggests to me that it's more likely to be a tannin sensitivity, but given white wine also didn't taste good, when it's much lower in tannins, I don't want to state it assuredly. I'm not an expert when it comes to tannin sensitivity (there's a pretty good beginner's article here about flavor sensitivity as opposed to tannin allergy) but one of the reasons high-tannin wines are paired with fatty foods is that fat coats the mouth and lowers the astringency of the tannins. So if you just want to see if it's the tannins bothering you, flavorwise, next time you have a chance to sip some wine, try sipping some, then rolling some fat around in your mouth before taking a second sip. Take a small spoonful of olive oil, or a pat of butter, and roll it around with the tongue so it coats your tongue, the roof of your mouth, and your cheeks, then spit out whatever's left or swallow it so that you don't have a mouthful of fat. If the wine tastes better (not necessarily good, just not as awful) after a second sip, it's possibly the tannins.

In any case, good luck! And if you want to learn more my supertaster tag may be of use. :)

[whetstonefires]

Overly sensitive re: flavour, OR are you a Super Taster? I've loved that term since I read it in a textbook on the psychology of food and drink. It's like a superpower, except for all the ways it sucks

sdl;akjfs that might be the same thing? idk, i know there are some Supertaster benchmarks i don't hit, and i've followed the common trend of becoming more tolerant to bitterness etc with age.

but taste is complicated even as human sensory systems go, with there being first of all the five different types of basic chemoreceptor on the tongue, each of which can individually be particularly sensitive (detects smaller portions) or particularly 'loud' (data priority in brain; subject to training but to some extent hardwired) and then there's the more complex chemoreceptors in your nose which are also active in the food-tasting process, detecting all the more delicate nuances, which are also subject to varying strength and priority.

and then there's however your sensory processing system mixes and interprets those chemical readouts, in combination with texture feedback etc, and how well you filter that data.

so i assume that supertasting is an elaborate spectrum in its own right, which when superimposed on the autism one creates a universe of unique snowflakes with very specific food orders.

I definitely taste sour way more acutely than a lot of other people, which has caused me repeated conflicts with my dad's cooking, because what he thinks is the right amount of vinegar to get a sauce or something to really pop is, to me, enough vinegar that no other flavor remains in the dish, and it can only serve as a sort of pickle garnish. an unfortunate fate for the main dish lmao.

we feuded in an easygoing way over How To Properly Sautee Cabbage for years.

this is probably why i tend to dislike sourdough bread. the sour is loud enough that it obstructs the subtle pleasures of 'bread' flavor.

similarly for coffee. i need so much cream to lock up its bitterness before I can consume it comfortably. i can enjoy black tea without milk, though, as long as it's not oversteeped, and the main flavor there is certainly 'bitter,' and it's even some of the same tannins that are too much in coffee. so what's with that?

otoh when a thing is 'sour' 'sweet' and 'bitter' all at once and also mushy and wet, my mouth informs me emphatically and relentlessly that this is actually rotting vegetables and i need to spit it out right now, which doesn't strike me as a problem that arises from how well i'm detecting any of that.

third hand, someone helping me out here ig, i spent years frustrated about the subtle weird taste in my home-baked bread only to at last determine that it was 1) active dry yeast does not taste quite as nice as the live yeast professional bakeries often purchase in large cakes and 2) iodized table salt degrades at very high temperatures, creating a faint chemical tang, and these two factors were undermining the flavor of my loaves in a way no one else seemed able to detect. but maybe i was just paying more attention.

also fourth hand, for a couple months after my senses seemed to have otherwise more or less recovered from Covid the 'sweet' dial remained turned up weirdly high relative to the other major taste bands, and i don't think my salt tolerance has entirely reverted to this day.

[starryknight-dragonarts]

What kind of Dragon is this! This is Neither a Tannin or a Valkirtani, the story of Soaring takes place on a relatively small continent, more like a large island, there is a much larger world still out there with other Dragons, Creatures, Cultures, Magics, etc... Azel aka “Hem Locke” The Interloper

Background: Hem Locke is an exile from another continent across the east sea. He came to the land of Laramidia but he has made no effort to interact with Dragons here and actively tries to disappear if he's approached. Some Dragons believe he is a Cryptid, and he's not the only one.

When Hem Locke was banished from his village as a child, he was brought into a "new family”. Now he searching for the remains of his siblings who have scattered to various corners of Laramidia.

Personality: Hem is a very private but kind dragon who tries to only move around when visibility is at his lowest, but he will step in to protect others albeit in a way that won’t reveal his existence. For now he is almost entirely focused on his mission. Only once that’s done will he return home to his beloved mate. However he does appear to have a strange fascination with the 7 Calamities. For whatever reason he doesn’t feel threatened by them.

Strengths: Larger Body, Strong Flier, Surprisingly Stealthy

Weaknesses: Isolated, Insomnia, Fearful

Powers: Void Magic, Enhanced Passive Perception (Those frills by his head are sensitive and pick up movement in the air around him so he is able to feel motion from all directions)

Stats Stamina: 10/10 He can outlast almost anything physically and his magical powers offer a lot of power

Control: 4/10 His magic is unwieldy and violent. He is more like a conductor than a musician, he can direct his power but doesn’t have a lot of command over it.

Intelligence: 8/10 While having no formal education Hem is a quick learner and even taught himself Laramidia’s language

Combat ability: 9/10 He’s unstoppable in the air and extremely dangerous on the ground. He invented several combat techniques to use in the air and on the ground. His only weakness is confined spaces