#it would make the sides overlap further front too

[scratchmakes]

This fabric I ordered to make a shirt with turned out to be stiffer than I thought so I pivoted and used it for a pair of improvised split side pants. The construction is based on a tiktok I saw a year or so ago and really only uses one crotch seam (and lots and lots of hemming + waistband ties).

The pleats should probably have been darts, but pleating is my favorite way to fit flats (fabric) to rounds (like e.g. my hips & butt).

Oh and have I mentioned the pockets?

Cost: 9 € (for fabric, thread's from the stash) Work time: ~8-10h

I have a few notes in case I do these again in future but for now I'm really happy with how fast and easily it came together and how well they turned out.

[azullumi]

BATHED IN A RED-STAINED GLOW !!

showering them with kisses and leaving lipstick stains, because why not? | featuring: phainon and mydei, established relationship, fluff, not proofread | wc: 0.5k

note — the voices got to me and i wrote this impulsively and i just wanna kiss phainon soo baddd urghhh hes sosososoo

PHAINON, it feels like there are stars in his features, a faint glimmer of light that bleeds on the edges of the rosy smudges painted on his face. delight was an understatement to his current situation—he is utterly glowing, basking like he would under the everlasting light with all of the attention that you are giving him. he could stay like this forever; your hand cupping his cheeks, your lips, painted in a shade of red, pressing all over. “keep going,” he is needy, desperately, and pathetically asking for more despite already showering him with too much, so much that you’re running out of empty spaces for your art; the stains overlapping against one another, darkening in pigment, as you leave a mark on top of the other. you linger in place often, leaving with a faint sound of a smack. the flush of his cheeks hidden by the prints of smudged and fading red, and you start kissing along his jaw, leaving nothing untouched by you. his hands don't know where to place itselves, wandering from your sides to your back, from gripping the front of your shirt to tangling with your hair, until they settle at his sides, clenching and unclenching as it trembles. “i think that’s enough,” you say when you pull back, admiring the messy and flustered state of your kiss-stained lover, and by the amphoreus’ skies, he looks so pretty under this light of pink hues and everything that embodies his being. and while you are enamored by him, he thinks of how you are the testament of the existence of beauty and how you make it utterly divine by the palm of your hands. “no, it’s never enough.”

MYDEI, “aren’t you brash?” he says right after your lips had left his cheek; you had asked him to let you try on this new shade of lipstick you had bought, expecting that you’ll paint the pigment on him outright but was greeted with a kiss instead. however, he doesn’t deny you nor does he even show a hint of detest to the attention he is willingly being given. and so, one kiss turns into two, then turns into three, then turns into the collection that you have left on him. you don’t know how long it has been and when he has pulled you into his lap—he doesn’t make any further moves, just resting his hands on your waist, stroking your sides as you do your careful, intimate work. and when you try to pull away, he only pulls you back in until the tips of your noses touch. “i don’t recall asking you to stop,” is what he whispers with an eyebrow raised which earns a chuckle from you, “greedy,” a mumble with a smile on your face, pressing forward to kiss the side of his mouth. he urges you to continue, spurring you on with the caress of his fingers on your back. you know his words, the whispers of his thoughts, despite not saying anything, but you know it all, and you know he adores you just as the red adores his skin. you think you see another shade dusting his cheeks, you think you see the waver in his gaze, you think you see the affectionate gleam in his eyes, and you think he doesn’t look as intimidating and scary not when your lipstick is smeared across his face.

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[pinksilkribbons]

COLLAGE: yan! classmate

CW/TW: non-consensual candid photos, elijah has a shrine of [name], mentions of praying to and basically viewing another human being as god, small implication of a boner, general yandere stuff ig.

You guys my last post on Elijah got quite a few likes I’m so glad y’all like him!! He’s my least developed OC so i decided to write more on him and develop his character. I’ll post some of my others soon!

Ever since he bought his new polaroid, Elijah has discovered a new side of himself. At the beginning he’d only taken pictures of you and hung them around his closet.

But eventually…he grew tired of it. Not of his darling, no! Of course not! But…it was rather difficult to sneak photos of you without getting caught. Not to mention the majority of them turned out blurry anyway.

Something needed to change.

He didn’t just want pictures of you at school. He wanted pictures of everything. When you’re angry, when you’re sad, when you’re eating. Pictures in normal clothes instead of a school uniform for fucks sake!

In the beginning school was the easiest (and only) way he could gain access to you, but now it’s proving to make his job that much harder. There’s too many risks involved.

With a dramatic sigh he shut his closet door, making sure to click the padlock into place. After hanging so many pictures of you on his closet walls he decided it would be wise to invest in a lock.

He knows it isn’t normal. Taking pictures of people without asking isn’t normal. Being so deeply obsessed with someone isn’t normal.

But not being normal doesn’t make him bad. Just…more passionate!

“Hey mama?”, He asks, trudging down the stairs.

His mother turns away from her phone with a quick glance his way. Her head tilts up as if to silently ask him what he needs.

“You aren’t using these magazines anymore, are you?”

A small stack of magazines with a bunch of ‘trendy fashion’ labels catches his eye. On the front cover a young lady with blonde hair is posed in a field of flowers. The lady, however, isn’t what he’s interested in.

She laughs playfully and watches Elijah pick up the stack. “Well, not exactly. But why do you need them? I’ve never known you to be interested in fashion.”

Elijah feels a rush of red to his cheeks. A part of him feel dirty. Perverted, even. It’s clear his mother is implying something dirty, and while she isn’t even wrong, he’s probably planning something much worse than whatever she’s imagining right now.

It takes a few good seconds for his mind to come up with a plausible excuse. “W-well, I’m not interested in fashion! I just need some material for this project in art class.”

Luckily his mom doesn’t question him further. She definitely rolled her eyes at him though, clearly not believing his story.

As soon as he makes it back to his room Elijah is quick on his feet. He rushes over to his closet so quickly he almost falls over. A pulse of excitement gushes through his body as he begins to unlock his closet door.

The password to which is his darlings birthday, of course!

Upon opening the door, one wouldn’t suspect much of anything. Clothes, shoes, some random boxes, but nothing out of the ordinary. The real magic is in the far right corner, at the very bottom of the wall.

So far his collection is pretty small. The few photos he does have are all taped beside one another, carefully placed to ensure nothing is crooked or overlaps with the other. This small corner is Elijah’s entire life.

He lives and breathes [Name]. In fact, every morning, without fail, he finds himself in this exact position; sitting on his knees, admiring his darling. He bows his head and prays to your existence.

The amount of sheer joy your being grants him should never be taken lightly. Elijah is a good boy. He’s thankful. And He proves it every single morning.

“I feel kinda bad, cutting up her picture like this”, he mumbled to himself. His hands carefully maneuvered the scissors, making sure to save as much of his darlings face as possible.

Believe it or not it came out pretty good! Next he needed to cut the cover from his mom’s fashion magazine, which proved to be the real challenge.

The blonde lady on the cover was dressed in a blue flowy sundress. From the moment he saw it Elijah knew that dress was meant to be his darlings. The chances of him getting a real photo of you in this dress were zero, but he’d like to think he’s quite creative!

To finalize his creation he glued [Name]’s head onto the models face, successfully dressing her in the beautiful gown. Just imagining her in such an outfit had his heart racing and pants tightening.

It made him feel proud knowing he found a way to grow his collection while also reducing the risk of getting caught. Next time he visited the library, Elijah would be sure to pick up a few books on collaging.

You truly did bring out a new side of him. Who knew he was so artistic?

[angry-geese]

The Weight - Sukuna x Reader

Warnings: smut//not osha compliant. arranged marriage au. blood/cannibalism mention. biting/size kink. unprotected sex, creampies. afab reader

synopsis: an arranged marriage au where the reader chooses sukuna instead of one of the men from her village

word count: 10.3k

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts since probably last february and I finally got around to finishing it lol

jjk masterlist

As mid-afternoon turns to dusk, you realize you have nothing to show for your hours in these woods. You know, reasonably, you should cut your losses for the day, and return home. In a little over an hour, it’ll be dark, and navigating these woods will become a challenge. But winter has come and gone with a vengeance, leaving food stores low. The thought of fresh meat is too much for you to quit now.

Fresh tracks mark the once-smooth creek bed. Deer. At least three. They’ve bedded down here, as evident by the smell, and flattened patches of grass. For several meters, the tracks nearly overlap themselves, before heading off in separate directions. It's been years since you’ve traveled this deep into the woods, and those few times were accompanied by your father, or uncle. Your solitude has you jumping at every rustle of a leaf, and snapped twig. It's when the woods fall silent that you need to worry. That means a predator is near. As long as you can hear bugs, or birds, you'll be okay.

Further ahead—maybe twenty yards—is a buck that stopped to drink from the creek. 

You knock an arrow, lining the broadhead up with your target. Something feels wrong. The string feels too taut. It slips from your fingers prematurely. The arrow hits just behind the front shoulder, and—in theory—should puncture the heart. A shot like that—in theory—should drop an animal like this where it stands. Today it doesn't. The buck takes off running.

Between the footprints, and little droplets of blood, a clear trail is left behind. When you do finally come upon your prey, the crickets have fallen silent. The buck lays on its side in the grass, chest heaving. You ready your knife to put the poor thing out of its misery when something—someone—emerges from the treeline on the opposite side of the clearing. 

Your body is moving before you can fully process the situation. You flatten yourself out on the ground, hiding under the cover of some bushes. If the man does see you, then he makes no note of it. He draws closer, stopping to kneel beside the buck. It’s too dark to make out his face. Something about him has the hair on the back of your neck on end. He hauls the carcass up onto his shoulder, turning to return in the direction in which he came. 

The absurdness of it all has you frozen. You blink several times as if to make sure this isn't your mind playing tricks on you. Once reality sets in, you’re back on your feet, chasing after him.

“That's mine!” You say, hoping the volume of your voice is enough to scare off the thief. It isn't.

What you first assume to be another trick of the lighting becomes a horrifying reality as you notice the true size of the man. The man—being, or whatever he is—towers over you, completely dwarfing you in size. Mild annoyance is all that is visible on his face as he turns to you. From the deer, he rips out your arrow, tossing it at your feet. The broadhead has snapped off, as well as the shaft is bent. If you so desire, you suppose you could repair it. Not that you have any wish to. Sometimes it is simply better to cut your losses.

But you have more pressing things to deal with right now.

“And just what do you plan to accomplish, little lamb?” He asks. “A deer like this can weigh as much as a grown man. Do you plan to carry this back all by yourself?”

It’ll be tiring, but not impossible. Gutting and dressing it here would remove a lot of unnecessary weight, but would render plenty of valuable meat and organs useless. All that extra meat and skin could be used better elsewhere…

You are overcome with the urge to run, yet his gaze has your feet firmly planted on the ground. Your eyes fall to a small red splotch on his kimono—a blood stain. It can't be from the deer, it's far too old. It’s not until your knees knock together that you realize you’re trembling.

The action of him moving closer causes a cry of panic to leave you, unintentionally calling out for your father. 

“What—who are you?!” You ask as you scramble backwards. 

“I am Ryoumen Sukuna, the King of Curses, my dear,” he says. “Now, shall we get this back to your home?”

Fear threatens to overcome you. Even if you could draw an arrow in time, you doubt it would truly hurt him. Yet, in spite of your fear, you know he has no plans to harm you. Once you’re in sight of the village, he sets the deer down, and gestures for you to take the lead.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask. You’re certain the look on your face suggests you still expect him to eat you. 

“Why do you ask?” He says. “Maybe I wanted the location of your home. It seems there are plenty of sacrifices here for me.”

“Wait a minute!” You say, eyes widening with fear. A mix of panic and guilt consumes you. “You can't-”

A look resembling amusement crosses his face. “I mean no harm to your village,” Sukuna says, “but in five years, I will return to claim what is mine.”

The strange man would vanish upon reaching the outskirts of your village, and in the nearly five years that follow, you would not once traverse so deep into the woods. On several occasions, you would try to retrace your steps, but would never once come across that clearing. When you would bring it up to your father, or any of the other village elders, your concerns would be brushed off, or outright ignored. Years would pass and slowly, achingly slowly, you would forget about the man in the woods entirely.

The coming spring brings your twenty-eighth birthday, and the looming threat of being an “older” unmarried woman.

If you had any say in the matter, you wouldn't get married at all. Plenty of older women exist, happily unmarried, yet your mother insists that you must find a husband. Any attempts to convince her that you’re fine with the way things are, fail. Once it became clear you weren't going to seek a husband on your own, your mother took upon the task of finding a suitor for you. Over the course of several months, meetings were arranged with various men, and with each rejected one, your mother grew more desperate to find the perfect match. 

Your mother insists you're cursed. Your father thinks you’re simply unlucky. When you asked how marriage was supposed to fix that curse, she had no answer for you.

In the months prior to your birthday, your mother proposed a deal to you: meet with another man—the son of a wealthy merchant. That if this meeting went well, even if you didn't marry him, she would stop pestering you about getting married. Tired of her pestering, you relented, and agreed to meet him. And as the days draw closer, you only feel dread towards him. 

The outcome of tonight has already been decided by you: failure. Whether your mother knows this or not is hard to tell. Judging her tense nature, you suspect she knows your plans.

“I was already married at your age,” she says, tightening your obi, “I used to have a dress just like this.”

“The difference is, you knew him already,” you say, “and I am meeting a stranger.”

“I am simply doing what I think is best for you,” she says. “This is your chance to get out of this village—to live a better life! Don't you want that?”

Her eyes meet yours in one last pleading glance. It makes you wonder; did she have such a conversation with her mother? Did your grandmother go through such trouble to match her to your father? Or did this come easier to her, than it did to you?

You suppose he’s handsome. The silks he wears are clearly expensive, with threads like woven gold. His features are sharp—what one could describe as noble, but you find him truly dull. But he is scrawny—squishy, with hands that show he has never worked a day in his life. The little conversation he makes is dreadfully boring. His father is an older man, with a graying beard, and sagging eyes. His mother is considerably younger, dressed in blue, with a small scar on her chin. Her silky black hair falls down her back. The little conversation you do have is short, but polite. The typical small talk you would have with a stranger.

Your mother does her best to talk you up. She’s gotten pretty good at that over the past few years. Your father interjects here and there, but it's your mother that does the majority of the talking. 

“She’s strong. A talented hunter. Good with a knife.” Your father says. This time, you’re paying attention when he speaks.

Your potential father-in-law seems unimpressed with your father’s attempts to talk you up. Perhaps if you were a son, this conversation would go differently. If you were a son, your mother wouldn't be so stressed about you being married before 30. Your growing irritation mounts when you set down your cutlery, turning to look the old man in his eyes.

“And what about him?” You ask, motioning to his son. “Look at him—how is he supposed to give me a strong child?”

The energy in the room seems to shift entirely. Your father nearly chokes on his wine, but his eyes are firmly trained on your mother. She glares daggers at you, gripping her spoon so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“What?” You ask. “I am the one getting married. Don't I get a say in this?”

Are you trying to screw this up? Your mother’s face seems to ask.

“A good father controls his daughter,” the man says, “especially one with such a sharp tongue.”

“I can serve this village, or I can control my daughter, but I cannot do both,” your father says, “she’s not a child anymore, she can make her own choices.”

That earns a small smirk from you. Leave it to him to stand up for you.

“That is exactly why this is so grievous,” the man says, “my son will not marry an old maid with an attitude problem!”

“And I will not have in-laws as insufferable as you!” You bring your knife down on the table, narrowly missing his fingers. This little outburst of yours at dinner will certainly have consequences. Your mother’s wrath is only the beginning.

They don't leave in nearly as big of a hurry as you’d expect from a man who was just threatened with a knife, but they do hurry out, making certain not to look back.

“Maybe we should have offered to let them stay,” says your father, “it’s not safe to be out on the road after dark.”

“We’re lucky to not have them send guards after us for that,” your mother says, and for once, you agree with her. “Threatening a man like that is a new low, even for you.”

After such a disastrous dinner, you’re not particularly eager to go find your parents. You linger towards the outskirts of your village for as long as daylight allows you to. Once it grows too dark to stay out, you begin the trek back to your home, praying your parents—or at least your mother—have simply gone to bed. Maybe your father will forgive such a night, but your mother certainly won't. Over the past year you’ve done enough to earn her ire, this will not help your case.

Sitting outside is your mother, her eyes trained on a dying fire. Although she doesn't acknowledge you, you know she’s noticed you. Part of you wonders if you should speak first. Would that even improve your situation, or simply make it worse?

“You win.” She says. 

“What?” You ask.

“You win. I told you I’d stop after this, remember?” She asks. “Besides, I stopped liking him after that comment he made about your father.”

You still don't believe it's over. No tone of accusation clings to her voice, yet you can't help being suspicious.

“I don't get it.” You say.

“I just want what's best for you.” She says. “I want you to live a long and happy life. Are you really content to spend the rest of your life in this village? Stuck taking care of your brother and father?”

“That sounds like the preferable outcome,” you say, “compared to having in-laws I can't stand.”

“Where does he get off calling you an old maid anyway?” She says.

A small smile crosses your lips. This is about the best she'll get, and she knows this, a grin crossing her own face. A moment that should be one of triumph—at least for you—seems to be more sorrowful. The older you grow, the further apart you drift from her, and with that comes a strange, aching loneliness. You long for a time in your youth; the days when she would play dolls with you in-between house chores. You miss the tiny clothes she’d sew for them. The furniture made of timber scraps she’d hand paint. Oh how long has it been since she last braided your hair? Or brushed it? Or helped you wash it? 

Did she have these same feelings about her own mother? Or was it easy for her? Does she too mourn those moments you used to share?

You don't remember her always looking this old. That’s not to say she isn't beautiful still—age does not nullify beauty. But she looks tired now. The dark circles under her eyes are more prominent than ever. The skin around her eyes crinkles when she laughs, or smiles. Her hair is littered with grays—like little silver threads. She looks like you.

From within the nearly pitch-black woods comes a scream; not that of an animal, but of man. When the scream rings out again, it’s much easier to understand. It’s a cry for help.

Emerging out of the treeline, and following the main road is a man, half hunched over and clutching his stomach. He makes it several yards into the village before collapsing. Enough blood pours from the wound on his side that you can smell it. A metallic taste lingers in the air, stuck to the back of your throat. Blood. 

You’re the first to run over, followed shortly behind by your mother. The injured, shambling figure collapses upon the road. It’s only as you draw closer that you recognize him, albeit barely: the man from dinner. His clothes at one point in time were yellow in color, but are now stained a deep brown in color from a mix of dirt and blood.

“We need a doctor over here!” Mother cries out, her voice echoing against the wall of trees.

Someone must hear, because eventually a group of men burst out of a nearby house. They make quick work of rolling him onto his back, granting you a better look at his wounds. Three long slashes across his stomach. From your mother comes a gasp, followed by her clamping her hand over her mouth. The young man succumbs to his wounds before anyone is able to help him. He’s lost too much blood. People don't come back from that.

“Was he stabbed?” One man asks.

“Looks like knife marks,” comments another.

“Not a knife,” the oldest of the three says, “claws.”

“Do you think a mountain lion got to him?” You ask.

The oldest of the men shakes his head. “Cats like that don't get this close to towns. They avoid people if they can. A bear, maybe; if he got in between a mother and cub. But even that seems unlikely…”

This is why you don't go into the woods after dark. This is why you lock your doors and close your shutters tight when the sun sets. Bad things lurk out there, but they are not bears, nor are they mountain lions.

Something about the height of a person bursts from the treeline. Atop the legs of a chicken is a head only humanesque in the way corpses are. Sunken eyes sit atop a shriveled nose, and cracked lips. Its skin seems to be hanging off bone. Still, it takes you a moment to register that it’s fear you feel. Your palms prickle with sweat, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The urge to flee is nearly unbearable.

More of these creatures emerge from the direction of the nearly-set sun. They appear to come in all sorts of horrid shapes, and sizes, the smallest being no larger than a bird, and the largest about the size of a cow. Fear threatens to overcome you entirely. At least twenty of the creatures leave the treeline, although you suspect more remain hidden within it. The temperature must drop by ten degrees. It’s as if all the moisture has been sucked from the air. Those who dared leave their homes to look at the source of the commotion have now retreated, locking their doors behind them. 

The collar of your dress jerks backwards as your mother struggles to drag you back towards the house. “Get your father!” She says. “Hurry!” 

“What about you?!” You ask.

“Just get your father,” she says.

And you do so, running as fast as your feet will take you. The chilly night air renders your fingertips numb, and your face burning. He’s asleep in his chair, and wakes with a gasp as you shake him, motioning frantically to the door. The words that leave you are incoherent, but he must understand your panic. He retrieves his sword, telling you to lock the door behind him. You don't listen. You never listen, you can hear your mother say now. A sudden burst of light draws your attention—a nearby house has caught fire. Those strange, horrid creatures swarm around it like flies. Several neighbors have exited their houses, and begun throwing buckets of water upon the blaze, but the fire is too strong.

And from the treeline emerges that man from the woods all those years ago. 

In five years time, he has not aged a day. His cruelly sharp features appear the same within the flicker of the firelight. They fall before him on their hands and knees, heads bowed in fear. You only realize you’re shaking when you move closer to the window, peeking out through the crack in the shutters. 

The King of Curses, he called himself, all those years ago.

His mouth moves as if he's speaking, but you can only make out about half of what he says. The ringing in your ears is too loud to make sense of much.

“My offerings lessen, my shrine lies defiled,” he says, “and you humans sit here complacent. I gave you five years to make amends and this is what you do with it?”

You know, logically, that your father is going to die. He is no match for the creatures, let alone that strange man. You must do something. Even if it is beyond logic, or reason, you would not forgive yourself if you did not act.

“Then what is it you require of us?” Asks father, his hands trembling slightly. You can tell it’s more than just the dancing light of the fire. He is truly frightened.

“An offering,” says the King of Curses. “A sacrifice.”

“We have nothing to offer,” says father, “the river has run dry of fish—our crops have withered! We have nothing to offer, we’re starving regardless!”

The King of Curses eyes drift to your hiding place, before landing back on your father. “You said it yourself.” He says. “You’ll starve regardless. What difference does it make that you should give up one of your own? Won't there only be less mouths to feed?”

Your arrows rattle loudly as you pull one from your quiver, knocking it. From this angle, and sitting half crouched on the ground, you can't bring it to a full draw. Not only does that mess with your aim, but alter the power of the shot too. That can be accounted for. You adjust your angle to be a little higher—right above his head. When you release the string, the arrow gives way with a thunk! The shot is dead on; your arrow whistling towards the demon king’s head. He brings his spear up, knocking it aside. Several heads whip back towards you, their faces contorted in a mix of anger, and fear. 

You’re not quite sure who grabs you first—it must be more than one person. Several sets of hands are upon you, dragging you from the house. Any attempts to fight it fail on your part, there are simply too many people to kick off. They drop you in the dirt beside your father. You don't dare look at him. You know his eyes are filled with fear. 

“We’ll—we’ll put it to a vote,” says one of the elders. “All those in favor of sending this woman as an offering…”

Two other elders raise their hands. Then several of the men. Then, reluctantly, the mother of a neighboring family. Even more hands pop up after that. Although maybe a minute passes, it feels like hours. At least a dozen sets of eyes are on you.

“Out of all of you,” the demon king says, eyes following across the crowd that’s now gathered, “she was the only one of you to fight back, yet you punish such an action?”

Silence is the only response the crowd can conjure up. A groan so loud that the ground rumbles beneath it rings out as the house gives way, collapsing in on itself in a rain of ash and embers.

“Wait!” Your father cries out, “let me go in her place!”

Several more incomprehensible sentence fragments leave him. He pleads and pleads to no avail. The last view you get of your village is of the spirits retreating back into the woods.

It must be hours before your state of shock wears off. Dawn breaks bleak and gray over the horizon. The temple he brings you lies in ruin. You must be one of the first people to set foot in here in years. A cracked foundation gives way to walls overtaken by vines. Dust and ash layers the ground, and every surface imaginable.

Sukuna must not expect you to try to run. Nothing is done to prevent you from escaping. There are no doors to lock. No ropes or cages. The only real barrier of escape is the trek home through miles of woods. Should you wait until sunrise, the trip won't be impossible. It is the fear of what remains for you that prevents you from returning.

Would there even be anything to go back to? Is it even worth it after what they did? They did not hesitate as they offered you as a sacrifice. Whatever happens to them… they have it coming.

Such thoughts do little to comfort you. If anything, they make you feel worse. What little strength you have left goes into stopping the tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. You manage. Barely.

Unable to find it within you to do anything else, you sit. Only a thin, woven mat separates you and the hard floor. Footsteps draw closer down the hall, the noise only amplified by the high ceilings of the temple.

Uraume. That’s what Sukuna called them. A strange being that looks human, but appears to be more than such. They enter the room, a shock a white hair visible before the rest of them is. They wear the kimono of an unmarried woman, in vibrant shades of orange, blues, and pinks woven in the pattern of flowers. Hooked around one arm is a pail of water. Under the other arm is a roll of cloth. Contained within the cloth is a mix of hygiene supplies; a sponge, comb, various vials of oils and creams. 

Uraume treats you like one would treat a frightened animal. They kneel on the ground before you, leaving about the distance of a foot. When you don't flinch, or shy away, they move closer.

“You’re covered in ash,” they say, “let me help.”

With the sponge, they dab away the bits of dirt and ash that have caked to your skin. Human contact like this should, in theory, be intimate, but in this situation it feels like anything but that. Uraume’s touch feels cold, and clinical. With them comes a strange, uncanny feeling, like you are not looking into the eyes of a human, but of a corpse. The reason behind their kindness is a mystery to you. It feels wrong to question them, but you can't help but think there is something sinister behind their actions. Their casualness suggests this isn't the first time they’ve done this. That thought does nothing to comfort you, so you quickly push it aside.

Next, they move on to your neck, then down to the exposed bits of your chest, and shoulders. 

“Such a beautiful dress,” they comment. You reply weakly, saying it belonged to your mother. Their response to that is little more than a hum.

They take your hands, scrubbing the dirt from under your nails with a small brush. After that, a comb is worked through your hair, taking great care to not pull on any knots that have formed. Once they can work their hands through your hair with no resistance, they stop.

Uraume leans back to examine their work, deeming you presentable. Gathering what they brought with them, they make their way towards the door, turning back once to say: “I’ll bring something to eat.”

The events of the night have left you without an appetite. You probably should eat something. It’ll be important to keep your energy up. The little adrenaline left within you has you jumping at any small noise, or shadow. Sleep feels like an impossibility right now.

About ten minutes pass before Uraume returns carrying a platter. Tea, pickled vegetables, a hunk of bread, a bowl of some kind of stew. It smells quite good, but you merely pick at it. Like your hesitation to sleep, you can hardly eat. Uraume sits with you, picking at their own food, but never finishing it. A million questions race through your mind, although you can barely bring yourself to ask them.

Would they even answer you? Or does this have a more sinister plan behind it?

Finally, you find enough of your voice to ask: “Where is…?”

“I’ve prepared a bath for master Sukuna,” they say, “he’ll be joining us shortly.”

Your attention turns back to the bowl in your hands, which soon slips through your fingers, breaking upon the floor. What little appetite you had is soured entirely. This is it. You’re nearly certain you’re going to die here.

Your attempt to clean up the mess is stopped by Uraume. They insist upon cleaning it themselves, taking great care not to cut their hands on the shards.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask, shocked at how small your voice sounds.

“Master Sukuna likes to play with his food before he eats it,” they say.

Uraume leaves shortly after, taking the leftover dishes with them. You remain seated, eyes moving between the two exits of the room. One takes you to the entrance of the temple; you’re not certain where the other leads. The first is almost guaranteed to be guarded, though. Trying to run now is a bad idea. But when will you get another chance?

You will not sit idly by as death draws closer. Like the previous night, you feel as if you must do something. It was your own foolish actions that got you into this mess, says a small voice in the back of your head.

Trapped under your heel is a small pottery shard, left over from the shattered bowl. It’s small enough to conceal in your palm. Sharp. Better for stabbing than it is slashing, but it will be good enough at either. Once Sukuna returns, you’ll get your chance.

The rush of adrenaline has started to wear off now, rendering your arms weak, and your legs shaky. If you were to sit down now, you’re certain it would be a while before you get back up. It is the body fighting itself; fight or flight mode mixing with exhaustion. If you do not stop and rest, your body will give out on you eventually.

So you stand there and pace, clutching your shard of pottery close. Maybe thirty minutes pass in the time it takes Sukuna to enter, but it feels like hours. Adrenaline turns into fatigue.

Tears burn at your eyes again, but you’re able to blink them back. A mix of shock and betrayal has left you nothing short of exhausted. Sukuna’s towering stature only helps to make you feel like a lamb about to be devoured by a wolf.

“I trust Uraume has been of assistance,” Sukuna says. 

Unsure of how to respond, you simply nod.

“What now?” You ask. “Is this the part where you’re supposed to eat me?”

That earns a laugh from him, although it’s strange sounding, as if the very action is foreign to him.

“Many decades ago, the people of your village—among others—would hold a festival during harvest season,” he says, “it was meant as a sign of peace. An offering in return to not raze their homes,

“The people of your village have grown laze, and complacent. They have forgotten their place as humans, and needed to be reminded of it. You are simply another offering. Something to tide me over.”

Sukuna draws close enough for you to feel his breath across the back of your neck. You shudder. Adrenaline courses through you once again.

This is it, you think, you are going to die. 

In one last attempt to preserve your dignity, you aim for his jugular, and swing the shard of pottery towards it. A hand wraps around your wrist before it can make contact. A second set of arms are trapping you against his body before you can even register it. His breath is warm against your cheek, teeth inhumanly sharp in the dim light.

“You are entertainment.” He says. 

That same set of sharp teeth drag up your neck. Some sick sense of pleasure runs up your spine at the feeling: being a little lamb in the jaws of a predator. It would take so little effort from him to render you lifeless that it’s almost comical. Adrenaline turns to delirium in your mind. 

What happens if he finally grows bored of you? It’s not a matter of “if” in this case, it’s a matter of “when”. You have an idea of what will happen once he does.

You don't hear him leave, so much as you notice his lack of presence.

Sukuna is gone for most of the following day. In that time, you explore much of the temple in an attempt to gain your bearings. It’s sparsely furnished, and dilapidated for the most part, but there are some signs of life. On a lower level of the temple is a bedroom, where the bed alone is as big as a room in your home. Must be Sukuna’s. Another, smaller room appears to be Uraume’s quarters. A small kitchen branches off the hallway not far from this. 

The later half of the day is spent trying to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Thick woods surround the structure, spreading out for what must be miles. To the North is a creek. If you followed it, you might possibly meet up with the river by your village. Whether you could do so before nightfall is another question entirely. Finding yourself stuck in unfamiliar woods past dark may prove to be a death sentence.

Even if you could go back, would you want to? Their lack of hesitation towards sacrificing you still rings clear in your mind.

Sleep seems to be the best way to pass the time. There isn't much else to do around here. In the hours before dusk, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, and into the woods that surround the temple. You justify it by saying that fresh air will do you good, not that anyone asks you. The only person around to do so would be Uraume, though you don't see much of them.

Heavy fog settles upon the trees, causing the day to take on a quiet, sleepy nature. Little cream-colored mushrooms pop up through the layer of moss and dead leaves that blanket the forest floor. Carved out over years of use is a dirt path, barely wide enough for a person to walk through. Following it for about ten minutes brings you to a pond. At one end, the start of a small creek leads downhill. Little fish are visible just under the surface. Leaving your socks and shoes at the shore, you wade out into the water. It’s cool, but not chilly. The mud feels soft underneath your feet. Being outside helps settle your nerves a bit. Outright terror is replaced with uneasiness now. While not entirely better, it’s an improvement to your previous mood.

From the treeline opposite of the path you took, a figure enters the clearing. Sukuna. Adrenaline spikes through your body at the sight of him. Your pulse quickens, and fear prickles in your palms. Every cell of your being is telling you to run.

Sukuna motions with his hand for you to follow him. It is not an offer, so much as it’s a command. Following a short walk on a stoney path, you find yourself overlooking a rock cliff-face, and a small wood hut. Scattered about are several steaming pools, which bubble up from the ground, layering upon the cliff-face like stairs.

Sukuna undressed at the wood hut, leaving his clothes hanging upon the rafters. Your gaze remains firmly on the ground. You should not be seeing him like this. This feels far too intimate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long, but can't help it. The sight of his back alone is hard to tear your eyes away from; the muscles, the tattoos, the curve of his spine. There is a strange, supernatural beauty to him. You eye him with caution, yet curiosity. 

Why has he brought you here? What does he want? Is this simply a ritual before he eats you?

Certainly, if you were to scream, no one would be nearby to hear you. 

It strikes you just how easily his teeth could tear through your jugular. How his sharp nails could shred your flesh to ribbons. Sukuna is far faster and stronger than you, outrunning him is not an option.

Following his lead, you undress, and leave your clothes folded neatly upon a rock. Next comes the task of taking down your hair, and combing through it with your fingers, finding it still knot-free from the events of the previous night. Only then do you approach the largest of the three pools, and wade into it. At its deepest, it's a little above your waist. You could walk all the way across and never once have your feet leave the ground.

You settle upon a rock towards the edge, half submerged in the pool. The hot water feels nice upon your sore muscles. Your eyes trail ribbons of steam as they curl off the water. A wave of self consciousness rolls over you. You sink further into the water, crossing your arms in front of your chest. It’s up to your chin now. Sometime during this, it starts raining. The droplets leave little ripples across the surface of the water. Fall brings the smell of damp earth, and decaying leaves with it. Something that should be comforting only makes your stomach turn.

“You look frightened, little lamb,” Sukuna says.

Is it so obvious? 

“I still don't believe this isn't some attempt to eat me.” You ask, though you’re not certain you want the answer.

“Had I wanted to eat you, I would have had Uraume make preparations.” He says.

You still don't believe him. How many people met their fate at his hands before you? There is no reason why you would be lucky—why you would escape your fate.

“Then what is it you want from me?” You ask.

His expression softens, shoulders lowering with a sigh. The space between his eyebrows is not so harshly creased anymore. 

“I am not like the typical curses you have met,” Sukuna says, “I require your permission.” 

“Permission for what?” You shrink back as he draws closer, stopping mere inches from you. He’d tower over the tallest man, let alone someone like you.

A kiss. Hungry, and overbearing, but a kiss nonetheless. Sukuna has to lean down, and you have to crane your neck up to complete the action. His movements feel stiff, clinical, as if he hasn't done this many times before. The action causes warmth to bloom in your chest, and spread out to your limbs. The hands that cup your face are nearly large enough to encompass it entirely. He tastes like wine, and something vaguely metallic. The thought that it might be blood crosses your mind for only a moment. You’d much rather think about other things. 

“Will you devote yourself to me, completely and entirely?” He asks.

Funny, you think, had a human man asked you the same thing, you would have laughed in his face. Yet you find yourself bewitched by the King of Curses. Curious, and cautious all the same. This is not a feeling of love. It is something else entirely. You are a sacrifice, you remind yourself, this is the fate of a sacrifice.

“I devote myself to no man,” you say, “I don't see how you'd be any different.”

He hums in amusement, circling around you in the water. He stops behind you, slightly to your right. Sharp teeth graze across your shoulder. Large hands trace their way up your hips, then your body, coming to rest just below your breasts. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the strange pressure that has built up. Your heart rate picks up in pace. Sukuna must be able to sense this. A low laugh leaves him as he pulls away.

“Well then,” he says, “do I have your permission to continue?”

Continue what? You wish to ask. As if against your mind’s wishes, your head moves in a nod. “Yes,” you say.

You can only imagine the look on his face as you have your back to him. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth radiate off his body. Is he pleased? Amused? Smug that all it took was a kiss to make you let your guard down? 

Hands that should be calloused and rough are quite gentle with their touch. One comes to rest upon your hip, before trailing down to the space between your thighs. Seconds in and your knees seem to give out, your body supported only by him. One finger presses into you, then a second. You sigh at the intrusion. There’s little resistance as he presses into you. You’re too wet. Sukuna’s fingers are much larger than your own, though the stretch you feel is pleasant, not painful. Your thighs squeeze around his hand, drawing a low laugh from him. You can feel it rumble within his chest, which your back is pressed flush to.

Being so close to another being feels odd. The only intimacy you know is a platonic one. A familial one. This is different. Stronger. More intense. He finds the spot that makes you squirm and abuses it, toying with you like prey. It must be a game to him, you think, like cat and mouse. With one of your hands over your mouth, you try to muffle the lewd noises that spill from you. It’s a losing battle. All sorts of pleased sounding noises—from both you and him—echo through the clearing. Secretly, you’re glad this place is so remote. Should someone hear the lewd noises you’re making, you wouldn't recover from the embarrassment. He brings you just to the edge, but refuses to let you cross over. Frustration turns to desperation as you grind against him, chasing your own release. Sukuna doesn't appear opposed to your actions. He lets you work yourself up to—and through—your own release, the noises you make growing gradually more obscene until they come to a head in the form of an orgasm.

You remain in the water for a while afterwards. The layer of fog overhead makes the day take on a lazy, sleepy nature. His hands comb through your hair as you lay against his chest. Such a moment feels uncharacteristically tender for him. While you expect them to be sharp, his nails feel nice against your skin. The mouth on his stomach resembles a smirk, although the expression on his face is flat. Unreadable. A slight pang of disappointment shoots through you. You know it’s unreasonable of you to expect humanity from someone inherently inhuman. He does not—he can not—process things the way you do. Humans must appear so small and fragile to him.

You’re uncertain of how much time passes as you lay there, your limbs tangled with his. It doesn't feel like long enough. No time would feel long enough. You crave the touch of another being whether you want to admit that or not.

“It’s getting late,” he comments. Without another word, you watch as Sukuna dresses himself, and leaves.

You follow him as quickly as you can. You’re not quite fast enough, arriving back at the temple long after him. Dusk follows soon after. 

You find no sign of the King of Curses upon your return. Finding yourself with not much of an appetite, you head straight to bed. Uraume stops by once to offer tea, but you decline, insisting you’re tired, and just wish to sleep. Whether or not they believe you, you can't tell. That’s about the extent of every conversation you have; polite, but short.

Sukuna must not need to sleep. Not in the same way you do. You dress down into your underclothes, leaving the rest folded neatly upon a chair. They’re not dirty, just slightly wrinkled from the events of today. You crawl into the bed much larger than you, and attempt to sleep. When he crawls into the bed beside you, you do nothing to protest.

As time passes, you grow used to his presence. Falling into a routine takes mere days. In that time, you don't see much of Sukuna, or Uraume. Maybe it’s for the best. You’re not certain what you’d say to either of them. You figure it best not to question what Sukuna gets up to in his free time. If the events at your village are anything similar, you figure it best to pay them no mind.

The longer you spend here, the more curious you find yourself. At least twice you find your way back to the hot springs. Familiarizing yourself with the surrounding woods has you growing more confident when navigating it. Animal tracks and trails reveal themselves, bringing more life to the woods. 

Fall turns to winter. Rain gives way to snow, bringing in a bitter stormfront. It’s hard to tell how many days pass as the storm hits, rendering the three of you confined to the temple. Sukuna doesn't appear bothered at all by the cold, but you spend many bleak nights huddled by a fire. Sukuna approaches you on one of these nights; perhaps the bleakest and darkest one before the storm finally breaks. Your inability to leave the temple has you ready to claw out of your own skin. Never were you one to stay in one place very long. 

Days have passed and you haven't spoken much to one another. Not since the day at the hot springs. You find yourself especially longing for them on a day like this, where the cold makes your joints ache, and your lips cracked. Winter is among your least favorite of the seasons. A hot and sticky summer day was always preferred over a day like this. Sukuna must sense it. He finds you curled by the fire, wrapped in an assortment of quilts and fabrics. You can't tell if it’s morning, or evening. Snow has rendered midday as dark as dusk. 

You know you should get up, and toss more wood onto the fire. Should you let it die any further, it’s unlikely you’ll get it started again. Sukuna joins you in the room, sitting on the mat to your left. Finding yourself searching for warmth, you move closer to him. It’s an unconscious action at first. Once you recognize it, you can't find the willpower within you to stop.

You offer the edge of the blanket to him, basking in his warmth as the quilt is wrapped around both of you. One of his hands comes to rest upon your knee. Your gaze is trained on his face, while his remains on the dying fire. 

“I don't suppose you do this to every sacrifice you get,” you say, not expecting an answer.

The corners of his lips twitch into something that resembles a smile. Much life his laugh, his smile is stiff, and rather foreign feeling. Like he hasn't done such a thing in centuries.

“You are different from the sacrifices I have received in the past.” He says. 

You get the impression he is still figuring out what to do with you. Such a thought doesn't inspire confidence on your part, though you assume your situation could be worse. 

You're nearly in his lap now. The hand on your knee soon moves upwards onto your thigh. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he palms himself through his clothes. Some sick part of you wishes to taunt him. To tease him in the same way he has done to you. You part your legs just enough to encourage him. There must be something wrong with you, you think, no normal woman would enjoy the company of the King of Curses.

This is not your typical virgin sacrifice. It is little more than that. Pleasure for the sake of pleasure. To fuck without the intent to procreate.

“I always assumed you wouldn’t have these… urges.” You say.

“Many things lost their potency,” he says. “Food was never enough to satiate, drink was never enough to quench thirst. Sex has remained the same. Primal pleasure never loses its potency.”

So he was human. At least at one point in time…

“Like I said,” he hums, “I am not like the typical curses you have met. I require your permission.”

“You have it,” you say. 

Oh how dearly you wish to recreate the event at the hot springs. To feel the same build-up of emotions, and the following release. Such mindless pleasure has remained in your head, unable to be stifled by your own hands.

Off comes your kimono, guided down your shoulders by his hand. Your nipples stiffen when exposed to the open air. It is not the cold that has you shivering, but the expectation of what’s to come. His size, and calloused hands suggest his touch would be harsh, but you find to be the opposite. Sharp nails graze down your sides as he moves to kneel before you. You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him.

His own clothes are left among the growing pile on the floor. He pumps his stiffening cock in his hand, the head of which weeps across his palm. A different kind of heat blooms in your stomach.

 Sharp teeth graze across your jaw, down your neck, before eventually nipping at your shoulder. A sting both painful and pleasurable radiates from the bite. Blood beads from the two points where he managed to break the skin, quickly lapped away by him. Part of your brain is telling you to push him away. The other part is telling you to expose your neck further. You’re not certain which to listen to as you lay under him, caged within his arms. Your breaths grow ragged, turning into quiet moans as his knee nudges your legs apart. This is different from the day at the hot springs. Sukuna is seeking something more—he is seeking his own pleasure this time.

A hand finds its way into your hair, gently tugging at it. Guided by his hand, you expose your neck further to him. He laps at the droplets of blood that form, sucking dark marks into the skin of your neck. Pain and pleasure overlap in your mind. Your thighs are a mess of your own slick, and the precum that leaks from the heads of his two cocks. It’s almost comical how you work yourself up in knots at only the slightest provocation by him.

You taste yourself on him as he kisses you. The bleeding from your neck has mostly stopped now. What remains will barely leave a scar. His lips trail down your neck, through the valley between your breasts, and down your stomach, before eventually stopping just shy of your cunt. The look of him alone has you growing as wet as a virgin; his hair disheveled from your hands running through it, the muscles in his shoulders appear more prominent now. His arms hook around your thighs, although he doesn't need to bother holding your legs open. You’d do it without prompt by him. Eager for your own release, and worked up into a soaked mess, you’d do anything to please him.

You shouldn't be enjoying it as much as you are. You know you should be afraid. It would take no effort from him at all to tear through your femoral artery, and let you bleed out. You would be helpless in the matter anyway; you’re nothing more than a little lamb trapped under a big bad wolf.

The feeling of his tongue is strange. With him on his knees, bowed in what resembles worship, has your stomach in knots. The lewdness of it all has you more worked up than anything else. A strange, pleasurable tension builds within you. He is not toying with you this time, but working you over. When you do finally cum, you cum hard, riding out your high on his face. The noises he’s making suggest he’s enjoying this almost more than you do.

He must be painfully hard now. The head of his cock is an angry shade of red, and leaking precum. Using his hand to guide him, the head of his cock presses into you. You’re too wet from his previous actions to notice much of a stretch. What little pain there is crosses over with pleasure in your mind. He groans as he sheathes himself within you fully. His expression softens just enough for you to take in the features of his face. He’s quite handsome now that you’re close enough to appreciate his looks. It makes you wonder what his life as a human was like. Was he royalty, or a commoner? What was his job? Did he ever have family?

You won't get an answer out of him no matter how hard you try. This is the most human the king of curses will ever appear. 

His thrusts are slow at first. Lazy. More like grinding, not proper fucking. With as sensitive as you still are, this doesn't make much of a difference. You’re still a writhing, moaning mess beneath him. Judging by the noises he’s making, he’s not far from cumming himself. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and that seems to only encourage him. The muscles in his arms and shoulders gradually grow more tense before he shudders, then visibly relaxes. A warm sensation in your cunt follows soon after; he’s cum inside of you.

You lay like that for a while: limbs entwined, bodies curled around each other. He lets himself soften inside of you until the desire to pull out hits. You can tell your hips will be sore in the morning—whenever it decides to come. What little of his seed spills out of you is forced back in by his fingers. You assume it ties into his possessive nature. It must be a way of marking you as his. The fire has long since died out, though you find the warmth from his body adequate enough. 

“I don't think I can walk,” you lie, “carry me?”

Sukuna feigns annoyance, but relents, carrying you to the bed too large for any human. You quickly find your way under the covers. He finds himself in the space beside you. Fatigue hits you soon after, yet you find yourself unable to sleep.

“You were human once?” You ask.

The mood in the room seems to shift entirely. Sukuna is not one for conversation. You expected no different from a man like him. He looks at you with mild annoyance, as if deciding on his answer.

“I was. Once.” He says.

Your fingers trace across the tattoos on his wrist. “Do you miss it?” You ask. “Being human, I mean.”

“I am far stronger now than I was when I was a human.” He says. “I no longer need to eat, nor drink. I have the gift of eternal life so long as I am smart with my actions. I do not miss the fragility that comes with humanity.”

His words almost irritate you. So much more exists to humanity than what he says, from little things like sharing a summer even with a friend, tearing into ripe persimmons. Spending an evening hunched over a stew pot helping your mother. Kisses shared between a lover in the woods, or out in the fields. Stories exchanged by firelight. Intricately woven fabrics and paintings that might as well be indistinguishable from real life. So many beautiful things exist within humanity. Maybe he’s been away from it so long he’s forgotten the extent of it.

Would the King of Curses even admit he’s lonely? Or would he be too prideful to admit such a thing?

“You're sad. Why?” He questions.

“Was just thinking about my mother. That's all.” You say. “She wanted me to get married before I…”

You’re mad at her. More mad than you’ve been at anyone in your life. Yet you wish for nothing more than her comfort in this moment. A wound exists that time won't heal. Anger is not productive in fixing it. Anger only makes it worse.

This time, you are the one to initiate the kiss. You wish for it to distract you, but it only amplifies the ache in your chest.

“If you were to lose what little fight you had left in you, then this would no longer be fun,” he says.

You grow used to the ever-present shadow that is Sukuna, talking to the space beside you as if he is there because hell, sometimes he is. He is more than a mere man. He exists on a level different from you or anyone else. Your existence at this temple feels less like confinement and more like living. 

“Will you join me?” He asks one day by the river. 

The two of you sit upon the riverbank, watching as the water swirls below you. Spring snowmelt, combined with a recent storm, has stirred up the river bottom, turning the water murky. What was meant to be a fishing trip has proved unsuccessful.

“I would be lying if I said I haven't grown used to your presence.” He says.

“Don't be getting soft on me,” you say, half joking.

The most emotion you get out of him is an amused sounding huff. 

“I want you to join me,” he says, “not in life as human, but in eternity as a curse.”

“I will,” you say. 

No thought is needed for your answer, nor is there any hesitation on your part. Sukuna simply nods. That is what love is to him. Devotion. Worship. Throwing away your humanity means nothing if humanity is so quick to reject you. 

Gifts begin appearing around the temple after that. Priceless jewelry, and expensive dresses. Hair pins and cosmetics. Seasons pass in what feels like no time at all. Before you know it, your third fall here is quickly approaching. Winter comes and goes—uncharacteristically bitter this year. Spring brings a sense of rebirth. The ground thaws slowly, and plant life is in full bloom. Animal life returns to the surrounding woods, showing signs in every trail around the temple.

A hunting trip brings you further out into the woods than you’ve traveled before. You don't realize you’re nearing a human settlement until you’ve stumbled upon it.

The village has changed drastically in the time you were gone, so much so that you almost don't recognize it. A full blown mill has sprouted up along the river. At least twice as many houses stand now. Years ago this street was little more than a dirt path. Sometime over the years it has been paved over with river stones. Children play in the streets. Men walk home with pails of fish slung over their shoulders. These strangers notice you and pause, returning to their homes quickly. 

Your house remains mostly the same. Age has not been kind to it. One corner of the roof sags, and the wood trim has grown bleached with time. The path up to the front steps is overgrown. Sitting outside, hunched over a wash bin, is your mother.

Her hair is mostly gray now. Wrinkles mark her skin, and her joints are knobby, but you would still consider her beautiful. The face of the woman she once was is still there. The clothes she wears are of rich fabrics, suggesting your family has not hurt for money. Her sturdy figure suggests they never lacked food either.

When she sees you, her eyes grow wet with tears. And it’s as if the weight of the world has lifted off your shoulders. You want to be angry at her. You want to unload years of anger upon her. You want her to feel just a fraction of the fear you've felt. But you can't bring yourself to do it. The look in her eyes tells you she’s felt all the emotions you have.

Her movements are laced with hesitation, as if she’s deciding whether or not you're real. One of her wrinkled hands takes yours. 

“I love you,” she says, “and I am so sorry.”

“I know,” you say.

She invites you in for tea, setting the table up with the nice dishware—the kind she only uses for guests. The interior of the house hasn't changed much. Your room is eerily the same, as if it hasn't been touched since the day you left. Your father’s boots, and hunting coat remain by the door, although they look as if they haven't been moved in years. Makes sense, you think, hunting is a task that grows difficult as you get older. There comes a time in every hunter’s life where they grow old, and it becomes their turn to stay home and tend the fire.

“Where's…?” You never get the chance to finish your question, the solemn look on your mother’s face is enough of an answer.

“He passed,” she says, pausing to think, “two springs ago now? Maybe three.”

Believing you would never see them again, you grieved your parents long ago.This particular grief is like an old wound to you.

“The village looks prosperous,” you comment. A bitter tone clings to your voice.

“Yes,” she says, “the past years have been kind to us. I suppose we have you to thank for that?”

She sits across from you, her eyes still wet with tears. It feels like you are holding a conversation with a stranger. Your mother regards you with a certain weariness she only reserves for strangers. Maybe it would hurt more if you had more room within you for grief.

“He never stopped looking for you, you know,” she says, setting a cup of tea in front of you. “Even after the village held a funeral for you. He never wanted to believe it. Until the day he died, he was out in the woods thinking he could bring you home.”

“I was under the impression I wasn't wanted here.” You say.

“You know that’s not true,” she says. “What happened that night was a result of fear. The elders did what they thought would preserve the safety of everyone.”

“Except for me.” You say.

Fear. Right. To them, you were simply a sacrifice. You drain the last of your tea, standing from the table. Your mother stands as if to stop you, but freezes before she can.

“Does he treat you well?” She asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Better than any human man?”

“Yes,” you answer, although you can tell she doesn't believe it. 

“Do you love him?” She asks. “Does he love you?”

“I suppose so.” You say. “As much as he is capable of loving something.”

“But do you love him?” She asks again.

“As much as I am capable of doing so, yes.” You answer.

It is not the answer she wants, but the one that is the truth. With her hands folded in her lap, she nods solemnly.

That following night you leave your village not as a human, but as a curse. 

Enough time would pass that the story of a young sacrifice would be forgotten by its people; what would remain, is a tale of a love so infamous that it survived centuries.

[popodoki]

Catwin ficlet, inspired by, you guessed it, the Catwin Discord x

Very fluffy, sappy with a dash of humour aka I wrote close to 2k just to build a lil joke.

a Drunk kitty is a sappy kitty

The Cat King is drunk. 

Good and properly plastered. Utterly doused. Just sloshed with the drink, of which he hasn’t had many, but the few glasses he has knocked back had an alcohol level high enough that even one would make a dedicated wine mom sway. He’s on, what is it? His third? Been nursing it for some time now, would’ve been drinking it faster now that he’s further along, but Edwin has a firm hand around his glass, regulating how often he gets to sip from it. 

Oh. Edwin. Edwin. 

Handsome, stunning Edwin, pressed against his side like a warm blanket. Shaking his head with a gentle but bright laugh, that leaves the Cat King marooned, his breath stolen from him, heart thudding fast and light. He’s staring, he knows he is, but he can’t stop himself. Edwin is impossible to look away from. 

The other catches him, meets his eye with an inquisitive look of his own. The Cat King’s smile deepens, caught, he doesn’t shy. Edwin smiles back, lips curling back from his teeth, a wide smile, reserved for when he’s relaxed or, privately, for him, and reaches a hand up to brush stray hairs away from his face, out of his eye. His fingers a warm spot, a point of bright contact. The Cat King hums, flutters his eyes, relaxing his face even more, despite himself. 

“There you go,” Edwin says, touch lingering, and to the side, Charles coughs loudly. Any possible tension Edwin had so sweetly massaged away returns, the Cat King’s brow furrows deep in a mix between a pout and a frown. 

“Sorry, it’s just--” Charles, brazenly unapologetic, motions to the pair, let’s the little scene speak for itself. The Cat King realizes, a touch belatedly, just how lovey-dovey he and Edwin must look. Edwin is halfway across his lap, or maybe it’s the inverse? It’s hard to tell, their bodies overlapped and intertwined, squeezed into their shared booth. The Cat King’s head rests heavy on Edwin’s shoulder, and his drink still sits in front of him, but in Edwin’s hand. He’s wrapped tightly around Edwin’s arm, clutching like some smitten lover, which, well, which he is. Their legs are tucked under the table, out of his line of sight, and thus a mystery as to which foot belongs to whom, in their loving tangle. He wiggles a foot experimentally, but he’s too weightless to determine where it might be. 

Pathetic. Purge inducing sappiness, way too heavy on the PDA. The Cat King can’t muster even the thought of a fuck to spare. He might have mumbled that last part, let it slip. Charles snorts across from them, raises a conspiratory finger, jabs it expressively in the air as he downs his drink, mouth occupied but sentiment communicated.  

The Cat King makes a move for his drink. It doesn’t budge. He cracks an eye open, blown-out pupils struggling to focus only on Edwin, working hard to ignore the other silhouette leaning in to cross his line of sight, and mutters a wordless grievance when he sees Edwin’s hand keeping his glass fixed in place. 

“s’My drink,” The Cat King starts, without any bite. 

“Slow down, dear,” Edwin counters smoothly. The soft lull of his voice is a blessing, a balm, to the headache edging in, either from the alcohol or the frustration seeping in from not kissing Edwin right here, right now, he can’t tell.  

“You’re not even drinking it,” he argues, mostly for the sake of it. 

“We’re sharing,” Edwin says, then lifts it to take a sip. The Cat King stares at Edwin’s mouth even after he's put the glass down, at the inquisitive quirk of Edwin’s brow he supplies, “ ’s like you kissed me. Indirectly,” he adds.  

Edwin’s brows hike higher, his face tilting in surprise. “Do you want the real thing?” Like he’s reading the Cat King’s damn mind. He’s perfect. The Cat King wants nothing more to soak up Edwin’s presence, drink it deep and let it settle in his veins like a second pulse. How hasn’t he married Edwin yet? 

He's staring at Edwin’s mouth again. “Not really thirsty. Not anymore.” 

“I wasn’t talking about the drink,” Edwin says. His voice is so low, soft, pitched down just for him to hear. Just for the Cat King, only for him. 

Charles scoffs, noisily, next to them. The Cat King, who had been doing wonderfully at ignoring him, finally deigns him with a look, makes it as bitter and smarting as possible. Charles only grins impossibly wide. 

“It’s like I’m not even here,” he observes faux-wistfully. “Like being mad is an afterthought or something.” 

“He gets like this sometimes,” Edwin says, sounding incredibly fond. “He’s having a good time, in both our company. I think he just acts mad sometimes because he thinks he should be.” Edwin adds with a soft laugh. Well. It’s not far off from the truth, really. The Cat King’s got an image to uphold. 

“Think you know me so well,” he grunts. Crosses his arms. He’s acting up now, because, because… He forgets. Just feels right.  

“Well, my dear King, I think I do,” Edwin leans in close, nose brushing his. Edwin’s eyes are shining, and beautiful, they’re all he sees. He could stay here forever, he thinks. 

Right across from your love’s best friend, who is definitely still taking the piss at you, is perhaps the least romantic time to propose, but if he doesn’t say something now, he might never. Sober Thomas will hold things in till it kills him. The Cat King as he is now, weightless and inebriated, has no such reservations. 

The Cat King surges forward, seals their lips together in a brief but assured kiss. He pulls back enough to lock eyes, finding only welcoming adoration coloured by some surprise, and lets this steel him. 

“Edwin, marry me.” 

For a moment, there’s nothing. Then, suddenly, Edwin laughs, full bodied, leaning away from him to hunch over the table. The Cat King’s too shocked to feel the bite of rejection; Edwin is many things, but in matters of the heart, he’s dreadfully dedicated and serious. Rejection, were it ever a possibility, would be given firmly, respectfully, gravely. Not… this. 

Edwin is laughing so hard his whole body seems to shake with the force of it, and he looks like he’s struggling to catch his breath. He’s beautiful, so breathtaking, gorgeous and free that the Cat King forgets to be angry, simply stares. Charles is slapping Edwin’s back, the part he can reach, grinning, but confused. 

“What, what, what did he say?” Charles demands, now using both hands to shake some sense back into Edwin. Reminded, the Cat King snaps his gaze back up to glower at Charles. “C’mon, mate, he looks like he’s gonna blow me up with his mind, what did he say to you?” 

“H-He-” Edwin sucks air in sharply, interrupted by a fit of giggles, but then leans back over to the Cat King to grip him for support. “He-he proposed to me-” then he’s swept away in another wheezing bout of laughter. 

“Pr- like. A marriage proposal?” Charles glances over to the Cat King, registers his grave expression, and then launches himself back against the booth to howl with cackles. The Cat King himself sits straighter in his seat, ignores him, focus fully directed to Edwin who has slumped back over the table to clutch Charles’s arm. 

“Edwin, that's aces, like that means he-” Charles manages, but Edwin is waving a hand, smiling like his face is about to split in two. 

“No, you don’t- Charles, Charles,” he grasps the collar of Charles’ jacket wildly, free hand held up to quiet him, “Charles, listen, this isn’t even the first time,” “No!” “Yes,” “Oh stop-” But they’re laughing again, and the Cat King feels uncertainty starting to creep in, under the heavy fog of his alcohol induced haze. He can’t help the slight slump of his shoulders, or how thick his throat feels. 

“’s’not that funny,” he huffs. Edwin sits up suddenly, expression so soft and appraising, and oh, there’s the cold seep of rejection, snaking in like venom. 

“Oh, my king,” Edwin croons, then gathers the Cat King’s face in his hands, to lean in and kiss him deep. The Cat King sputters briefly, but kisses back, distracted enough that he again forgets what he was so hurt over. Edwin pulls away, but only enough to pepper his cheeks, chin, forehead with kisses. “Oh sweetheart, you already have me. I’m already yours, your consort, your prince.” He’s kissed again, reverent. “We’ve been married for years, love.” Edwin whispers against his lips. His thumb is stroking the Cat King’s cheek adoringly. He frowns, but then- Oh. Right. Edwin is his consort. His prince. They’re married. 

“Oh,” he says dumbly. 

“Indeed,” Edwin is grinning, wild but loving. The Cat King’s mouth twitches, unable to hide his smile. “Which means we need to go home now.” A hand travels down his arm, squeezes warm fingers around his own, clumsy ones.  

“What?” Charles whines.  

Edwin, still holding his hand, glances to Charles. “He only starts proposing again if he’s really, really drunk.” 

“On three glasses?” 

“Four, he had one before we came out,” Edwin corrects. The Cat King doesn’t even remember that. “It’s been a while. Got a little carried away, he was nervous to see you again.” 

“Me?” Charles glances to the Cat King, who just frowns. He was? 

“Don’t tell him I told you.” Edwin whispers loudly, conspiratory. The Cat King frowns a little deeper. He had been, maybe, and nervous wouldn't be the word of choice, to describe the feeling of seeing someone who’s been a solid fixture of his lover’s life for so long, that he’s maybe grown to be a welcome part of your own, but Edwin didn't need to mention it to Charles. 

“Thank you for having us, Charles, it’s always good to see you,” Edwin continues, letting Thomas go long enough to sweep his best friend in a tight hug. Oh, they’re standing now. Since when were they standing? He sways, listing to the side, but he’s caught by a pair of hands. He frowns, glances back and up to see the calculating gaze of Crystal Palace. 

“You,” he starts, surprised. “What are you doing here?” 

 “I live here, Whiskers. You’re in my house.” 

“Our house.” Charles cuts in sharply. Crystal smiles, warm and loving. Oh, Thomas is so drunk. 

“We’ll see you in the morning,” Edwin says, and the Cat King finds himself back in his husband’s arms. He loses sight of the other couple, too busy staring at Edwin, his consort, his prince, as he’s led out of the house and to their own home. 

The walk is short, the silence is companionable, the fresh air is doing wonders for his head in more ways than one, he still leans against Edwin as he leads them through the big doors. 

“You said yes? You really said yes?” They’ve somehow crossed all the way to the bedroom in the blink of an eye. Maybe two blinks, three? He feels the bed against his back, his world tilted sideways, and Edwin leant into his vision. He could stare at his prince forever. 

Edwin smiles, and it’s a light source all on its own. “Ask me again in the morning.” Edwin says, and the Cat King falls asleep. 

[stellar-skyy]

DANCE WITH ME! - Platonic Freminet & reader

i. SUMMARY: Freminet dances with his sibling. ii. CONTENT WARNINGS: Implied sensory overload. iii. NOTES: STRICTLY PLATONIC, found family, older sibling!reader, fluff, slight hurt/comfort(?), gn!reader, they/them pronouns used, 1.5k words. iv. A/N: I really wanted to get this out because it's the last time I have time to write for like a week, so I'm sorry if it seems rushed. ;-; This is technically a continuation of my other Freminet fic, the warmth of home, set much further in the future.

Freminet stood against the furthest wall of the ballroom, holding a glass with both hands and hoping if he huddled close enough into the corner he would become one with the wallpaper itself.

Lyney was dazzling guests on the other side of the room, a luminous smile on his lips and no shortage of charm dripping from his words. A clever magic trick here, a whisper of sweet words there, and half of the party had fallen for him. Lynette stood beside him: silent, but still carrying her own unique charm. She might not be as flashy as Lyney, but she still was one the guests fawned over, for her quiet charisma and peculiar demeanour.

Freminet wasn’t originally on the guestlist of the party, only being added at the last minute as a ‘thank you’ from the hotel owner for fixing some bits of machinery within the walls of the hotel. And even then, it took Lyney convincing him to make a polite appearance to drag him away from the sea—the place he was planning on spending that night instead.

They’d arrived as a group, being greeted warmly by the host. It took about three minutes for Lyney to be swept away by a crowd of adoring fans of his performances, Lynette following close behind as she always did, and Freminet—

Freminet was left alone. 

It wasn’t as if being overlooked was a new experience for him. Lyney and Lynette thrived in the spotlight, while all Freminet did was wilt, so they were content keeping the attention away from him. It was easier that way; he could blend into the shadows and retreat back into his own mind, where there was no one to disturb him. He didn’t care about being ignored by the guests.

(He just didn’t want to be ignored by his siblings.)

Freminet clutched the glass tightly in his hands. He was still too young to drink, so when he was handed the glass of wine by a passing waiter, Lynette was quick to swoop over and swap it with a glass of water instead, before returning to her twin’s side.  

The music had gotten louder, the orchestra playing a more upbeat song than the ballad that had preceded it. It was an enjoyable sound in theory, but the sheer volume of it—combined with the overlapping chatter in the room, thick smell of wine, and bustling crowds—made it sound like they were playing their violins with knives. They scraped along the strings, a metallic screeching echoing across the ballroom.

Why didn’t anyone else look bothered by the noise? Was he the only one who could hear it?

“—eminet? Freminet?”

The voice cut through the other noise in his ears, letting his attention fall directly on the concerned look of the person in front of him. He stumbled backwards slightly—when did they get so close?

“Freminet, are you okay?” (Name) repeated, a furrow in their brow. “I’ve been calling for you and you haven’t responded.”

“I-I’m okay, it’s just…” He swallowed, looking back down at the glass of water in his hands. “…very loud.”

Their eyes widened in understanding. “Do you want to me to take you somewhere quieter?”

He nodded, shrinking back into himself. Disappearing acts were more his brother’s specialty, but he wouldn’t mind being whisked away for a while. And of course, it wasn’t polite to make his sibling escort him out of the party, but the noise was so dreadful that he couldn’t even bring himself to feel self-conscious about it.

(Name) brought him through the crowd, dodging both guests and waiters as they led him past the dancefloor, up the stairs and out a set of double doors. The two emerged onto a balcony, almost being knocked back by the biting wind.

“Here. We can stay as long as you like.” They said, sliding down against the railing to sit cross-legged on the floor. Cautiously, Freminet did the same.

“It’s much quieter here.” He muttered to himself, before addressing (Name) again. “Won’t you be missing the party?”

“It’s okay,” they said easily. “I was pretty tired myself.”

The music was still audible through to the balcony, reverberating through the walls in a muted symphony. As minutes passed, it shifted in tone from joyful melodies to a slower waltz.

Through the window they could see through to the bottom floor, where Lyney still entertaining guests. As the music changed, he looked over at Lynette with a tilt of his head. She blinked back at him and nodded slightly, taking his hand as he extended it to her. Their ability to communicate without a single word was always something that puzzled Freminet, but seeing the guest’s confused reactions made him think it was just something that only made sense to the two of them.

“What are they doing?” Freminet mumbled, watching Lyney lead Lynette to the centre of the dance floor.

“They’re going to dance together.” (Name) replied, also observing the pair. Sure enough, Lyney let go of Lynette’s hand long enough to shift it to the middle of her back, clasping their other hands together and sweeping across the floor.

“They look so elegant…”

(Name) hummed in agreement.

“I think I would have liked to dance. Not in front of everyone, though.” Freminet said quietly. (Name) was quiet for a beat, before abruptly standing up.

“I guess it’s good we’re alone out here, then.”

“Huh?” He blinked at them.

“Dance with me!” They stuck out their hand, a grin across their face.

“R-Right now?” He glanced around himself, as if there were guests loitering around the corner, ready to scoff at him at any moment. “But we’re outside, and I don’t—”

“We can still hear the music from out here,” They reasoned, not moving their hand. “It’s just me. There’s no one out here to stare at you.”

“I’m not that good.” Freminet frowned, looking back at Lyney and Lynette twirling across the floor. More guests had swarmed to the dancefloor following their lead, pairs spinning and dancing across the ballroom. The dance seemed easy enough to follow, and Lynette had run him through the basic steps of the waltz ‘in case of emergency’…

Before he could think about it too hard, Freminet had laced his fingers around his siblings and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. (Name) rested their other hand in the middle of his back, while he hesitantly placed his on top of their shoulder.

In time with the music, Freminet was pulled across the balcony in a gentle rhythm. They glided round in a gradual circle, in time to the tempo of the music echoing outside.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

On the third beat, Freminet faltered, almost stepping on (Name)’s feet before he caught himself. He ducked his head in embarrassment, watching his feet carefully to make sure he didn’t accidentally stumble.

The dance was slightly awkward with their inexperience, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The music was faint in his ears, the crowd was a distant memory, and all he could pay attention to was how light he felt. This must be how Lyney and Lynette feel when they’re together; like he was free to let the weights slide off his shoulders and just simply exist, without worrying about the other’s judgement. He’d never have his other half like they had, but he had (Name) and that was good enough.

They let go of the hand across his back, stepping back to spin him around in a twirl. The movement made him slightly dizzy, but they were right there to grab onto him and make sure he didn’t fall. To think, his plans changed from diving into the ocean and not emerging until the early morning to dancing a waltz on a balcony with his sibling. The entire thing…

It was rather absurd, wasn’t it?

A giggle escaped his lips, then another and another until he could hardly breathe through the laughter. His sibling was staring at him like he’d gone mad, and with good reason. Freminet wasn’t one for emotion—he liked to think of himself as an impassive and cold, free from needless feelings. It wasn’t in his nature to smile often or laugh.

But (Name) soon fell into their own fit of giggles, as if catching a contagion. Their steps stumbled and faltered, until they’d collapsed against each other. Freminet looked up at them, an open smile twisting his features into something almost unrecognisable. There was a warmth spreading across his chest, akin to the exhilaration he got whenever he first dove into the water.

“Do you want to go back inside?” They asked, stepping back to lean against the railing. Freminet hesitated.

He could see through the glass that the twins had finished their dance, Lyney whispering to Lynette while scanning the room in a look Freminet knew to be the face he made whenever he was hiding how troubled he was. His eyes swept around the guests—looking for the two of them, it seemed. Logically, he knew he should go back inside to at least let them know he was okay, and hadn’t just vanished into the sea like he usually did. It would be the polite thing to do.

But he had his sibling with him. And the wind was a pleasant coldness against his cheeks.

“It’s peaceful out here.” He said quietly. “Let’s… stay a little bit longer.”

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

[uhohdad]

If Titan had truly loved someone, how would he act?

WARNING: 18+, NSFW, DEPICTIONS OF NON-CONSENSUAL SEX AND PHYSICAL ABUSE. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION AND TAKE CARE <3

The Head Cheerleader and The Star Quarterback High School Fantasy come true.

There’s something about having a girl like you at his side that just makes him feel twice as powerful as he already is. He can’t help but show off - because knowing that you’re his makes him feel like The Man. It’s intoxicating, your presence. He is addicted to how big and strong and powerful you make him feel. It’s almost tangible in times when he pulls you in for a sloppy kiss on your cheek or forehead. He’ll linger for a moment after his lips leave you, the tip of his nose still pressed to your skin while he breaths you - no, inhales you. Your scent sets his shoulders back and makes him stand a little taller. It wakes him up. Your pheromones are a drug, his performance enhancer.

The cockiness, the teasing, the flirting, it all seems to escalate when you’re around. Silky purrs and hums from a dangerous smile and fluttering eyes watching you get more and more flustered.

You’re his favorite toy to play with.

And Titan makes sure everyone knows it.

You’ll wear his jacket, and he’ll keep the loose fit snug with one of his strong arms slung around your shoulders. He tugs you close, until you’re practically sitting in his lap, and he won’t be discreet when his hand slides down your back. A tight meld as his palm snakes around your ribcage, smoothing over the curve of your waist. He’ll finish on a painful grope to the top of your ass, relishing in the way your squeak interrupts the conversation. His hand will creep to your front long after your squeak has been forgotten, pinching your thigh underneath the table and laughing at you when you flinch and bat his hand away. It doesn’t stop him from returning for seconds, resting on your knee before creeping further up your plush insides of your thigh.

He can’t wait for the moment you turn your head to snap at him, wont be able to hold back his smug grin while he stares down your cute angry little face, because your scolding will be completely undermined by the overlapped marks of his teeth painting the sensitive flesh of your neck.

His feelings for you does not hinder his tendency to push things too far. His teasing and button-pushing is endearing, making you smile more times than not, but some of your biggest fights revolve around him disrespecting the simplest of boundaries.

He can’t keep his hands off of you. And most of the time it’s welcomed, but in public you don’t exactly appreciate being groped and degraded in front of everyone. It doesn’t stop him from holding you steady by your hips to plant a kiss on a bruise he left on your neck the night before, grinding his aching cock against your ass.

You’ll try to whip around and shove him away, a heat on your cheeks as your eyes dart around to make sure no one noticed, but you’re no match for your boyfriend’s powerful grip.

“Titan!” You hiss through clenched teeth.

His fingers dig painfully into your hips when you try and wiggle from him, the strain in his jeans rubbing over the curve of your ass as he slobbers over your shoulder.

“Stop!”

He pulls off your shoulder and presses his lips to your ear, giving you another squeeze from behind.

“Oh, c’mon, no one’s watching Doll Face.”

You grimace at the crude nickname, hands prying to get Titan’s fingers from bruising your hips, but it seems to have the opposite effect.

“I’m not joking, Titan, get off!” Your scold is spoke through grit teeth.

You can feel his smile against your ear, his words nothing but a sickeningly sweet purr.

“Well if you’re embarrassed about giving everyone a show, let’s just go somewhere private, Dolly.”

You give an earnest but discreet tug against his brutal restraint.

“You can’t control yourself until we get home?”

Titan presses his aching cock against your ass and gives another steady grind.

“How am I supposed to wait when you look, taste, and smell this good?”

You give an exasperated huff, stifling the shudder his breathy words send down your spine.

You know it’ll be easier for everyone involved if you just give in.

His voice drops several octaves when he presses his lips to your ear.

“Now.”

Titan lets go of your hips to snatch a wrist, his grip crushing as he drags you to the nearest storage closet, bathroom stall, or dingy alleyway, picking you up by the back of your thighs and pining you against the wall, fucking you until you’re grateful he chose to take advantage of you right here right now. Greedy, brutal cock filling you up, savage grunts and filthy degradations growled into your ear.

“I don’t know why you always put up such a fight, Doll.”

His grip of the plush flesh of your thighs tighten, tits bouncing ruthlessly against your ribcage as he quickens his thrusts, bottoming out and slapping his mound against your swollen clit with each plunge into your dripping cunt.

“Look how wet this cunt is for me,” He grits, eyes long since darkened and drained of empathy.

“You’re made for this, Doll.”

You pinch your eyes closed as your shaking fingers dig into toned shoulders, head lulling against the wall as he has his way with you.

You know this is wrong.

You know that this isn’t how a lover is supposed to treat you.

But Titan’s right.

The arousal soaking his cock proves how sick you are, how you crave the mistreatment and abuse, how you love the possessive hold he has around your neck.

Titan knows it’s wrong too.

Because after he buries his finish deep into your eager cunt, his grunts and powerful thrusts wavering as he claims you as his own, he can’t seem to meet your eyes.

He’s always well behaved after. His touches are soothing, his kisses tender instead of slobbering, compliments spoken with a genuine tongue instead of a condescending one.

The next day you’ll find flowers waiting for you, and he’ll tell you about which flower made him think of you the most. He’ll snuggle up to you, the way a lover should snuggle up to you, and rest his head on your shoulder.

You know he’s just trying to relieve his own guilt. He wants you to remind him that you will still love him regardless of his depraved urges.

And you’ll give in, reaching a hand up to play with his hair and scratch his scalp. He’ll give a hum into your shoulder - a content hum, not an arrogant one.

Your relationship waxes and wanes like this, a stint of good behavior until the corruption creeps back in, escalating exponentially until Titan inevitably boils over, sometimes in lust, sometimes in jealously, sometimes in anger.

You do love him. And he loves you.

He just can’t help it.

⌞ ALL TITAN DRABBLES ⌟

⌞ KONIG X READER HUNGER GAMES AU ⌟

[faedye]

(re)threading your Sensu Fan - a cosplay tutorial

I've been working on an Avatar Kyoshi cosplay recently and decided that I was going to make her sensu (Japanese folding fans) from scratch.

The only problem with that is the fact that it's really hard to find resources explaining how to actually thread the darn things!

So, here's what I have learned from many hours of trial and error.

Part 1: the thread holes

3 holes is where it's at. 2 holes is too few to get the right tension, and 4 is too many for the size of your typical fan rib.

The distance between each of your holes should be equal. My middle holes are in the exact centre of each rib (2cm in from each side in my case). Between each hole I have 1 cm. That leaves 1 cm between the left and right holes and the edge of the rib.

The photo below shows what that looks like. See how nice and even everything is?

Part 2: the thread

Because you're going to be opening and closing this fan with some amount of force, you'll want a thread that is both relatively thin and reasonably strong.

I used two kinds of thread in my fans: polyester embroidery thread that I doubled up and 8lb monofilament fishing line.

A note on fishing line: there are three main types of fishing line that you can find in most outdoor stores: monofilament, braided, and fluorocarbon. For a fan, you'll want monofilament because it holds knots the best.

You can use any size and colour of fishing line you'd like, but I chose the very thin, clear stuff for my fans. I wouldn't recommend going any lower than 6lb line though otherwise it might break if you're a bit too rough.

Other types of thread that I tried (with varying degrees of success) include 3-strand DMC embroidery thread (good option), 6-strand DMC embroidery thread (bit too thick), regular polyester sewing thread (breaks too easily), and gutermann linen thread (okay option, but you'll have to double it up and wax the thread).

I believe traditional Sensu fans would have used silk thread because of how strong silk fibres are. If it's in your budget, give it a try!

Part 3: the threading

Now, here's where things get tricky.

Sensu fans need to be able to close fully, open to a set point, and not slip open further than that point. That means that you want your thread to have some tension in it without being too tight. Too tight, and your fan won't close. Too loose, and your fan will open too far.

Step 1 was to see what kinds of resources exist on this topic already. The answer was: not many.

So, I prototyped. 8 hours and several broken threads later, I developed what seems to be a fully functional threading pattern. And here it is!

Lay your fan out on a table in the position you want it to be in when open. Each rib should slightly overlap the next. The most right-hand rib should be at the bottom of the rib pile with the most left-hand rib on the top of all the other ribs

Cut a thread that is about 6 times the width of your open fan if working with normal thread, or 3 times the width if working with fishing line

Thread your string of choice onto a thin needle (it needs to be able to fit through the holes in your fan)

Tie a big ol' knot in one end of your thread so that it can't pass through the holes

With your fan laid out on the table with the farthest left rib on top, we're going to label the holes 1, 2, and 3 from left to right. This will help us because we'll he working from left to right.

Pass your needle down through hole number 1 until the knot hits the rib and you can't pull the thread anymore

Bring your needle up through hole number 2

You should now have a horizontal line of thread on the back side of your rib.

Pass your needle back down through hole number 1 from the front

Flip your fan over so the back side is facing you.

Pass the needle under the horizontal line of thread you made two steps ago and pull the thread gently until you have a little loop

Thread the needle through that loop and pull to create a knot

Still looking at the back side of the rib, push your needle up through hole 2.

Flip the fan over so you're looking at the front

Thread your needle down through hole 3

Bring it back up through hole 2

Make another loop knot using the horizontal line of thread you created between holes 2 and 3

Pass your thread down through hole 3

Flip the fan over so the back side is facing up

Make one final loop knot using the horizontal thread between holes 2 and 3

Flip the fan over so the front side is facing up

Move fan rib number 2 over so that it's sitting slightly behind rib number 1

Take your needle and pass it through hole 1 on rib number 2

Hold ribs 1 and 2 in place with one hand while you pull the thread tight. The ribs shouldn't shift from the position you're holding them in

Bring the needle up through hole 2, then down through hole 1

Flip the fan over so the back side is facing up and make a loop knot between holes 1 and 2, making sure your tension is correct. (The way I test it is by sliding rib 1 over rib 2 to make sure they close flush and then open them back up and make sure they're aligned properly)

Repeat the rest of the steps until you get to the final rib!

To tie off your final rib, just make a bunch of loop knots between holes 2 and 3 after you complete the normal steps. If you're using a double thread, you can also tie it into a nice little knot as close to the face of the fan rib as possible.

For anyone who's visual, here is the threading pattern written out:

Happy fan-making!

[tigertan]

neighborly favors and chicago cigarettes. [ jellybeans. ]

part two of said slow burn fic ^_^ this is mainly a snippet but there is some silly smut incoming in the full chapter oooops ..

part one [ mac n cheese ]

ao3 link

[ word count ; 1k ]

;; all fluff. awkward meeting again. carmen takes a strange interest in your nails.

your new acrylic nails gleamed in the cold sun of chicago’s morning as they curled around your steering wheel. a pretty candy pink, nothing fancy. they were short and blunt to maximize efficiency, and you’d always liked doing your nails. 

with your new job starting tomorrow, you arranged a nail appointment early this sunday morning just to get it out of the way. 

you rounded the corner of the apartment building's back parking lot and hopped out of your car into the complex. 

despite your freshly scrubbed face and still damp hair from the morning shower, yesterday night’s chicago smoke lingered both on your skin and your memories. the mild hangover you’d gotten was bravely fought off with a fistful of tylenol and gallons of water.  

after finally finding something in common with carmy, sydney rushed out and began apologizing for richie’s behavior, to which you’d reassured her it wasn’t a big deal. you’d just avoid him your entire life after that. because while you weren’t in the wrong, it was an embarrassingly public outburst that burned itself into those moments your brain would never let you forget. 

sydney decided to take you home at that moment, and you didn’t complain. 

you nodded a bye to carmy with a smile still stuck with a cigarette and he’d nodded back, unsmiling.

it was only after you’d wrapped the covers around you did you realize you never asked him if his name was really carmy. 

oh well, you guys were neighbors. you were bound to see him anyway. 

you hummed a song to yourself— specifically frank sinatra’s classic hit, rain in my heart— as you climbed up the stairs and turned the staircase straight into a brick wall. 

but that couldn’t be right, because why did it stumble back at the impact at the same time you did? 

the answer was easy; it wasn’t a wall. it was the tightly fitted cotton-shirted chest/face of your neighbor carmy. his awful brown jacket was thrown across his right bicep, and you could see his tattoos much more clearly. the numbers on his fingers weren't numbers, they were three letters of ‘SOU’ on his index, middle, and ring respectively. 

there was also an inked flower on the back of the same hand, and further up his arm was a measuring cup carrying a globe. you noticed he had more but stepped back too quickly to discern others. 

your nose stings lightly at the impact, and you raise a hand to hold it, eyes widening. a tiny part of you wonders if he is going to yell at you. 

“shit,” you say, blinking. 

“sorry, i didn’t see you,” 

“are you okay— sorry,” 

you both spoke at the same time, which pushed a smile out your lips, and you giggled. so he wasn’t going to yell at you.

“sorry,” you whisper, a grin peeking out from either side of the hand in front of your face. he blinks, the chicago morning sky making his already ice-blue eyes seem ever clearer. 

“you uh— your nails,” he blurted, a muscle in his temple shifting as the words nearly burst from his lips. 

it takes you a second to realize what he’s talking about, but you lower your hand and splay it out, the uv coat catching the light perfectly. 

“oh! yes. nails. got 'em done a few minutes ago.” you explain, giving him another quick smile. “they uh, they’re nice. like jellybeans.” but the compliment, if you could even call it that, was stamped out with deliberate volume and a strained edge of a rather inept tone that creased your brow despite your smile. 

“... thank you,” you reply, absentmindedly running your thumb over the groove of the keys in your pocket. 

he watches your hand fall back beside you and then swallows. 

“do you like—“

“is your—“ 

your voices overlapped once more, and this time he smiled too, curving into his left cheek and carmy released a singular, airy laugh. 

“sorry. uh. you go ahead,” he gestured to you, flicking his eye contact from you to the floor. “yeah, sorry.” you grinned with genuine humor now, “is your, is your real name carmy? sorry, i just heard syd say that last night and i just…” you trailed off, the question sounding dumb and cold on your tongue now that you said it aloud. he blinked again. “uh. no— no. it’s a nickname. for– for carmen. carmen berzatto.” 

he extends his hand out as if you had guys met for the first time. finding it endearing, you take it, a gel-nailed hand clasping the weathered, inked one. 

“were you heading to work?” you ask, and after a momentary silence, he nods, then scrunches his brows and quickly shakes it, the oat-colored curls on his head bouncing. 

“hm? no, just… heading out. kitchen doesn’t open until four today,” he replies, carding a hand through his hair. 

you mouth a silent oh and nod back. 

“well uh, it was good to see you neighbor,” you grin and step the side lightly, breaking the awkward yet giddy conversation that had transpired. 

“yeah. yeah, you too.” carmen gave you a half-smile back, nodding a final time as he passed by you, his hair bouncing as he walked down the stairs, not looking back. 

you did, however, watch until his curls disappeared behind the coffee wood and industrial metal of the stairs. 

you realized you didn’t ask him what he wanted to ask until you’d slotted your key into the lock with a smile. 

—

carmen slammed his car door behind him as he sat, cushioned in the faux leather seat, hands firm on the steering wheel. he stared directly in front of him, boring holes into the dusty red brick of the building wall, sky tinted a slight grey from the windows. 

“jellybeans? really carmen?” he sighs-slash-scoffs, running a hand over his face before fumbling his keys out of the jacket pocket. brows scrunching, the man hesitates before putting the keys into the ignition. despite the faint alarm bells going off in his mind— they seemed to always be there anyway— he twists in the front seat to look behind him at the building entrance as if she’d walk out of the large, heavy-duty door at that moment. 

for a moment or two, he stares. but the reality of it catches up to him in flushed, heated cheeks and brows creasing further. “fuckin’ stupid.” he mutters, finally shoving the keys into the car as the engine purred to life. it was odd how the light from yesterday’s cigarette had bent around her mouth despite the unforgiving fluorescence of the alleyway, and made carmen stare. 

but that’s all. she was only enough to stare at, he concluded with a steely grip on the wheel. with the bear at its peak, how could he do anything but stare? 

he pulls into the back of the bear’s parking lot with the recipe for a spaghetti alla carbonara stuck in his head and a smile stuck in the corner of his mouth. 

—

for more / updates check out the ao3 !

[kakiki3]

You | chapter five: What Now?

Joel sat on his front porch with his second cup of twenty something year old coffee trying to get up the courage to knock on the neighbor's door.

Shaking his head he finally stood setting his cup on the railing, putting his hands in his jacket pockets and made his way over. Before he could change his mind he quickly knocked on the door.

The door swung open and Joel nearly cursed out loud. Y/N stood in a black silk nightie that's length didn't quiet make it to her knees pulling the matching robe overlapping the front to cover herself. Joel's eyes averted as knot caught in his throat.

"Yes?" She greeted him with an annoyed tone to her voice. Using all her strength to not blush.

"I" Joel cleared his throat. "I just wanted to say..."

Joel's words were cut off by Ed, a fellow neighbor walking past greeting them. "Good Morning Y/N! Morning Joel!" Waving his hand in the air.

Y/N waved back. "Morning."

"For Christ's sake." Joel pushed Y/N further into her house following and quickly shutting the door behind him.

"What the fuck are you doing Joel? Get out."

"Do you want every man in Jackson to see you like that?"

"Like this?" She took off her robe and reached her arm out to her side and dropped it to the ground. Pushing Joel aside she opened the door back up. "Hey Eddie. Have a great day!"

Eddie looked back smiling, his mouth dropped as he finally saw what she was wearing as she stood halfway out her door. "Oh! um... yeah you too Y/N." Blushing he turned and kept walking.

Joel wrapped one arm around her waist picking her up and shutting the door once more. This time turning her and pressing her against it. "Are you insane?"

She pushed him away. "Are you? I am a grown woman if I choose to walk around my house in a nightie or naked then I can. What would you have done if I chose to answer my door nude Joel?"

Joel probably would have had a heart attack before devouring her but he sure as shit wasn't about to tell her that. "Jesus Christ that needy for dick?"

"No." She gave him a taunting grin. "Is your hand not doing the job anymore?" She moved one of her legs on the outside of his thigh. "I'm sure you miss the feel of the real thing. The heat of a woman around you, the sounds, the taste, the familiar tightening."

Joel's body reacted to her words before his brain could catch up. "I'm not a sex hungry lunatic like you."

"Then it has to have been a while since you had any good sex. But you still haven't answered my question." She could feel his arousal against lower stomach and she'd be lying if she wasn't becoming aroused at his length pressing against her. Despite not liking the man she was attracted to him. Which made everything he did, that more annoying.

Joel's brown eyes dug into hers. "Which question would that be?"

"Why are you here?

"I came to apologize to you for what happened last night but it seems you liked the attention you got from that boy."

"Fuck you!" She went to hit him but Joel caught her wrist midair.

Joel made a tsk tsk sound at her. "Now Y/N that's not neighborly of you."

"What do you find neighborly Joel Miller?"

Fucking you into the next decade as this little nightgown muffles your screams.

"You don't know how to be neighborly." Joel mocked.

"Well your eyes and telling me you want to strip me of what little clothing I do have on and fuck me on every surface in here but your too chicken shit to try anything. You know I'll turn you down."

"Darling if I wanted to fuck you, you would have been bent in every which way and loved every second of it."

"Is that so?"

He nodded. His face is merely just centimeters from hers.

"All talk and no." Joel cut her off by crashing his lips to hers.

After months and months of bickering, months of harsh glares, even harsher words, months of pent up sexual tension between the two. It all came crashing down. The wall that Joel has built the moment he met her came crashing down.

Picking her up, his finger tips dug into her skin through material. His mouth finding the skin of her neck, kissing biting not caring if he left marks and he secretly hoped it would.

He moved from the door and walked towards the living room stopping momentarily to look at her. She nodded knowing what he needed. Joel was many dark things but consent was always something he contained before laying down with someone. It didn't matter how many times they did before.

He sat on the couch with her on his lap. Her mouth found his again as her fingers worked on the buttons of his flannel. Stripping him of that and his undershirt. His hands roamed under the nightie. He felt scars along her back but dared not ask. Not yet.

As she worked his belt loose she crawled off helping rid him of his jeans. His arousal showing in his boxers. He grabbed her wrist when he saw the slightest hint of nervousness flash in her eyes. He stood up.

"Bedroom?" His voice is gentler than she's heard it before.

"Upstairs to the right."

Twenty years ago Joel would've thrown her over his shoulder and ran up those stairs but if he did that now every part of his body would hate him and he needed every bit of strength for what was to come next.

He led her up the small staircase and into her room. Which thankfully was just as warm as the rest of the house. Not caring about shutting the door he lifted her claiming her lips again.

Before he set her down he discarded the thin layer of clothing. Joel groaned taking in the sight of her in nothing but dark purple panties. He could see tons of scars that look like knife wounds over random parts of her but none below her mid calf whoever did it wanted to hide it below clothing.

He growled, "Y'know purples my favorite color."

"Really?" She looked up at him. "Never would've guessed that."

He stripped her before himself. "Don't worry you can take it."

She smiled, "Oh Joel I'm not worried about that." She grinned at him.

"That confident?" Laying over her. His hand running over each scar. "You're beautiful."

"You always talk this much?" She teased to lighten the feeling in her chest.

"You're right. It's your turn to verbalize."

"Promises promises."

Pulling her closer, he pushed in her slowly and much to his surprise no signs of discomfort were seen. Just pure bliss as he stretched her.

But the sounds that were coming from her mouth made him primal.

"Fuck Joel." She wasn't surprised that Joel would be great at sex, Incredible actually. The way his cock curved in just the right way that it hit her spot when he pulled out just enough and he knew just when to do it. His mouth and hands were nearly as skilled as his dick.

The sex wasn't gentle, not with as much pent up aggression they felt for one another. It was rough and hard, and exactly what they both needed. Y/N flipped them and began to ride him.

Joel moaned and she screamed his name with the wave of her second climax. Joel followed soon after.

They laid in silence for awhile neither sure where to go from here. Normalcy for them is to rip each others throats out. This wrapped in each others limbs sweaty and completely satisfied was not.

Joel ran his hands over her scars of her stomach. "Mind if I ask were ya got these?"

She sat up picking up the nightie off the floor. "After your body gets used for a man's pleasure they use you for target practice or to just practice their knife skills." She slipped it over her head and attempted to stand when a strong arm wrapped around her waist pulling her in.

Joel felt sick, angry and protective. He was quiet for a while just holding her against him before he kissed her hip. Using the hand he had around her to gently usher her to lay down. Lifting her nightie. Kissing each scar moving to her core.

Soft moans began to fill the room as Joel worked his tongue over her heat.

"Your mouth is much more useful like this than making snarky comments." She laughed as she felt him give her clit a gentle bite. "Jesus Christ Joel... Just like that." One hand grabbed at her thigh as the other toyed with one of her nipples.

"Cover my beard sweetness. You taste fucking devine."

Fucking hell her eyes rolled back in the back of her head. Her hands getting lost in his delicious curls. Once the orgasm subsided she gladly returned the favor. Y/N looked over at the nightstand clock.

"Holy shit!" She sprut out of bed. "Joel it's nearly ten."

"What?" Joel quickly sat up. "Shit... Shit... Shit." We've been in bed four fucking hours."

"You don't think I don't know that!"

"I didn't take Ellie to school. What day is it?"

"Fucking hell if I know... Days all run together. Tuesday I think."

"I was suppose to go to the stables at 7."

"I had fucking clean up duty at the mess hall."

Both began rushing throughout the house to get dressed.

"Tommy's going to have my hid."

"I don't see Tommy being any real threat to you."

"No but his wife sure is."

"That I believe."

"So um ..." Scratching the back of his head.

"Joel we will talk later or preferably not talk about it at all." Pushing Joel out the door as she follows.

[aggro-my-beloved]

"Move Over..." {David Shaw x Angel}

note: i've been diving deep into the redacted universe lately and figured i'd do my civic duty as a pro stan (and amateur writer) and give back to the fandom. here is the first installment which is a product of my few remaining braincells and far too much caffeine. enjoy :) summary: in which angel's new addition to the home sends her wolf boi into a fury warnings: a swear or two, angel and asher being lil shits, the usual word count: 723

「:」「:」「:」「:」「:」「:」「:」「:」「:」「:」「:」「:」「:」「:」「:」「:」

"...the dog sits here." David's tone walks the line of question as he reads out the bold, black lettering printed on the throw pillow. It's sat on the left side of the couch, the top of it karate chopped to perfection by Angel's hand, and the shifter can visualize the smug look painting their lips as they did so. He crosses his arms with an exasperated huff and cranes his neck towards the sound of his mate's footsteps pattering to the room he now commands. His stance, while appearing intimidating, will affect them in no way but positively. Getting beneath his skin seems to be a hobby they favor above all else, and damn he hates how much they excel at times. 

"Hey, I thought I heard y-" Their perky tone settles to silence at the Alpha with his lips downturned. They try to keep their growing smile at bay, but it will be no easy feat with how they've outdone themselves this time. 

"I take it you've seen our new decor." Angel bites their lip. No smiling, they repeat internally over and over. Play it cool.

"Is that what you call this? Seems more like a ridicule from where I'm standing." He takes a few steps closer to Angel, who's situated themselves against the frame of the open doorway. The cold trim against their back is forgotten in the wake of David's piercing stare. "I am not a dog." He insists. Angel's eyes flicker down to his mouth and swears his bottom lip juts out further for the dim lamp to illuminate his pout. They don't acknowledge it, and rather, console the man in front of them. 

"I'm sorry, you're right. What was I thinking?" Angel's palm lightly smacks their forehead as it tilts back in forth in an ashamed shake. "You're my little puppy, after all." 

A scoff of disbelief passes through the air. But really, shouldn't he predict all of the cheeky comebacks by now? They impede every moment between them, intimate or playful. He's marrying them this autumn and he dreads all the jokes which won't be shared in the vow exchange. Like every moment similar to this, though, he will stand his ground until his mate grinds him into it. 

"That wasn't implying I'm a puppy, either, you menace. And I'm certainly not yours." 

"Those marks I left on you last night say otherwise, puppy." Angel can no longer keep their composure, and allow a few giggles to slip into the tension-filled room. David knows he can't win in this situation, no matter how many threats he delivers. Fighting the one in front of him would only make the bite marks on his hips burn hotter--same with the scarlet overtaking his cheeks. When his eyes leave his mate's in exchange for the pillow, still silently taunting him, he grinds his teeth at how nicely the color of it complements their sofa. They chose well...in a way, David thinks to himself.

"Whatever." He leaves it at that and makes a mental note to flip it around later. 

But it didn't get him far. Alas, deep cleaning the apartment before Asher and his mate came over for dinner one night commended Angel to face the pillow to its proper orientation. Asher, oblivious as he is, relied on Babe to point it out to him with a nudge to his side and a subtle nod of her head. The sudden, overlapping laughter drew David and Angel's attention away from the casserole resting on their stove and encouraged their retreat to the living room.

Asher would be near collapse to the floor from hysterics, if not for Babe's hand clutching his forearm for dear life as they used their free one to wipe at the tears leaking from their eyes. 

"No way! Davey's got his own little spot, how cute!" Asher gushes through the occasional wheeze. 

"Call me Davey again, and you can have your own spot, too. Six feet underground in an undisclosed location, where the department can't even find you." The threatening grumble does little to tide the cackling pair. Asher didn't skip a beat.

"I'll leave my will to your mate, so she can buy more shit like this to get on your nerves." The beta snorts, before turning to Babe. "We should totally get one for our place." 

[verminwormin]

Hi! I’m alive! Now that I’m obsessed with Naruto again it’s time to write! I have an oc named manya.. he bassicly grew up with shino and they are in love I don’t make the rules.. here’s a tiny one shot with them! (More manya content soon)

Warnings:none! Just fluff!

Characters: aburame shino/ manya wani(oc)

cold.

manya felt cold.

he shivered slightly as he walked down the narrow path in the hallway of his home. A small, leaf and vine covered, home. He walked forward and was met with a cold living room. the walls dusted with dark greens and greys, same with the couch and other tiny trinkets he had in his home.

It was odd living alone at 17, slightly to young to be living alone, not yet old enough too live alone. A very odd in-between. He’s been living in this home for three years now though, he isn’t complaining.

He continued with his needs and he grabbed a heavier jacket, along with his headband. Manya turned his head and looked out his window, the breeze slowly making the autumn colored leaves fall to konaha’s ground. He looked up at the sky, checking the time.

he snapped his head, to his door, claws digging into his big jacket that’s barley keeping himself warm. his bottom fangs nipped at his top lip as he left his home, walking too the designated place a special “someone” told him to go to.

~

manya looked forward and sat at the small bench, it had started to warm up so he tied his jacket around his waist. He looked around untill he saw a familiar green jacket. He waved and waved his hands for the figure to come closer.

“Shino!”

manya grinned as his fangs poked out from the curve of his smile. shino continues to walk closer to manya only to stand in front of him. a small smile was seen under the collar of his jacket.

“Hi manya. Are you ready to go?”

Manya eagerly nods as he sits up, following behind shino to the nature trail they promised to walk together on. Manya smiled as he looked at shino, smiling gently.

shino walked further down the trail, slightly ahead of manya. They made small talk, mostly about the different types of organisms that thrive in winter weather, as well as the types of plants and bugs that do so.

Manya looked at shino, mostly his glasses. gently speaking in his gruff tone.

“Shino.. no one else is here, can you take them off?”

as many times as manya has seen shinos eyes, it never gets old. He’s fascinated with his compound-like iris’s. The golden brown and orange hues that could make manya drown in them for hours on end. he gently pleas’ to shino as he makes eye contact with manya.

Shino sighs and grabs manyas hand instead, knowing that would suffice until they were not outside, and fully alone.

“I will hold your hand for now. The reason is because, i know you like looking at me as much as you like touching me.”

Manya’s cheeks turn a slight red, nodding as his claws tangle with shinos fingers. being careful not to prick the paler man’s skin. shinos hands are long and boney. very cold to the touch.(not even Because of the weather)

They eventually arive to this mid-way point, a few benches and overlapping trees above them, shielding the sky from their view. the edges of the earth seemed to turn a slight pink hue as the sun went down.

Shino turned around, manyas figure captured by the sky’s colors as they ran through the trees, hitting the edges of manas form. He looked at shino, cocking his head to the side. Shino stayed still as he walked towards manya again, standing in front of him.

“Are you cold shino?”

Manya slowly lifted his arms, asking for a hug. Shino never really was the type to enjoy physical affection. But with manya. It was different. he only allowed a handful of people to touch him. And manya was definitely one of them. He slowly lowered his head into the crook of manyas shoulder, wrapping his arms around manyas waist as he holds him.

Manya smiled as he pressed his face into shino’s jacket. Enveloping in the warmth his body was giving. shino gently pulled back to stare at manya. manya only smiled in responce

“Something on your mind?”

shino almost stuttered, his tongue caught in his throat.

“You look..”

He paused

“You look really pretty right now.”

Manyas heart skipped a beat, his stomach fluttered as he held onto shinos shoulders with his hands, gently clawing at the fabric.

“Thank you, i could say the same about you”

Manya’s head spun as he spoke. His eyes wandering across shinos face, his lips, his nose, everywhere.

Shinos heart beat, gently brushing a piece of manyas hair behind his pointed ears. he smiled at manyas as he hugged him again, gently tightening his grip like manya was going to run away.

manya giggled as he wrapped his arms around shino’s neck. His Smile wide as he shoves his face into shinos jacket, nudging the crook of shino’s neck. his peircing slightly tickling shino’s bare skin.

they sat there for a minute. Enjoying each others warmth. Until manya spoke.

“Do you want to come over? You could stay the night. Plus it’s supposed to be super cold tonight.. i dont want you walking out in the cold.”

Shino thinks for a moment and nods.

“I don’t think my father would mind. He would know where I am. That’s becuase, im always with you.”

manya nods as he gently lets go of shino, turning his face to gently leave a small kiss to his cheek. Then turning on his heels and grabbing shinos hand to walk home. Their hands intertwined as they walked together.

Shinos face heated up, he felt loved, he felt appreciated. He loved manya.

[kaa-pow]

Colours

Act 1: Azure

Sprout

Prelude. Artboard 24

In the stillness of infinity and at the edge of chaos, they manifest simultaneously. Two consciousnesses. They share the same spectrum but they exist on either end of it. Their energies and purpose in direct opposition to the other. One forcing the blackest of realities. The other offering the brightest of cores.

They are the Iyes and they grow at a speed that stretches through an eternity. They mature in tandem with each other. At first there is harmony. Their coexistence is barely registered by the other. They grow in gentle movements, swaying and flowing into each other. Their growth seemingly could never ends. Pulsating back and forth. Eventually they begin to overlap. They begin to fill the conceivable space around them. Where one starts the other ends. They continue to grow in all directions at speed. Across and around, to infinity.

Like two different seas they gently collide. At first the push and pull is gentle, almost soothing in its nature. A gentle wave on the sea. Gradually the interaction becomes more purposeful as the two energies begin to take on a more physical form. They begin to flow into each other. Engulfing some parts, only to surrender others. Constantly in motion.

The energies remain distinct but futilely try and achieve a balance in each other’s presence. This effort offers no result as the draw to overpower is too strong. This leads them instead to engulf each other. First seen as tiny pins of light in the vastness of the black. The pins grow until they all but consume the dark leaving small black specks, like vanilla seeds in milk. Again and again this sequence repeats itself. Again and again.

Recognising that this dance cannot continue forever, they shift their strategies. It is not in their nature to live in harmony with each other. One or the other must become dominant. One or the other must control the direction. They retreat completely from each other. The dark begins to manifest a thorny exterior. The bright begins to grow soft rounded tentacles.

It doesn’t take very long for the first signs of a struggle to begin. The attacks come from both sides, like soft waves crashing onto the side of thorny rocks. The tentacles wrap around the spikes. The spikes pierce through the tentacles. There is no malice in these violent actions. They flow naturally into one another.

As the battles continues the two energies manifest further as two distinct entities. One as an angry and violent concubine of spikes exploding in every direction. The other as a flowing sea of tentacles. After discovering that they could not live in harmony with each other, they quickly discover that neither of them can overpower the other either.

Recognising their stalemate, out of desperation the energies begin to devour each other. Like a snake eating it’s tail. They inch closer and closer to each other. The space they occupy gets smaller and smaller with every bite, until finally they all but consume each other completely. Leaving nothingness.

Nothingness and everything, in a space that is both completely dark and bright at the same time.

Except thats not true.

In the abyss is a tiny point. Except its not a point at all. Its a seed. A seed both glowing and stealing light at the same time. Finally after seconds or maybe it is millennia, the bright, luminescent seed begins to sprout.

Chapter 1 / Decay

Onyx decided to sit down. The terrain was different here as the ground fell gradually away him. He looked across at the Decay that spread itself, seemingly forever. Ashes and rubble from past glories formed a vast sea of grays and whites. The movement from dust clouds made the world around him undulate. For brief moments the dust would clear a little and let him get a better view of his surroundings. This would be swiftly replaced with new dancing dust clouds that would engulf him completely, making it difficult to see very far in front of him.

The hilltop he was sitting on seemed a little less faded than the rest of the expanse around him. There was a tiny hint of colour that was left behind, like the dying embers of a fire. Onyx took the glove of his right hand and pushed his hand into the sand beneath him. He could barely register any activity at all.

He removed his hand from the sand, brought it just before his face, turning it slowly, inspecting it to see if he had missed something. He then dusted his hands against each other. Dust exploded briefly into maroon coloured flecks of life, moving and dancing in the air, before falling back again onto the ground without a trace. Grey and lifeless.

The Decay covers an immense urban expanse, tied together through a network of makeshift huts, small shacks and a sea of rubble, the remains of buildings of every architectural definition, either empty and abandoned. Yet within this urban decay, a form of life was flourishing. Millions upon millions of tourists flocking to see and interact with the rubble, paying tribute to what was.

Even among all this chaos, there was no real vantage point anywhere to be found. For that, Onyx had to rely on his eyes in the sky, his Wings. He tilted his head up, his eyes rolled back and turned a cloudy white. He was no longer on the ground but soaring high above.

Trying to separate the signal from the noise was where Onyx’s wings came into their own. From above it was trivial to zero in on zones of potential that would otherwise remain unnoticed. They gave him the ability to not only see far but across the spectrum.

In his hunt for remaining Colours, Onyx had been lurking on the fringes of the decay for what seemed like an eternity. Was it time to start making his way further into the inner circles? Was this seemingly fruitless search proof that his work in the Decay was finally done? And then he saw it. The faintest of auras. Blink and you miss it.

Onyx knew that he had to react quickly. His consciousness instantly reverted back to his body, he got up and began sprinting. In that same moment his Wings also began their decent, falling through the air and attached themselves onto Onyx’s back, fusing together with in a bright flash.

He traversed through a wasteland, teeming with people. Onyx had been here before, when it was still teeming with a different kind of life. He knew this spot well. While it’s grandeur remained, in the form of scale, it’s vibrancy had completed faded away.

Onyx waded through hundreds, maybe thousands of ‘tourists’ that walked around aimlessly, gawking at the remains. Giggling. Taking pictures. Some studied remains with intensity. It was a circus. It did however offer a smoke screen that cloaked the main attraction.

Onyx was standing in front of an incredibly tall and ornate gate that stretched high into the sky. On either side of the main entrance, the walls were covered in animal statues. Baboons, cats, monkeys, falcons, hippos and lions, all intricately connected with each other.

Onyx followed the flow of the crowd, allowing them to guide him inside. Surprisingly the building looked much larger on the inside than it did on the outside. The main entrance opened up onto a series of halls connected to one another that got larger as they got deeper into the building. Tourists lined every available space in the hall, they bobbed en masse, like waves in the ocean.

He continued with everyone for a little while, moving from hall to the next, deeper and deeper inside he went, until he peeled away into a corridor to the side. The difference in activity between the main halls and this corridor was stark. He was the only person there. He walked alone for a little while coming to a tiny chamber filled with candles, and there at the end sat Azure.

Onyx stood at the entrance of the chamber, he could see her a little better. The candles offered some light, but it was dim. Azure was sitting slumped on her throne. She had her hair up in a huge bun on her head, it looked like a bees nest. She looked frail, wrapped herself in a thick cloak.

“Millions flock to this place. They are not here for me. No, they are here for themselves. And yet here you are child, my first visitor in as long as I can remember. Come child. Come closer to we can discuss our future. for mine is linked to yours.”

Onyx moved closer into Azure’s view, “Hello, Azure. It’s me, Onyx.” “Onyx? Onyx who?”, she said. Onyx walked closer to her, knelt down and held both her hands together, “Let me remind you.”

[sheliesshattered]

I finished my Batuu Bounding belt the other day!

Once I got myself a set of the right tools, actually putting the belt together was pretty easy. I punched four 5mm holes for the two Chicago screws to hold the buckle on, and one 4mm hole for the peg of the buckle to latch onto.

I then cut the excess leather off the end so that the cut end sits nice and flush inside the buckle and doesn't overlap the other side at all. I ended up with about 14.75" of belt leather left over, which I might try to do something with to further accessorize the belt, we'll see.

I may also put two more Chicago screws on the other side of the buckle, just for visual symmetry, but I like the way it looks now so I'm just going to let it sit for awhile and see how I feel about it. Adding those extra screws would only take half an hour at most, so it's a decision I can make closer to when I plan to wear this next, for the event at Disneyland on May the 4th.

There weren't really any surprises in trying this on once it was done, since I did a try-on of the full outfit when I was deciding on where to place the hole for the buckle peg. And it was clear at the time, but it's even more obvious now that I'm not having to hold the belt up with my hands: the vest I made last year is a bit too long, and a bit too wide through the hips.

Wearing just the scrappy sweatshirt I made to go under the vest, the belt hits fine, low-slung around the hips just like I wanted it, in classic Han Solo fashion:

But with the vest on over top, the length issue becomes obvious:

All that research, planning, and leatherworking for a more Star Wars looking buckle, and it's completely hidden!

Looking at pictures from my two Batuu trips roughly a year ago, I think the vest was too long and a bit too wide at the time, too. But I've lost about 10 pounds since then, so the excess flaring over the hips is even more noticeable now -- and a year ago, I didn't have a cool belt I wanted to show off.

The front of the vest works okay going under the belt rather than over:

But by the side-back panel the hem of the vest starts sticking out from under the belt, and there's some weird wrinkling from the extra width getting folded in on itself, even after shifting the worst of it to the center back:

All of which has led me to the unfortunate conclusion that I'm going to have to modify the vest.

Over all the years I've been sewing and costuming, I've made corsets and silk gowns, drafted patterns (including for things that should have been draped), achieved feats of structured engineering invisible from the outside yet absolutely necessary, invented a way of knitting plaid and then knitted five pounds of it, and come up with two separate fake blood recipes, one edible and one not.

And yet, somehow, this vest is the single most finished object I've ever made. Because of course it is. I lined it in the same dark blue linen that the exterior is made of, and carefully planned out my construction steps so that I could add interior pockets and a separating zipper without any of the stitching for those design features showing from the outside. There are no raw edges anywhere on the project, and the entire thing is top-stitched near every single seam, to give it a nice crisp finish.

Which was all great until I decided that I need to change the fit. Ugh.

Knowing how long this took me to make last year, I want to keep any changes as minimal as possible. I'm really happy with the fit up until the last few inches, so I'm going to keep the focus there and leave the rest of it alone.

Because of the separating zipper and the fabric overlap to hide it, I really can't change the length of the center front at all -- if I really wanted to do that, frankly I'd be better off just starting over from scratch using my pattern from last year. But I think I can make this modification work and look nice without moving the zipper, by turning the hemline into a basque waist sort of shape, lower at the center front and then rising over the hips and leveling off towards the center back:

I measured while wearing both the scrappy sweatshirt and the vest, and figured that I could remove 2.75" to 3" of length at the center back before the sweatshirt would start sticking out from under the vest. When I laid down the pin line in the photo above, I just tried to achieve a nice smooth sloping line, and the center back ended up being right about 2.25" inches higher than the current hem, which I think would work well with the length of the sweatshirt.

Trying this on with the belt is a bit weird, the pins don't want to play nicely with a big piece of leather directly over them, but I think moving the hem up to that pin line would fix all the fit issues. The hem of the vest would still go under the belt, but it wouldn't stick out the bottom or wrinkle as much. I might still want to take in a little bit of width at the seams, but honestly I think once it's shortened the excess flaring over the hips will pretty much disappear, too.

Of course, to do this I'm going to have to pick out all the top stitching along the current hem, and the top stitching along each seam to probably about an inch higher than where I want the new hem to be, just to give me some room to work -- and possibly more than that if I do decide I want to take some of the seams in, too. Then I would need to trim it to length, iron the raw edges of both the exterior and the lining so they fold to the inside, and re-do all the top stitching.

None of that is particularly complicated or difficult, just time consuming and tedious. But I do think I'll end up liking the fit of the vest and the look of my Batuu Bounding outfit so much better overall, so I think it'll be worth it.

But still. I think I'm going to let the idea sit for a day or two before I start picking out any stitches.

[abigailsfmp]

Method of construction - The top skirt

As soon as i started to put these patterns onto calico to cut out i came across my first problem. The patterns were too wide for the fabric. I should've known this would happen because the skirt patten was also too big. To fix this we had to use a pattern master and cut down one of the edges, not taking off the waist because then it would've gone down in sized ad been too small.

Now that this problem had been overcome, I added 1cm seam allowance, cut my notches and cut out the patterns. I had four pieces to put together for the skirt, and a further 8 pieces for the waistband.

Starting with the skirt, I put the right sides together of my front and back, matched my notches and sewed them together. I didnt sew them together at the back of the skirt because when i added the waistband, the two pieces would join at the front, leaving the back open to get into it. I overlocked the seams, straight down the back and then around the front and bottom. Once this had been done on both, I then needed to again fold the overlocking in towards the back and top stitch.

The waistband was the hardest part of the top skirt. Once cut out, i sewed two of the front pieces together, then added the back pieces onto the sides. I did this twice. I then sewed them together along the top of the waistband by putting the right sides together and matching my notches. I folded one of the bottom sides up to the wrong side by 1 cm and pressed it down. I then sewed down both sides of the waistband.

Now the waistband was put together, I had to attach it to the two skirt pieces. I pinned the longer side of the waistband to the wrong side of my skirt and sewed them pieces together. I then needed to fold over the other side and top stitch along the bottom.

When making my toile, the skirt patterns were too long to fit in the waistband and ended up overlapping at the front causing it to be wonky. I went back to check my patterns and they all matched and did actually fit together. I think the issue will have been when cutting out the pieces in fabric. Either i haven't added seam allowance on one of the patterns, or i added too much onto the skirt.

[where-i-bitch-about-nashville]

made a great deal

found an Apex 210 ribbon mic, broken jangly ribbon and reeking of cigarette smoke for $40 a couple months ago….

It already had the inner wire mesh layers and any pop filtering fabric removed, and it was missing some screws and had the ribbon screws stripped by the previous owner.

Disassembled it all, washed it, and retensioned the ribbon the day i got it, and it worked but sounded a bit harsh in the highs; likely sounded as good as it ever had up to that point…

The gig bag for this mic smelled disgusting even after multiple washes with TSP substitute and various soap and detergent, so I let that go and replaced it with a padded wine bottle bag but it just isn’t padded enough. Not sure where to find a better padded bag or box that would stow the mic vertically!

Today i got replacement strain relief gland based spirals and they just happen to fit this body, so I added a Neutrik XLR connector and Star quad mic wire with braided shielding to that. Along with some foam and PVC card samples, i was able to deaden the gnarly body resonance that was making the harsh high frequency response. I cut the PVC card samples to make a front and rear rounded-E-shaped wall divider to slot between the magnets and the cup piece of metal that forms the bottom half of the mic. All told, I spent about $10 on the parts used here and wound up with a $50 ribbon mic that performs much better than if I had instantly gone off spending $100 on changing the ribbon thickness and output transformer. I still may give that a shot, but this is suddenly a lot closer to the sound of the AEA R84, whose neodymium magnet and (2”x5mm/2-micron thick) ribbon geometry these Chinese made long ribbons imitate. It is still less sensitive than an RCA type 74b mi-1036G strapped for 250-Ohm output; I believe this Apex output transformer was <200-Ohm impedance from the factory.

This cheap simple change works for any of the yoke-mounted made in China ribbon microphones that may need this, such as the Apex 210 or the improved version model 205, Nady RSM2, Alctron HRM-2, ShinyBox 23, t.Bone R500, SM MC-04, Cascade VinJet, ShinyBox 46, Nady RSM1, Golden Age Project R1 and others may have nearly the same motor and maybe some of the same shortcomings.

Here’s a good article on the subject: http://recordinghacks.com/2008/11/01/chinese-ribbon-microphone-designs/

A note on this PVC card sample stock I used, I have no real clue what I have. It came from a reuse place and they were a steel ring of samples of various colors of this stuff. It doesn’t really bend well and snaps after about 30°. The inside of this stuff is like a closed cell foam while the front and back look the same and form a more solid layer of plastic. Maybe sheets of this stuff were heat pressed from PVC. It’s 1.5-2mm thick and definitely wasn’t meant for this. You could use anything that will fit and stay and where you could fasten two halves with an overlap so that it stays put as a divider between the body and the ribbon motor. I used Ukraine 🇺🇦 colors with yellow on the front side :D

The strain relief was like a PG9 size iirc. Where the original pinch lock passthru strain relief had straight sides, the threads on the new strain relief grab and thread in juuust right, too! Much more like the AEA strain relief, to boot

Further mod ideas:

Replace the yoke with a shockmount like the GAP RSM

Unscrew the yoke flat piece from the piece that threads onto the mic stand and use a post style shockmount more like the one used in the RCA type 44 yoke

Or, replace the thumbscrew thread holes in the frame of the ribbon motor with a threaded insert shockmount bushing

stick some silicone damping instead of the foam

maybe improve sensitivity by using a higher turns ratio transformer

could sew more padding in to the bottle bag

high impedance input circuit or mic pre to pair with these types of things (i already have lots of 150-2200-Ohm inputs, some of which can change)

add a Crown Royal type cloth velvety bag both to pad the mic in the wine bottle bag AND to make the ideal 360° pop filter! They can even be stuffed with some foam and fitted with some fur on the outside to resist wind buffeting, it’s really great for that because it can enclose and keep wind off of the bottom and yoke of the mic as well, even if it is no Rycote zeppelin and dead cat. they even sell some raincoats for the dead cats that don’t make noise as they are hit by raindrops! i just don’t usually do it in the rain