#blue period au

[qquibb]

the painting in love with his painter

[lunarharp]

tired

[marsconer]

the traveller: okay, ringo star, you can stay

mizu: no he can’t

ringo: you think i’m a stAAAAAAR🥹🥹🥹🥹

[lowlightsahead]

Thinking about Soukoku being in Blue Period where Oil Painter Dazai ,who is prodigy , doesn't understand why people appreciate his art. To him it's like eating or bathing, not something very extraordinary (like Yotasuke). He doesn't feel the pull while making art but he does because he is supposed to.

Until he meets Chuuya who is a Sculptor at TUA , the same University as him, and for the first time in his life he wants to paint someone. He wants to paint Chuuya's unruly bright hair, he wants to paint his starry freckles, he wants to paint his "water colour eyes". And that painting is done with so much care that it becomes quite literally his best one. Dazai's professors didn't even know he could draw something with so much life in it.

Few months later, Chuuya is walking around at the fest organised by TUA students and sees a painting of him made so beautifully that it overshadows every other. He looks down to painting named as "Arahabaki" and the artist is someone named "Dazai Osamu".

[tvckerwash]

wash tormenting the reds in the most petty ways possible because he's still pissed off about them hitting him with a car and then blowing him up in s8 is so important to me you don't even understand

[cultofsappho]

ok I don't normally post this kind of thing about my own writing, but I'm so emotional rn about how much attention The Domestication Of Household Spiders is getting lately

idk what happened but like a week ago there was a huge surge of popularity over Spider-man!Alex AUs and people have been recommending my fic. In the last week-ish, it's gotten more kudos and comments than the last two or three months combined. it just hit 400 public bookmarks and 150 comments, I've never got this much on any fic before and I'm speechless

This couldn't have come at a better time, and all these comments are finally making me smile. I've been sick with covid, then recovering and going back to a nightmare at work, and a bunch of other messes in my personal life at the same time. And then, all this love starts pouring in from the internet when I really needed it ❤️

I desperately want to write more in this AU, but I just don't know if finishing anything is in the cards right now, with everything else going on :(

Thank you so much if you read my fic, or left a kudos or comment, and thank you so much if you recommended it recently. seriously, this helped me so much and I'm so grateful for the love ❤️ I swear I'll reply to comments soon lol ❤️

[maya-no-more]

The Crane: Chapter One - Hiina

⚠️ Content warnings: Swearing, childhood trauma, abandonment, mentions of sex and death, violence, blood and emotional damage.

Definitions of Japanese words used throughout the chapter will be provided at the bottom of the page.

—

I dip the brush into the beni¹ dish, pouting my lips as though going in for a kiss before painting on the red pigment. More. I lather another layer of oshirui² onto my face, masking my reddened cheeks and the dark rings below my eyes under a cast of white. More. With each brush stroke, I cover a bit more of my humanness and transform into that porcelain doll once again. The men like that. They don't want a woman. Smudged mirror in hand, I stare into those eyes I barely recognize. They are my own, yes, the same ones that have always been there. Those same eyes that looked down and saw my little feet take their first steps, propelling me off the ground and into this new world that was mine to discover. Those same eyes that scanned every stroke of every character of every book that I could find. Those same eyes that would glance up at those of my parents as they looked back down at me, filled with nothing but love and pride. Those same eyes that watched that pale, slender hand extend from the darkness, dropping three gold coins into my father's outstretched palm. Those same eyes that looked back into my mother's as I was pushed toward this stranger before the door was swiftly shut. I searched my mother's eyes that night, as I'm doing with mine now. There was no love, no kindness reflected in them, just my own tear-stained face. I apply another layer of oshirui.

The doors to the readying chambers slide open, and the recognizable clip-clopping of geta³ sounds the arrival of Madame Kaji. I catch her gaze in the reflection of my mirror, staring disapprovingly, as always, at my back as though it had just grown a pair of lips and cursed her. Raising her bony hands, she claps them twice together in a manner that could almost be considered delicate. Almost. The shrill sound slices through any lighthearted conversation that had existed among the women in the chambers before Madame Kaji's arrival. All eyes turn to her. "Alright, girls. Finish preening and get out there. There's a line of men with their pants still up and their purses full. Chop, chop!" Madame Kaji's voice is cold and demanding - demanding of labor and demanding of respect.

A quiet chatter returns to the room as the women apply a final touch of beni, pack up their makeup, and shuffle out toward the expectant customers. I am the last to leave. Returning my makeup to my satchel and smoothing my obi ⁴, I begin making my way to the door. "Wait, Hiina." Madame Kaji's arm shoots forward, blocking my path. She doesn't even turn her head in my direction. No, that would be too much effort for somebody like me. Instead, her eyes simply turn to glare at me through the corner of their sockets, the candlelight flickering menacingly in her pupils. The crimson beni is barely visible with the way her lips are pressed. So tight, so straight. That is what is expected of us: an army of perfect little porcelain dolls. Her nostrils flare with unspoken rage, and the image of her growing a pair of horns and spewing flames from her nose emerges in my mind, almost making me laugh. "I expect we won't be having any of yesterday's… behavior again today?" Beneath the folds of my sleeve’s fabric, I run my fingertips over the fresh fan-inflicted welds running like serpents across the flesh of my palms. The humor of Madame Kaji as some hideous beast immediately evaporates as memories of last night repeat behind my eyes. That man. He asked me to do things - told me to do things. I said no. I shouldn't have said no. I try to swallow, but it gets caught at the top of my throat. "Yes," I mumble, unable to raise my gaze to Madame Kaji's level. Her eyes narrow impossibly smaller. "What was that?" Her tongue is like a snake, lashing a spitting venom at anyone who dares breathe incorrectly. "Yes, Madame Kaji." She is satisfied… For now. "Very well."

—

Stinking of kiseru⁵ smoke and adultery, the central area of Madame Kaji's brothel was already filled with the usual rotation of lust-blinded men. Like every other day, I glide into the room, a peaceful smile plastered to my face. My hands are to be held in front of me, lifting the fabric of my kimono⁶ just slightly so that the customers can catch glimpses of my ankles as I walk by. "Passive stimulation," as Madame Kaji calls it. Everything is carefully calculated, from where we place our hands when we walk to how we hand a teacup to a customer after pouring his tea. I smile gently at a twenty-year-old man who is already beginning to bald. His eyes widen, and an excited smile spreads on his face, putting his rainbow of stained teeth on full display. I could tell that this was his first time at a brothel. Suddenly, a pale finger attached to an even paler hand pulls me from my thoughts with a firm tap on my shoulder. Turning, I am met, once again, with Madame Kaji's menacing eyes. Except, this time, there is something else in them. I can't quite decipher what it is… Mischief? Excitement? I'm not sure, but it certainly isn't good. "You've been requested." Her voice takes its usual sour tone, but the playful lilt in her words curls my stomach into a twist. Danger. "Go on, Hiina. You wouldn't want to keep a customer waiting, would you?" Phrased more like an accusation than a question, Madame Kaji's words send me off with an uneasiness so intense that I think I'm going to puke.

My mind feels disconnected from my body as a tray with a kyusu⁷ and two teacups is placed in my hands. I've carried trays like these countless times before, but this time, I almost double over from the weight. It isn't heavier, no. Rather, the weight of sheer, unbridled fear is pressing down on me, forcing the air from my lungs and buckling my knees. I can't get Madame Kaji's eyes out of my head. There was something in them like I'd never seen before. It screamed danger, and she'd enjoyed it. Mentally shaking myself, I desperately collect my thoughts, force another smile, balance the tray on one hand, and slide open the door to the private room with my other.

My stomach drops. My heart leaps into my throat. I think I'm going to faint.

But then I remember the welds on my palms and the look in Madame Kaji's eyes. I step forward. "Good morning, sir." I smile gently at the man sitting at the other end of the room. His grey eyes are shrouded in a mist of lust as they watch me slide the door shut, their corners creasing like the soggy pages of a book left in the rain. From the floor, he commands the room. The man's bulbous nose twitches as his paper-thin lips pull into an unsettling grin. Long, dirt-caked fingernails projecting from sausage-like fingers drum impatiently on his crossed arms. The room reeks of stale smoke and sweat. The man pulls something from between the folds of his coat. I've never seen anything like it before. It's made of brown paper and has a thin ring of gold near the end. He sticks the end in his mouth, bites down, and spits a chunk onto the tatami floorboards, sending a dull splat sound into the otherwise silent air. He lifts the strange thing to a candle beside him, and I watch as the end of it catches the flame. Finally, the man places the brown tube between his lips and fills his lungs, closing his eyes with grim satisfaction. Chapped lips part, allowing a thick gray serpent of smoke to slither out and cloud around the man's long, orange hair and tomato-like face. "So." The man begins, his Scottish accent as thick as the curtain of smoke now shrouding his head. He waves the cloud of putrid air away. "You're one of the pretty ones." He chuckles, sending a breath of smoky air my way. "Would you like some tea, sir?" I ask, setting down the tray between us like a barricade and trying to ignore the bile climbing up my throat. "No, I don't want any of that shite. You know what I came here for, sweetie." That word, "sweetie," alone is almost enough to send me barreling in the other direction, but I hold my ground. "I've got money and a dick. I trust I don't need to explain the rest." He smirks cruelly, pushing the tray of tea aside with his foot, sending the kyusu tumbling to the floor. The fresh tea trickles away from the pot and toward my feet as though it, too, was trying to get away from the disgusting man.

"Stop being a fucking prude and come here, girl." He spits the words out as though they taste like vinegar on his tongue. Suddenly, the man springs to his feet in a fashion much faster than I anticipated, given his build. As though he couldn’t get more terrifying, he more than doubles in height. Unconsciously lurching backward, it takes every fiber of my will to keep my expression sweet. But, plagued by memories of Madame Kaji's fan flying down to meet the soft skin of my palm, sending jolts of seething pain through my hand, I stand my ground. "Shindo, that fucking fairy. Every one of you bitches is the same. Fuck, it's almost like I can hear his voice now." The man disappears into his thoughts for a moment, a terrifying new anger flashing in his eyes as he impersonates the subject of his aggression. “ ‘Mr. Fowler, I've arranged various entertainments for you to enjoy. I assure you.' What a fucking joke. I've had enough of that man and the whole rest of his lot." His eyes glaze over, and a far-away look casts over his features as he continues. "I can't be rid of them quite yet, however. No, I still need them. After that, I'll shit in a pot of gold, wipe my ass with silk and fuck every whore from here to Edo.”

I feel as though I can’t breathe. My heart has swollen into a mallet and is pounding ruthlessly against my rib cage, deafening me. I've heard too much. As though emerging from a trance with the snap of a finger, the man returns to himself. His brow returns to its furrowed position, and his menacing glare settles back on me. As if it couldn't sink any further, my stomach drops to my toes as the man's thin, pink lips curl up into a devilish smirk. "Tut, tut, tut, it appears as though I forgot the bitch was here. Whatever should I do?" Slowly, he picks up his giant feet and places them, one in front of another, each step sending a tremble through the floor. You could hear a blade of grass drop. Before I can take another breath, he is inches from me; my eyes level with the small crimson spot on the collar of his coat. I dare not imagine what it is. "What should I do with you, little birdie?" I force myself not to pinch my nose against the wave of warm, rancid breath blowing in my face. "Should I… tell you to forget what you heard?" He raises a hand as though about to strike me, but instead runs one of his fat fingers across my cheek, tracing a line down my jaw. In any other context, the gesture could be considered sweet, but here, the sensation of the man's touch makes me want to set my skin on fire. I'd rather be struck. As though to himself, the man considers his options. "No. Her pretty little mouth wouldn't be able to keep shut… Maybe I should cut out her tongue? No, that would make a mess, wouldn't it?" His finger continues tracing down my neck, landing at my exposed collarbone. I can't control it anymore. My lips begin to tremble, my whole body does, but no tears fall. Instead, my attention is drawn elsewhere. In my peripheral, I catch the man shifting his coat aside, revealing the engraved gold handle of one of those western weapons I'd overheard the other women describing. The realization dawns on me in an instant. I am going to die. Unfazed by the evident panic on my face, the man continues, his voice assuming an indescribably dark character.

"Should I fuck it out of her?" He pushes me back, pressing my back to the wall behind me and crushing my ribs with his own. His hand drops, landing on my thigh and running up my side. I am going to die. "Bah, scared women make for a bad fuck." He thinks for a moment. "Or… I could put a bullet between those pretty eyes of hers." His hand curls around the handle of the weapon, pulling back the gold piece at the top with a little click.

Time seems to freeze around me. I stare into the man's gray eyes. They harbor furious storm clouds filled with crackling lightning, a sea with dark, razor-like waves crashing furiously onto one another, moonlight flashing off the slices in the water's surface. These are the eyes of an animal. Inhuman and deadly. These can't be the last eyes I see before I die. I am not going to die. I won't. In a split-second decision, I inhale sharply and send my knee flying into the man's crotch with every ounce of strength I have. The man wheezes out, his eyelids shooting open in agony as the hand previously clutching my waist shoots up to grasp the space beside my head instead. He doubles over, almost crushing me, but not before I duck down and jump out from the gap between him and the wall. Without a backward glance, I pull open the sliding door, sending it flying into the frame with a crash. My feet send me darting across the room, or at least as fast as my kimono will allow. What direction I go is unimportant; all that matters is that I get the fuck away from that man. 

"OOMPH!" I collide with one of the other women who still has a feather in hand, and now one very confused customer. "HE- THAT MAN-" My thoughts are racing faster than a hummingbird's wings, but not a single one seems to leave my lips in a coherent manner. "Hiina! Breathe. What happ-" The woman grabs my hand, but before she can offer any comfort, a deafening voice booms out over the room, making every person and object in it shudder. "WHERE THE FUCK DID THAT BITCH GO?!" I turn to see the man standing in front of the room I was trapped in just moments earlier, his massive frame taking up the entire doorway. Murder is in his eyes. A second longer, and they would have been cleaning my blood from the walls.

"Mr. Fowler." A mousy voice suddenly sounds behind me, and a much smaller man with a bald spot and a navy blue kimono appears. "Shindo." The white man growls as his smaller counterpart approaches him, somehow without fear. Though faint, the room is just quiet enough for me to decipher what the man named Shindo whispers. "Mr. Fowler, if I may, it would be unwise to create… a scene here. It could jeopardize your plans. I implore you to leave with me now." He lowers his voice further. "I also come bearing an update on the shipment." His eyes dart around nervously before landing again on the man before him. Seemingly appeased, the monster of a man straightens his jacket, brushes a hair from his face, and strides from the room with not so much as a glance in my direction. I've already been forgotten. The moment the brothel doors close after him, all the air seems to return to the room, and the women and their customers slowly return to their previous activities. It isn't that simple for me. Leaving my friend to her feather, my feet take me back to the readying chambers I had been in a mere fifteen minutes earlier. I sit back down at my table, hands placed in my lap, eyes looking directly ahead. Not a sound leaves my lips. My skin feels nothing. I can't sense the welds on my hands, or the splinter on one of my geta, or my hairpin that had been poking my neck.

Suddenly, tears begin to form in my eyes, and for the first time since that night sixteen years ago, I cry.

—

Definitions:

¹ beni: Traditional Japanese red lipstick. Was applied by mixing water with the red pigment on the inside of a clay beni dish.

² oshirui: Traditional Japanese white face powder. Was either made of ground rice, or in the case of the wealthy, mercury or lead.

³ geta: Wooden Japanese shoes typically worn with a kimono.

⁴ obi: The wide piece of fabric worn as a belt over a kimono.

⁵ kiseru: Traditional Japanese tobacco smoking pipe.

⁶ kimono: Traditional Japanese dress worn by all classes of Japanese society. Comes with many different versions, such as a yukata, which is used for everyday wear and is typically more comfortable.

⁷ kyusu: Traditional Japanese teapot.

[m-to-z-andbackto-m]

You know while I experience my Satan's waterfall, let's vaguely talk to some skeles about it because they're my little comfort demons.

Probably would prefer you don't read more if you're uncomfy with shark week but to me, screw the taboo, it's natural, no one should have to be ashamed of it >:(

First scenario because I dunno about doing this with the bad sillies, lemme know if ya want some

~~~~~~~~ Scenario One: The Stars ~~~~~~~~

I sometimes hang around The Skeles ™️ for no particular reason, it's fun, but this week...

"AH FUNK MY BACK" *Dying while laying on the couch*

"Is... The creator okay...?"

"No clue, let's ask her"

"Human creator are you okay??? Are you wounded???"

*Laying on stomach, buried face in arm rest* Muffled: "No, No, I'm fantasti- IIICK SHGD GOD I'M IN PAIN"

"Where???"

"Why???"

*Both look at him*

"No, actually" *Lifts head up* "Valid Question-"

"Really-"

"Okay... Why are you in pain, Creator...?"

"???"

"Uhhhhh, let me phrase this in the worst way possible..." *Sitting Up*

"O...Kay...?"

"... My insides are spilling out. :')"

"WAIT- WHAT???"

"Relax this happens every month and only lasts a week-"

"THIS IS NORMAL???"

"Is it... A human thing...???"

*Instantly Piqued Interest*

"Human... Female Thing."

"???"

"I am so glad I am neither of those things-"

"Ink!"

"No, no, valid, I wouldn't wanna be me neither"

"Humans are very strange, fascinating? But Strange-"

"You Said It"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I kinda imagine they get fully educated and they (mostly Dream and Blue) are very supportive and probably provide any FAB human friends they have with extra assistance/comfort.

Like imagine Blue buying one of those electric heating pads (I have one, helps with cramps) and offering pain killers and Dream is just trying to make 'em extra comfy because he's just a gentleman like that (When. When he has the time that is-), Ink probably practiced making the hygiene products for a while 😭

THE BEST PART WOULD BE LIKE. THEY DON'T MIND IT AT ALL LIKE- "Taboo? It's a natural process like taking a piss, tf you mean taboo-" HJRGDYFSK 🫶🫶🫶

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

ari this is a THREAT ‼️⚠️ i am cornering u with a knife… that i will use to cut out a slice of carrot cake for u to enjoy while you tell me more of your thoughts on the stsg reincarnation au u mentioned in your tags 🍰 >:3 bc i am nothing if not NOSY !!

i feel like i’d heard abt an au like that before too but the only one that comes to mind rn is this one where suguru’s a barista.. n satoru is soooo starstruck just instantly like he even waits outside in the rain for suguru to clock out 😖😖 in love with how op drew them too the pouty look on satoru’s face in the second one kills me every time like aaaahhh they’re so pretty </33 prettiest boys ever….

LOGAN I GOT SO SCARED 😥😥 ty for the carrot cake i am munching on it happily :33

BUT OKOK i think i’ve figured it out …. i’ve ALSO seen that specific reincarnation au (i love it sm it hurts OUR PRETTY BOYS…..) and i think i’ve also seen some other art for another series entirely where the reincarnated characters met in a museum… so my brain probably just . mashed those two together PHDJDH 😭😭 but ok we ball I’M SO GLAD UR CURIOUS i thought abt it a bit more before going to bed yesterday and my thoughts spiralled into a whole plot PHDJDGB LET ME KNOW WHAT U THINK…….. (warning!! this got long ALSO tagging mickey obv i need stsg nation approval for this @softgirlgonehaywire)

ok so !!!! first of all. satoru is a stem boy in this au. that’s simply how he is. he has literally no interest in The Fine Arts, and just so happens to get dragged to a museum for a school trip. he doesn’t really see the appeal yk?? just a bunch of stuffy rich people (he’s rich too but he’s not like the others he’s down w the poor <33) walking around like zombies….. he just hates the atmosphere bc he sincerely loves interacting w people and everyone in the museum is just staring at the paintings and sculptures and so on w/o even talking abt them :/// yeah. he does Not like art. (he just doesn’t Get It yet!!)

then we have suguru. our beloved. suguru is an art student <3 a bit pretentious about it <33 goes to a prestigious art school and lives and breathes art. he LOVES going to museums and exhibits and galleries just to dissect the pieces, think about their meaning, study them up close…. similarly to satoru i think his feelings about art have a lot to do with his yearning for connection and companionship; satoru doesn’t like art because he sees it as an isolated activity (average stem boy smh he just doesn’t Get it), suguru loves art because it gives him the chance to connect with painters new and old. he’s sooo enamored with the idea that he can forge a kind of connection with someone long dead, just by looking at something they made with their hands and mind. it’s so dear to him. (this is important for the Themes ok bear with me </3)

so!!! basically!!!! satoru is a stem boy, suguru is an art girl, and they happen to be in the same art museum at the same time. one of them is bored out of his mind, dragging his friends around and generally being a disturbance to the peace, the other is delicately and thoughtfully going from painting to painting. lost in his own little world.

they stumble upon one particular painting at the same time.

it depicts a man with long, black hair, clad in robes and smiling with the sun sinking behind him. his face is partially obscured, a little blurry, but his smile is framed almost as the center of the piece. it’s beautiful. the colours are warm, the brushstrokes are delicate, and there’s a tenderness to it that neither of them can quite put their finger on. but it’s so fervent. when they look down in search of the name of the piece and its painter, they see the following:

my one and only — unknown artist. (this is pure love starts playing in the bg)

satoru, for whatever reason, can’t take his eyes of this particular painting. he’s mesmerized. he’s never felt like this before — never felt so moved by a piece of art. suguru can’t turn away, either, but he thinks to himself that he feels a little sick. he’s never looked at a painting and felt as if it was looking right back at him. and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get a sense of the artist’s intent. he feels like he should be able to, but it’s too out of reach.

finally, suguru notices satoru standing only a couple steps away, and asks what he thinks. smiling politely. satoru is completely entranced, but meets suguru’s gaze, and all he can verbalize is that it’s pretty.

suguru loves to be a contrarian — but this time, he genuinely can’t bring himself to agree.

ok so here i’m thinking they fight a bit <33 it’s how they get to know each other (in typical stsg fashion)!! suguru really doesn't like this painting for some reason, while satoru really loves this painting (for some reason), and feels oddly protective over it. so suguru makes a throwaway comment that pisses satoru off, he gets a little hissy, they bicker a bit, that’s all. suguru offhandedly mentions that he goes to an art school. satoru ends up remembering this.

aaaaand here is where the Plot begins <33 i hope u are still with me logan & mickey here is a treat and a snack for u to munch on while reading because tbh i dont think im stopping anytime soon (you did this 😞😞): 🍨🧋 🍧🍵

satoru, as previously stated, is a stem boy. he’s never cared about art. but this painting makes him feel something, something that he’s never felt before. he’s never felt so fulfilled, and after some contemplation he realizes that must be because he’s an art boy at heart. he’s found his true calling.(<- his own assumption lol) he’s just so!! excited!!! he buys a big canvas and expensive brushes and sits down to make his Masterpiece, certain that it’ll end up mending the hole in his heart, the feeling he’s been plagued by for as long as he can recall — that something is missing from his life. (satoru assumes that this something is art.) (it’s actually suguru.)

after a very eventful evening, satoru discovers that he can’t fucking paint.

and he’s horrified by this revelation bc he’s a GENIUS. he can literally do Anything if he just tries. but he sucks at art. he just can’t do it. he sits down and tries his best to paint but nothing comes out well. there’s a gap between his imagination and reality and that just irks him. he doesn’t know what to do. he’s so used to never needing anybody’s help, but it sure would be nice if he had an art student to help him out a bit…..

……………………

satoru ends up hunting suguru down <33 by going to every single art gallery he can find in tokyo. suguru calls him a stalker. satoru asks suguru to tutor him. suguru thinks he’s insane. (but obv ends up agreeing bc no one can resist the allure of a stem boy finding his true calling) (mickey this wasnt even an intentional parallel to the vamp fic we’re just connected through the hivemind i swear)

and!! while we’re on the topic of suguru — he’s currently having a bit of a crisis because he’s never truly encountered a piece of art that’s made him feel as uncomfortable as my one and only did, and even though he knows it’s a good thing he can’t help but suddenly feel a tiny bit afraid of art. something about the smile of the man in the painting makes him feel a little nauseous, a little guilty. he can’t focus as much when he’s painting anymore, and it bothers him.

he also can’t stop thinking about the white haired little freak in the museum, who seemed so out of place, but looked so sincerely captivated by this one single painting. what does he see in it that suguru doesn’t? he just doesn’t get it.

he figures tutoring said freak will give him some answers.

aaaaand that’s the plot!!! they end up bonding through art and both take their time trying to figure out why they’re so fixated on my one and only. which obv happens to be the final work of satoru gojo, dedicated to suguru geto to keep his memory alive <333 nobody knows exactly where the painting came from, but it’s said to be a symbol of true love. a connection that transcends time. etc etc etc. u get me. satoru and suguru can’t help but feel drawn to it, and it helps them find each other again. they have this feeling towards the painting, towards each other, that they can’t quite put their finger on. something out of reach.

(one time, satoru dreams of a man with a severed arm, framed by the sunset, and wakes up with tears in his eyes.

he feels as if he’s forgotten something important.)

[fissions-chips]

So there’s this thing in pigeon-keeping, called Tiger Swallow pigeons- it’s a cruel practice where their feathers are plucked from a young age, and after a few molts, they develop this pattern as the new ones grow in white.

And while this is a horrific practice in real life, the implications for Winged AUs is interesting… several body modifications I can think of involve a lot of hurt on the upfront for an interesting effect- so in a Winged setting, would something like this be done? To achieve a dazzling ‘striped’ pattern.

[allthedesiredusernamesaretaken]

Two Women at a Bar (Pierreuses au bar), 1902

- Pablo Picasso

[cariffio]

<3

[levbolton]

Very random of me to bring it up again, but last year I wrote a Blue Period ballet au fanfic inspired by sk8er boy and the nutcracker so if you want to see a ooc punk yotasuke x ballet dancer yatora maybe you’d like to check out Pas de Deux

Here’s some concept art sketches i did (and never finished)

It’s slow burn, fluffy and very minimal angst

[babymagi]

Going on the HakuMor tag and seeing people saying that Musashi kinda looks like a HakuMor lovechild:

[maya-no-more]

The Crane: Chapter Two - The Storm

Author's Note: Phew, this chapter has been a loooong one coming. Sorry for taking so long, life's been kinda shit for me recently and I needed to take some time to take care of myself. Aaaanyway, here's chapter two. Hope you enjoy :)

⚠️ Content warnings: Panic attack, mentions of sexual assault, physical and emotional abuse, sex and prostitution, (very) minor character death, physical scars, swearing, emotional damage.

Definitions of Japanese words used throughout the chapter will be provided at the bottom of the page.

—

Shallow breaths fill my lungs with air almost too dense to inhale. One tear turns to a dozen, before suddenly rivers of salty water are flowing from my eyes, leaving trails through my makeup and catching in the creases of my palms as I desperately try forcing them away. My body begins to tremble, and my vision begins to spin. I want to scream, 'FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU!' but all I can choke out is a pained sob. Everything is too much. Where only moments ago I could feel nothing at all, now every little thing seems to send my brain further into its own ever-growing spiral. My obi is too tight, my perfume too strong, and the once comforting sound of the furin¹ hanging at the teahouse door now makes it feel as though someone was dragging an urokitori² down my spine. I stand up far too quickly and stagger aimlessly to the other end of the room, throwing myself on the floor and forcing my head into my arms in a futile attempt at shutting out the noise. Still, the white man's words repeat over and over and over and over and over and over, bouncing and circling within my brain. "Cut out her tongue." "Fuck it out of her." "Put a bullet between those pretty eyes of hers." Bullet. Bullet. Bullet. I can't breathe. I bite down on the skin on the back of my hand, sending a trickle of metallic-tasting crimson into my mouth, but I'm too lost in the labyrinth of my own unraveling mind to notice. 

It's been a week since the incident, and yet, every moment alone brings the memories back as though they had only just happened. Every second when I'm not distracted by a customer, the phantom feeling of his grimy, calloused hands on my body reverberates through me. I've likely been long forgotten, but his words and his actions still haunt my every waking moment. My chest tightens still further, a vise squeezing relentlessly as if the very air I'm gasping for has turned to molasses, too viscous to inhale. I'm adrift in a sea of chaos, the waves of panic crashing over me, dragging me further out into the abyss, when suddenly, the door slides open.

Clip, clop, clip clop.

"Hiina." I needn't even lift my head to know that Madame Kaji is standing before me, but out of habit and respect, I do. My vision blurs in and out as I try to steady my gaze on the woman towering over me. Though intimidating, Madame Kaji's firm presence centers me, and after a minute of labored breaths, I recollect myself. Whether I've calmed out of an obligation to maintain any morsel of professionalism I've left is irrelevant because I can get air into my lungs and no longer want to peel the skin from my bones. Slowly but surely, the sandstorm raging within my brain is beginning to settle. In a manner quite unlike the Madame Kaji I have grown to know over the past sixteen years, she lowers herself and takes a seat against the wall beside me, smoothing her kimono, setting her hands in her lap, and looking directly ahead. 

"When I was five, my mother passed away. A fever." Madame Kaji suddenly begins, her voice taking on an unusually gentle tone. "My father was heartbroken, but I didn't really understand. She was ill much of my childhood, so it wasn't much different to me, but oh, my father… I reminded him of my mother, and he despised me for it." A ghost of a sad smile plays on her lips as she recalls the memory, but I catch a familiar glint in her eye that I recognize from all those moments glaring in the mirror. Anger. "He was a botefuri³. I remember hearing stories about how he would come through the village, breaking off small pieces of wagashi⁴ and passing them out to the local children. Sometimes, he would give them a toy to share or a smooth wooden ball whittled from the old chestnut tree behind our house. The children would run around and laugh, and my father... he would laugh with them. I would hear the children chant from down in the center…' Botefuri-san, the sweet-bearing man, always comes through with a toy for me and a treat for you! Botefuri-san, thank you, sir, for making me smile while you're hard at work!' "She laughs coldly… Painfully. 

"After a day of handing out sweets and laughing with the children, he would come home… He didn't laugh when he was with me." Madame Kaji lifts the sleeve of her kimono for just a moment, but that moment is enough for me to spot the countless ribbon-like scars snaking across her skin. "Still, the next day, he would return to the village and hand out those sweets. This is how it continued for eleven years. It became a routine of sorts…" She pauses a moment, seemingly lost in the sea of the past. Moments like this were incredibly rare with Madame Kaji. As a matter of fact, this was the first time she'd spared more than a few sparse words for me. It was humbling, and I dared not interrupt. "When I turned sixteen, he granted me permission to begin working, saying that any reason to see me less would be a blessing. Anyway, My cousin's husband ran a local ramen shop, and after hours of pleading, he'd agreed to let me work there, though on a fraction of the salary. Still, it was better than being alone and waiting… Waiting for my father to come through the door. I began sleeping in the cellar of the shop, smelling more fish than humans each day. I don't know if my cousin's father knew I was sleeping there, though maybe he did and chose to turn a blind eye for my sake... Bless that man. Two months later - I must have been sixteen then, yes - I got news that my father had died. A confrontation with a general. Something about a permit. Move forward two years, and I'd finally saved enough money for a kimono, a pair of geta, and a ride to Mihonoseki. The rest is more or less a blur. I was young, beautiful, and stupid, ah, yes. A fresh girl from the countryside who was quickly yanked by the arm into a brothel and never since looked back."

Silence.

Sat with our eyes set forward, neither of us speak. There is nothing to be said. Even if there was, I would have no idea how to say it. In the blink of an eye, the woman beside me was no longer Madame Kaji but a person. Not some untouchable entity whose eyes were filled with relentless disapproval or a totem of strictness and rigor, but a living, breathing human being. "In short, life has a fickle habit of treating the kindest people with the most cruelty. That's just how it is for women like you and me. Time and time again, we get thrown to the dogs, but time and time again, we fight back. I swear to you, Hiina. I've done it, and you will, too. If life's a bitch to you, you better do your damnest to be a bitch right back." When I turn back to face Madame Kaji, I am met directly with her eyes. The candlelight glimmers dangerously in her pupils as though the flames were dancing around within her brain. She is powerful. She is terrifying. With a gentle flick of her wrist, the woman smooths her kimono and, with it, summons back her old, stern demeanor. She rises to her feet while I stay planted. I'm not ready to stand yet for fear of toppling over again - because of a loss of circulation or the crushing weight of reality; I am uncertain. "Keep your head up, dear. If you spend your life staring at your feet, you'll stumble and fall and only get trampled again." With that, Madame Kaji pulls open the door, steps out, and slides it gently shut behind her.

—

One foot in front of the other. Don't forget to smile. Chin up, but not too much, or you'll look prude. Pinkies up. Pause. Show an ankle, aaaaand, continue. Not twenty minutes after I'd been on the floor of the readying chambers with Madame Kaji telling me her life story, I was back serving tea to men with drool dripping down their chins. In the far right corner of the room, I spot the man I was directed to serve. With a tray of tea in hand, I make a slow beeline toward him, careful to offer the occasional wink and smile to the men lining my path. Finally, after stepping over a customer far too drunk for two in the afternoon, I set down the tray in front of the man. His head is lowered, but I spot a peculiar pair of brown-tinted lenses perched on his nose. I pay no mind to the katana⁵ set beside him. We receive all kinds of customers here, all of whom are wealthy, from politicians and successful barley farmers to samurai. His legs are crossed, and his bandaged arms are set in his lap. He seems stiff and reserved, unlike the majority of my other customers whose liquor-clouded brains would send their bodies wiggling around in bizarre ways. This shouldn't be a problem. Every now and then, we encounter men still virgins to the world of teahouses, terrified to lower their gaze further down than a woman's nose. We quickly get them out of their shells, though. Like clockwork, I pour two small cups of tea for us, setting one in front of the man. He doesn't touch it. No problem. "My name's Hiina. What's your's?" No reply. I've had situations like this before; poor men scared shitless of women. Nothing a little touch to the shoulder won't remedy. Raising a carefully manicured finger, the tip of my nail barely grazes the fabric of his sleeve when his hand shoots up and grabs my wrist. For the first time, I make eye contact with the man, and my heart drops into the pit of my stomach in an instant. Staring back at me through those lenses is a pair of piercing blue eyes. Even through the brown tint, the color is undeniable.

Images of the white man whom I'd all but forgotten for a blissful twenty minutes return to my mind in an instant. The way his pale, soulless eyes pierced into mine, picking apart my defenses like a vulture tearing the flesh from an animal. I imagine myself a bit like that animal now: already dead and hopeless but still good enough for some vile scavenger to eat. A deep-seated chill crashes over me like an arctic wave. The hairs on my arms prick up beneath the man's iron grip, and I dare not break eye contact for a second. It feels as though we stare into each others' eyes for hours, and though under other circumstances this might have felt romantic, this was anything but. As quickly as it happened, the man releases his grasp on my wrist, letting his hand return to his lap. I am frozen in place. Fear in its purest form rushes through my veins, not because of the man sat before me, but the one with the smoke, and the liquor, and the threats, and that- that weapon clipped to his waist. The one whose eyes are staring right back into mine now, just implanted in another body. The man's lips move, but my brain fails to catch any semblance of a sound. My body and my mind are disconnected once again, and the feeling, were it not for the pure terror coursing through me, has almost become comfortable. A silent abyss within my brain that I can escape into when the world around me grows too loud. However, like all good things, the strange peacefulness shudders to a halt when the man's voice suddenly registers.

"I am not going to hurt you."

"I'm sorry?" A heavy fog still clouds my thoughts, and though I can hear him clearly, I struggle to comprehend.

"I apologize for my violent reaction. It was an impulse." He lowers his head into a deep bow, a sign of… respect. This already strange interaction just grew even stranger. Not once in my life has someone treated me in such a manner, and to receive it from a man who just moments ago I was sure would kill me, no less. I am flabbergasted. Working in a teahouse is not quite considered the epitome of a respectable job. Despite smiling through the ruthless hours of labor, scrubbing our skin raw to achieve the unachievable 'perfection,' and leaving not a single ounce of our dignity undamaged, the men who drool at our ankles between the brothel walls are still the very same ones who spit at us in the streets. In an instant, the eyes behind those lenses transform from ones harboring an indescribable terror to something calmer. Kinder. They are almost beautiful.

"Miss, are you alright?" I watch as his eyes trace my features, searching for…. something. Still stunned, the very best I can do is nod. "Please. Sit." Shakily, I lower myself onto the floor in front of him, hands too trembly to bother trying to pour the tea. 

"If I am to understand correctly, around a week ago, you had a customer. A white man. Do you remember who I am referring to?" No. No. No, no, no. My breath hitches in my throat. I physically cannot escape this man. I run from him, but there he is in my path, so I turn to run the other way, only to find him standing directly before me once more, that malicious smirk plastered on his lips and that weapon pointed directly between my eyes. "Put a bullet between those pretty eyes of hers." I cannot fucking escape him. 

"Please. This is important." Despite the distress that I can only imagine is blanketing my features, the man persists, his eyes not leaving mine for a moment. "Miss, any information you share will aid in our search for the man." He lowers his voice carefully. "I am going to kill him, but for that, I need your help. Please." At that very moment, something within me snaps. Though Madame Kaji's inspiring but incessant words echo within my brain, this sudden explosion of resolve comes from myself. A boiling, primal anger begins to bubble in the pit of my stomach. The feeling is so foreign. All these years, I've accepted that emotions are not something to be embraced but rather suppressed because the more you feel, I've learned, the more you end up hurting yourself. The numbness of a lifetime is but a distant memory now, and suddenly, I feel so much. Almost too much. It is intoxicating. My hands have long since stopped shaking, and, watching my reflection in the man's lenses, I roll back my shoulders, straighten my spine, and lift my head.

"What do you need to know?"

—

Definitions:

¹ furin: A traditional glass Japanese wind-chime thought to scare away evil (*wink wink*).

² urokitori: A Japanese cooking tool used to scrape the scales off fish.

³ botefuri: A traditional Japanese wandering salesman who would sell any variety of things, from household tools to food.

⁴ wagashi: A sticky, traditional Japanese sweet made from sweetened rice flour. Mochi is a type of wagashi, and it can come in a variety of flavors, shapes, and colors.

⁵ katana: A curved Japanese longsword used by the Samurai.