#new collection kimono

[kaizynofsickness]

Wolf Sukuna x bunny reader

Synopsis: cuteness and innocence comes with a consequence when you're just such a petite small bunny doing dumb childish activities at the dead of night, happening to attract some wolf in need

Warning: female reader, predator and pray play, wolf Sukuna, bunny reader, oblivious reader, dacryphilla, public sex (in a forest), manhandling, fingering, reader squirting for the first time, unprotected sex, non-con, slight chasing goin' on, yandere-ish vibes (he find himself needing you), hardcore, breeding kink, slight spanking, lots of tail/ear pulling, degrading (dumb bunny/rabbit, whore bunny, slutty girl) praising too (good girl, atta girl, cutie), true form Sukuna, two cocks, double penetration (anal & cunt), SIZE DIF (he's 7'6", u cant beat him) Sukuna is a bit soft at the end. Sex with plot (?) MDNI, I will block you!!

A/N: this idea has been rotting me, does anyone else do hybrid Sukuna? Just me? Damn... My warning list is long ASF. Lazy/half proof read.

"one, two... Oh, three!" You count out how many flowers you could find buried in the thick layers of snow, picking out nearly dead ones. It was getting dark, yet you wanted a new collect of your 'snow flowers' that you did every time it snowed. You never missed a season since you were 17, so why start now at 20?

The flowers soon start to lessen and so does the light around the forest, leaving everything dark. A pout tugs at your lips as your bunny ears perk up, alert all the sudden as darkness consumes the night. Your eyes darted to every possible corner inside of the small snowy forest—maybe you were a tad bit scared of the dark, more like what hides inside of the shadows. You decide to call it quits, getting off of your knees and brushing the little bit of snow that was covering on your puffy white coat that was down to your thighs. You waddled around the snow, grabbing your new collection of flowers that survived with a smile.

You give the sun one more wave, as night fallen completely. You watch the light shrink until you really didn't wanna be in the dark no more, a little hop in your step as you trailed down the snowy path.

You had a right to fear what was happening in the darkness...

The wolf who had been watching you this whole time, grab-able bunny ears and a cute little cotton tail he could just yank you by wiggling around, how goofy yet cute you looked in that puffy coat, scarf over your face. He licked over his complex set of fangs, lust filled his thoughts and caused his dick to stiffen, all four eyes on you.

Ryomen Sukuna, he was called, steps out the shadows that you childishly feared, watching the small footprints and stepping over them with his own, seeing how he covers the whole space. You're so small. He could just—

He creeps up closer to you as you examine your flowers, lazily tossing the ones you don't like, cotton tail mindlessly twitching under that coat. He only had on an all black kimono with a rusted red color cloak over, walking in socks and flip flops, you dressed for some fashion show. You didn't even notice the sounds of breathing getting louder, nor did you hear the soft sounds of snow behind you getting crushed.

Dumb rabbit, he snickers to himself.

It took you a while to finally pick up something, your nose twitching and ears perking up again, bobbing slightly. You turn around to see not a soul behind you. You look in the trees; bare, nothing to hide. At least from what you can see. You shrug it off for now thinking it maybe was another bunny, or a birdie.

Sukuna wasn't even phased or worried you'd catch him, folding his four arms over his bulky build with confidence that he has hidden himself well enough to keep an eye on you. You, his future sex toy and minx.

You kept hearing the sounds more after that little conflict, turning around faster. This time, your eyebrows knitted together. You glance around again, gripping your flowers in your small hands. You turn around back to your destination, walking a bit faster.

He couldn't help but notice it. You might've noticed you were being watched or followed. He speeds up with you, matching your stride in the mask of the dark woods. The sounds mingle with yours, side eyeing every tree and bush to check anxiously. The idea of being followed made you pout.

The one time you stay out as the sun set, this happens.

You speed up a little more, sweating a bit even in the cold breeze and snow around. You now feel something dangerous near you, you can easily feel someone is near you, and it doesn't sit well. Like whoever—whatever is following you wants you to know that it's here. And oh, he does now want you to know, that fear makes you look so delicious, and not like he would normally look at prey.

He might wanna eat you in a whole different way that will last and effect you over and over.

"h-hey!" You meekly shout out, stuttering stupidly and taking a cowardice stance, looking so adorable scared, ears pressed down on your head. What were you shouting at? No idea. Where were you shouting to? Also no idea. You just wanted to hear someone.

You would be dumb to say 'is someone there' as there just had to be, eyes dewy as you scan the area. You grip your flowers. A faint growl, or laugh, echos from the forest behind the trees, somewhere in there. It sounded deep, grouchy, and... Soothing. Now you know someone is in there, your fear spikes. Someone was following you, just an innocent bunny with a passion for flowers in the snow.

"little bunny," a tall and dark figure emerges from the dark, and what immediately catches your attention is the four arms, many marks and odd lines across his face and wrist (what you can see) of the man.

Man? No, no, no. You gave it another look, seeing the bushy and huggable, large pink tail swooshing behind him, spiky ears at attention as four eyes gaze deep into you. The way he looks makes you shiver alone. You back away out of instinct, not that stupid to be oblivious to ths clear situation that this was a predator in front of you, you—the most common prey. His emotionless stare finally turns into something, something sinister. He smirks at you, raising an eyebrow with his arms (all of them) folded over his chest.

Your eyes widen while you stare, your cotton tail being your biggest give away with how it trembles. You drop your flowers.

"strip." His voice booms in the night forest, keeping his mocking eyes on your fretful small figure.

What? Did he just— "huh...?" You manage to stagger out words. He told you to strip? You don't even know his name. You're an innocent rabbit, that's what you're known for, right? Why would he want to play around with you?

Sukuna finds no amusement in your questioning and why you're not moving that small body. "I said strip. Get naked."

You dumbfoundedly blink. "but I don't know y—a-ahhh!"

Your protest were cut off by the swift movement of one of his large hands going to yank you near him with your bunny ears, making them stand up. The sound you made cause his cock to stir and leak, never getting so turned on by any hybrid, let alone a weak bunny. But you were so cute. He bends down to your height, claws starting to tear your coats buttons. "I'm Sukuna, bunny. Let me know your name and let's get this out the way so I could start breeding you."

Breeding you? Him, breeding you? He was so tall and big compared to you, a dainty and petite little creature, and you never been bred before.

"n-no, let go of me!" You try to move your hands to grab his large ones tugging at your ears, but you forgot he has another pair of arms, one gripping both your wrist and using them to yank you into the cold snow. You wince when your bum makes contact with the cold ground, cotton tail buried into your coat and snow.

"I thought I asked for your name, dumb rabbit." He says while shredding your coat, making you gasp as your skin comes in contact with the cold airy snow, shivering.

You stutter out your name feebly over the feeling of the cold. He yanks off your legs warmers and scarf, at least neatly pulling down your panties and unclipping your bra. "Are you cold, cutie?" He whispers into your ear, pressing your body onto his heat. You nod into the strangers chest, feeling his clothes against your naked body.

Sukuna removes his cloak and wraps it around you, the thing like a blanket. You blink up at him, lashes coated with sweet unleashed tears. He chuckles at the sight of your dewy eyes, pouty soft lips and weak state. The power dynamic he feels... is so intoxicating. Oh, he's never been harder.

He abruptly flips you, making you go on all fours. If it wasn't for the cloak, you would've felt the cold snow way easier and it would hurt at some point. "Please... Let me go—" you get cut off again, squealing when he lifts your ass up by your cotton tail, you lower body off the ground while your top is still in contact. It stings slightly... "S-Sukuna!" You whimper.

Sukuna tilts his head at a 90 degree angel, examining your pussy after lifting his cloak up. "You don't mean it. You're a creamy mess. Please." He mocks you, landing a very aggressive hit on your right ass cheek. The impact immediately leaves large red handprint, making those unshed tears start to roll out your eyes. Sukuna smiles at the victory of making you start squealing and squirming.

He lets you go from your tail, knees landing on the ground with a thud. "You're such a whore bunny." He tsk. "Can you at least take two cocks?"

That wasn't a question. That was like a warning.

"t-two?" You stutter, baffled.

That's when you feel a small poke on your thigh and one near your exposed and wet pussy. Oh God, you knew he wasn't human, but is he even a hybrid? "Did I stutter? Who cares, you'll handle me if I'm fucking you, heh." He sadistically chuckles.

He keeps you in the position, having your back arched for him. His tail sways at the sight with a smirk of your ass, red from little smacks and pussy wet and messy. He rubs the tip of his thick fingers rub against your slit, playing with your folds. You whimper from the sudden touch, yet wiggle your hips away. He wasn't having any of that, "keep still, you whore bunny." He barks out the order, glaring at you, even if you can't see how cold his four eyes are on you, you can feel the heat of them.

He has his way with your sweet pussy, rubbing your clit until two fingers sunk into your hole, stretching deep in and feeling around to see if he'll hit a spot to purposefully make you scream. He starts to curl his fingers near your g-spot, teasing you. You push your hips back only to find how he uses one of his four arms to ground you. You whine, sounding frustrated, but know better than to be bratty from how he spanked you.

Sukuna begins to pump his fingers faster, kneeling down and watching how wet his palm is becoming, watching the creamy liquid coat his two digits. He barely gives you time to adjust before he puts another finger into you, trying to stretch you out but get an orgasm out of you.

"o-oh, fuck, right there, yes yes, touch m-" your eyes roll back, back dramatically arched yet so perfect for him. He cocks an eyebrow and starts to go faster, the inhuman pace making the nastiest of sounds you can't believe it's your pussy squelching like that.

"oh, so you do like it?" He scoffs, almost speaking in differently from your little fit. He watches as your wetness soaked him and listened to the sounds of 'pat, pat, pat!!' and lewd swishing sounds.

"m' gonna, gonna c-cum! M' cumming—" You babble on uselessly until you cream around his skilled fingers, the milky liquid making a mess, the cloak below you now getting a taste of your arousal. Sukuna watches you unravel under him, your toes curling and legs jolting, struggling to keep that pretty arch.

"atta girl, such a pretty mess."

He gives you no time to readjust to relaxing from your recent orgasm, he already positioned himself behind you, sitting on his knees.

Sukuna quickly begins to stroke his cock lazily, leaving his second cock neglected for now. He only presses his tip against your cunt.

You find yourself with your back forcefully arched by one large hand pressing you down, face in his cloak, feeling his wet tip teasing your cunt and sliding to meet your clit. Every touch makes you jolt, tears still coming. "'kuna..." you sob uselessly, gripping the cloak below you. Your cotton tail twitches with every smack he lands on your ass, making it red and marked his. He snickers before leaning his crushing weight onto you, voice in your ear. "What is it, bunny?" He flashes his sharp fangs, grazing your shoulder.

"gimmie..."

The simple word let's him know what you mean. He leaned back, a throaty and degrading laugh rumbling in his chest. "You were begging for me to stop, right? Now someone can't wait for it?"

Despite his words and acting like he wasn't going to give you what you wanted, he lazily strokes his cock before he angles it up with your awaiting cunt. For all of his rough manhandling and groping, he was actually trying to make sure his tip could at least sink in before he started to completely ruin you. He could hear the sounds of you struggling, which honestly only disappointed him because he wasn't even using any force. Was he going to have to baby you?

Finally, he gets to sink half of his length inside of that sticky and warm mess, groaning at the satisfaction of feeling you around him. You were so tiny and tight, it was a perfect combination for someone like him who just wanted his cock to be strangled by the perfect cunt.

Your thighs quiver, the new feeling of some monstrous size deep inside. You never had it this good, pussy so full of cock your juices dripped out because there was no room. Your eyes shut, trying to stop your cunt from fluttering deliciously around him.

"wan' it?" He asks teasingly, more like tormenting, grabbing a good amount of flesh from your plump ass. You nod frantically, wanted to see what it feels like to have someone this big, let alone have two cocks this big. Your answer doesn't surprise him much, it only took a few minutes and you were already on his side. "Then work for it. Fuck yourself on my cock."

You whined into the cloak, feeling hot and sweaty besides the cold weather outside. You slowly shifted your body forward, rocking against the ground and your knees, making his cock pop out. You back it up on him, feeling him hit your cervix as he sinks into your inviting pussy once again. You couldn't help but moan and shudder every time you could feel your cervix being threatened to be broken.

You took advantage of this small moment of control, making sure you moved your hips slowly off of his cock, a small sticky coating sound filling your ears with more possible lewd thoughts. You needed time to adjust.

Sukuna groans, feeling proud of you. He playfully tapped your ass with a smirk, watching your body rock back and forth against his cock. "Atta girl, fuck, you got it." He taps your ass more, loving how it jiggles and all the redness left over from his spankings.

You continue to fuck yourself into him like a toy, but you were going slowly. It was all too big, you could feel him so wrongly. It was absolutely sinful. It felt raw, so raw that it burnt if you made his cock stroke your insides wrong.

He groans again, but this time it was because he was frustrated. Why did you have to go so slow?

"Can't you speed up?" His hands travel up to the back of your neck, his middle finger pressing hard against your nape. Your ears fold down to your skull again, and you could tell this groan wasn't something good. You try to turn your head to look back at him, the way you pout and look for validation for your work was so cute. The way your ears will shrink down because he sounded disappointed, how your cotton tail was moving.

"I knew I shouldn't leave things to slutty rabbit like you." He places two hands on your hips. He snaps his hips forward into yours, causing your body to lifelessly bounce forward from his force.

"N-ngh, hmph!" You muffle your moans, your eyes finally opening once again as you feel the pleasure and pain.

Sukuna grinned at the sight, not wasting any time to finally get his second dick wet. He grabbed his other cock and quickly spreaded his precum all over the length of him before he was able to slide into your anus without any warning. The double penetration left you moaning, sobbing, and whimpering. You tried to move your hips away from him, feeling as his thrust slowly started to get more aggressive.

"Nuh-uh, bunny. Stay here, be a good girl." he delivers another painful smack against your ass for trying to run away from his cock, literally.

Your body kept jolting forward with every calculated and painful thrust of his cock deep inside, stroking your G-spot repetitively, making you see stars. You tried to grip onto the cloak below you, desperately needing something to hold for comfort. You couldn't help but feel so weak, you had a monster above you. You were just a tiny little bunny.

"s-slow doowwnn..." you whine, raising your head up so your voice could be heard, even if most of it was just incohesive noise and moaning, blabbers of his name like a chant.

Your request fall to deaf ears. He was too engrossed with how amazing your cunt was sucking him back in, your anus, and the view of such a tiny little bunny below him.

You feel a familiar knot building up inside of your stomach, and you can feel yourself slowly starting to ruin your perfect arch. Again, it was like you were trying to run away from the cocks. Your anus felt so full, you never had anything up there, not even your own fingers. You never knew how amazing good feel to have two holes occupied.

There was just one difference.

It felt so much more intense than a normal orgasm. You couldn't tell what was going to happen, for a second you felt like you had to pee. Your cunt started to spasm aggressively; never had Sukuna felt someone so eager to cum (unless it was rut season), and he fucked many hybrids.

You couldn't even process any words, no sort of warning came out. The only thing that did come out was a long gush of clear, sticky liquid absolutely ruining his happy trail and pelvis. Oh, and his cock? Soaked.

His eyes widen in shock, yet he was so proud of you in his own twisted ways. He rubbed over your sore ass, a smile if that was almost full of disbelief that you just squirted all over him like that. "You just squirted on me, slutty girl."

He most definitely has to make fun of you.

"little messy bunny, pussy just felt so good had to tap out?"

You find a good grip onto the cloak below you that was now soaked in your squirt. Your little cunnie continued to pleasure his cock, your very inexperienced anus getting abused, mind just full of his name and his cock, your sensitive body going crazy, making your toes curl. Your bunny ears perk up, voice desperate as you keep trying to run away from his cock—

"you can't just stay fuckin' still?" He growls and presses his hand hard on your back, breaking your arch and making your knees fumble, having you pressed flushed against the cloak, the cold ground more evident to your skin. He leans his weight over you, cocks still finding a way to work into both holes.

"'kuna, p-please, no—no more, no more..." you cry out, rosey and cute cheeks stained with tears.

"sh, just take my cocks. Take 'em, cum all over me." His tone almost changed and he gazed at how helpless you look, feeling an urge to... Bite you. He leaned more of his weight on top of you, making your eyes shot open—how close can he get? His fluffy tail comes around and wraps you up near him, fur tickling your sides. He allows his tail to slip under your body—he lifted you up real quick—and held you close.

He fucked into you with more focus now, focused on you. Those moans and how you were so small under him, he felt the power and the urge to bite you, make you cry, cream, squirt, beg, to protect you... Yeah, he wants you. So bad.

Sukuna growls lowly, his breathing becoming more heavy, what you can only assume as a sign he's close to cumming. He stiffens his cocks into both your holes, filling them both at the same time, his steamy seed flowing in white ropes in you, making you shudder. He filled you deep; his plans to breed you to keep you closer to him.

You limped like a doll on the cloak, naked and cummed stuffed in you. Sukuna's large hand runs down your body and grabs you cotton tail again, lifting your ass up, your lower body propped up for his eyes. You didn't even make much of a fuss, only muttering "m' so full 'kuna..."

He watches his cum leaking out your two used holes, seeing how much he stretched them out from his ministrations. He unwraps his tail from your body, which was once warm and the cold air ruined it, and he pulled you to him. He grabbed his cloak, your juices all over it, and wrapped it around your nude body.

"you enjoyed it? See, now all that fuckin' fighting was useless." He coos as he walked you away from the sex scene, his cum trailing down your thighs and dripping in the snow. All you do is nod on response, nuzzling into his chest. He looks down at your lazy state, looking fucked out after all of that fun.

"you'll come with me bunny. I'll eat my cum out at my place."

˚꩜⋆.°⭑Do not copy, translate, or steal in any way, reblogs are appreciated and allowed

Should I make this a series? I wanna start a series so baaad

[hakobore]

New Zine!!

Kosode Nishiki is a collection of pre-Edo period kimono studies I've been doing over at my Patreon. It's now available on Itch!

[cantdothis-nomore]

Tengen Uzui + wives x swordsmith reader

The inspo for this fic was from @zoyatoshi one named ten minutes! Please go check out their blog they are one of my FAV writers and I would love if you took a look at their blog! ^^

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Content : Imagine being the fourth wife that basically nobody knows about because of your trade as a swordsmith making tengens swords

A/N : I don't know why I wrote this I just really like Tengen lol :')

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You moved quickly around your forge collecting things as you mutter at a pace others would find hard to make out. Your hands were torn up and your face had sweat beads rolling down it as you went back to your original project. Your husbands new sword. You had leapt out of bed a week earlier remembering the unfinished sword and shut out everyone in place of finishing the sword.

You closed your eyes with a groan as you heard furious footsteps approaching and your forge door was once again thrown open with a bang revealing a fuming Makio with Suma not far behind.

"You are coming with us NOW!" Makio yelled as she grabbed you by the collar of your kimono trying to drag you out of your forge. You adamantly held on to the side of a table and wiggled out of Makio's grip.

"As soon as this is finished I promise you I will come back to the house I swear." You pleased with her "Y-You said that 2 days ago n/n!" Screeched Suma, big fat tear blobs starting to roll down her cheeks as she yet again realised that no matter the push they put on you, you were not going to return to the house until your project was finished, but Makio was not so easily convinced.

"You haven't slept in nearly a full week now Y/N," a soft voice spoke from the doorway, Hinatsuru stood at the door her tone and face firm but her eyes gave away the stress she felt. "I know but I really really really need to get this sword done before Lord Tengen gets back, please Hina!" You pleaded.

Being a demon slayer, Tengen was away a lot God knows where at the most unfortunate of times, counting this one. He didn't let anyone else make his swords apart from you after you joined the family, you loved doing it but god did it stress your wives out so. You would stay in your forge for days at a time not eating, not sleeping, not drinking and come out a complete mess, looking like a demon.

'No Y/N, this has gone on long enough. That is a perfectly good sword for Lord Tengen!" Makio butted in just as Hina opened her mouth to speak, even so, just by her expression you could tell she was going to say exactly what Makio did for her. "I promise I will be back tonight ok? I promise all I need to do are these last bits" You begged.

Hina heaved a sigh placing her head in her hands not even bothering to tell Makio off for hitting Suma for whining constantly. She looked you in the eyes searching for any type of truth, "Fine." She said sternly, "but you are coming back tomorrow morning at the max no matter what."

You managed a weak smile to her and a rib crunching hug off of Suma as she bustled a fuming Makio and wailing Suma out your forge. The moment they were halfway down the hill you collected the plate of food Hina left for you and shoved it in your food stash as you made a run for the door pushing the bolt over and moving into the very back of your place as not to be disturbed.

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You can imagine the fury of your wives the next day when they woke without you next to them, now nearing the sixth time this week. In a storm of rage Makio came tearing up the hill Suma and Hina hot on her heels. She slammed her fist into the forge door banging on it at a fast rate.

"Y/N! LET US IN YOU KNOW YOU ARE BREAKING YOUR PROMISE TO US AGAIN!" But again, there was no answer from you.

Even from the back of your forge you could hear Sumas screeching and see Hinas stressed and almost given up face which made you feel guilty, but you couldn't just leave this project here! You worked harder as you felt your guilt eating away at you and the noise of your wives slowly became quieter and quieter. Your brow furrowed as the sword continued to leave gashes on your hands and your vision became blurry. You shook it off and glanced out the window double taking as you saw the inky black sky. You gritted your teeth and continued to work ignoring the darkening sky outside.

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BANG!

Your head snapped up with a start as your forge doors were kicked in and there stood your husband. Back from his mission. Early.

'Shit' was your only thought as your eyes flicked round him and spied your wives all outside the door looking a mixture of sad and angry.

'So,' Tengens voice boomed round your forge and things started to rattle on your shelves as he continued to speak, 'Hinatsuru tells me you've been in here a week and haven't been looking after yourself at all! How unflashy!" He said with a sharp look. You winced knowing Hina probably told him everything and Makio probably didn't spare any details in her fury either.

Tengen strode into your forge carefully avoiding the mess as he stood infront of you. Keeping eye contact with you he bent slightly to reach your eye level. "And exactly how long have you not eaten for little mouse?" He said softly but within his tone there was a sharp edge that hit you the most. You didn't answer as your eyes strapped themselves to the floor. He grunted as he returned to stand up straight.

"Makio, check her food stash please" He said watching you carefully. Your eyes immediatley snapped to Makios as you silently pleaded with her not to tell him. Her eyes narrowed at you as her pace quickened and she disappeared out of sight just before her voice echoed around the room,

"It's full!" She called out, her glare resting on you in disappointment. Your eyes widened as you quickly darted round a table to stop Tengen from getting you.

"N/N that full food stash is almost as unflashy as your purple eye bags and dirty kimono you continue to wear, just come back to the house you have stressed the girls out enough." He said a determined glint in his eye. His hands rested on the table as his eyes tracked you like a predator waiting for its preys next move.

"I just need to finish it and then I'll come back to the house! I'm serious!" You quickly said as you watched Tengen quickly take a run for you. You once again ran around the table but not fast enough this time. He wrapped an arm around your waist before you could go any further and hoisted you onto his shoulder.

He walked out your forge and down the hill with Suma, Makio and Hina close behind him all heading towards the house. You felt your body on the verge of sleeping but you were determined not to give in.

You began to thrash and screech as loudly as you could like that would make them take you back to the forge. Tengen raised his hand smacked your ass to shut you up and finally you gave up. Flopping against him you let yourself give in and veered on the line of unconsciousness, as much as you didnt want to admit it you were exhausted. You knew what you were doing to your body was bad but you really needed to complete the project even if it cost you your sanity.

After what seemed like an age you were put down on a chair. Too tired to fight back anymore you let yourself be fed and bathed as you fell unconscious, the last thing you remember being you and tengen getting squished between your wives all of you thankful to be back together again.

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[vimbry]

*if you've heard a couple songs but don't really know much about them, or haven't listened in a long while, you can play!

update: the highest votes went to gudetama. but was it correct? here are the full titles and albums.

❌ "put your hand inside the puppet head" - they might be giants

the opening verse makes reference to leaving one's job and how "it's sad to say, you will romanticise all the things you've known before. it was not, not, not so great". according to flansburgh, "the lyric revolves around the idea that looking back on anything colors it in sentimentality".

❌ "I'll sink manhattan" - they'll need a crane (ep)/miscellaneous T

this is a flansburgh song, but linnell explained its meaning in a 1989 interview with NME as "a song about a guy who somehow figures out how to sink the island of manhattan just to kill his ex-lover, so it's his apology to the other people he's gonna kill in between. he's just gotta do it!"

❌ "meet james ensor" - john henry

it's about james ensor (belgium's famous painter).

❌ "wicked little critta" - mink car

from the tmbg unlimited collection: "forged in the crucible of an eastern massachusetts junior high, this song expresses the dreams, fears and hopes of a new england young adult" the lyrics seem to suggest said young adult fantasising about being a sports star alongside bobby orr and john havlicek while goofing off outside.

❌ "working undercover for the man" - mink car

from flansburgh: "it's more a meditation on the "mod squad" [a 1968 crime series about cool undercover detectives] than anything else. the idea of the narc just seems... like, those episodes of "dragnet" where they have the young undercover dress in a hippie suit."

✔️ "talent is an asset" - kimono my house

the lyrics illustrate an overly-cautious family shielding their very gifted child from others, to keep him studious and soak in all the glory, and is heavily implied to be little albert einstein through puns on relatives and relativity. it's not by them, tho. it's by the band sparks. it came 2nd, so I think many of you recognised it (or really wanted to see the results!)

❌ "bee of the bird of the moth" - the else

"this is a song about a creature called a hummingbird moth, which imitates another creature, which imitates yet another creature. it's completely fucked up, and can only be explained in song!" so they did.

❌ "2082" - join us

thewrap's review of the album describes this song as, "a science-fiction short story (...) a protagonist who travels into the future, finds himself hobbled but still unhappily alive all the way into the next millennium, and travels back to the title year to smother himself with a pillow in a mercy killing". fun!

❌ "call you mom" - nanobots

referred to by linnell as an "oedipus pan" song, the lyrics follow an unfortunate young man beginning a relationship with a woman, getting dumped due to his behaviour of treating her like a mother figure, then infantilising a possibly younger woman in a different relationship and in turn leaving her, who goes on to experience the same issues. fun! (altho, the final chorus actually still refers to her Mom leaving, not her dad, I got the details wrong there in the poll).

❌ "gudetama's busy days" - dial-a-song / my murdered remains

yes, that's a real song. quote flansburgh: "(...) it is really just about feeling isolated from the world, even if you are in a crowded place and manically trying to keep up with your life. the character of gudetama appealed to me because he is such a mopey sad sack."

❌ "marty beller mask" - album raises new and troubling questions

this is real, too! it's just about how marty beller was actually an alter ego of whitney houston the whole time. he's not, but wouldn't that be interesting. the song name-checks multiple of her own in the lyrics. it was temporarily retired out of respect following houston's death (4 months after its release), returning to live performances ten years later in 2022.

[sdr2lovemail]

Anything for My Lady!

Synopsis: You're Muzan's faithful aide and she rewards your hard work with sweet words and a kiss. In reference to this post I made.

Note: Manipulation (kinda, reader is aware and is fine with it.) Gn Reader.

Requests are open!

Becoming the perfect being is what Muzan wanted. She almost had it all; immortality, eternal youth, and an army of bloodthirsty demons. Though there was one thing stopping her from becoming perfect, her inability to conquer the sun. Muzan had spent years, decades, centuries trying to find a way. She looked through every book, every village, every person but has yet to find an answer. 

Nothing, not a single book in the infinity castle had any new information. Flipping through pages and tossing them to the side, Muzan was getting frustrated. Before her resolve could fully snap, she found something. A formula dating a few centuries back, one she had not tried before. With an almost crazed smirk, she called out to the demon with a biwa.

“Nakime, summon my precious aide for me.” Her voice practically purred.

Positioning her fingers on the strings, Nakime gave a subtle nod. “Yes, Lord Muzan.”

You were confused, being pulled from your home and into a never-ending labyrinth so suddenly. Though the confusion quickly wore off. Seeing the familiar complexities of the infinity castle made your chest warm. It meant your lady needed you.

A shiver goes down your spine when you hear it. The sound of your name falling from soft lips. Muzan stands tall in the center of the room. Her hair was in its usual bun, her kimono perfectly draped. With quick yet elegant steps, she’s in front of you. Her sharp, red eyes pierce through you. “Kneel.”

It was as if your body switched to auto-piolet. You get down on one knee, a hand on your chest, bowing your head. “Lady Muzan, it’s so wonderful to see you again. Is there something you need of me?” 

Muzan reached a hand down, bringing the tips of her fingers to lift your chin. She smiled. The sight caused your stomach to flutter. “Yes, there is something I need. Rather urgently at that.” With her free hand, she holds a sheet of parchment. “See these ingredients? I need you to collect them for me.” 

Your eyes look into hers, shining with pure devotion. “Of course, I will go right away.” 

Muzan gleamed at your eagerness. She kneels next to you, her hand cupping your chin. “Always so happy to please. You’re unlike my demon subordinates. No, you’re far more special. You can do things they can’t. I can call you day or night.”

Your spine tingled as she leaned in close, her breath tickling your ear. Her voice was low as she whispered. 

“Make quick work of this task, and I’ll reward you. Don’t disappoint me.” Muzan’s lips grazed against the shell of your ear. Her waxy lipstick left a faint mark.

Clasping your hands together, you look on at Muzan with awe. She was so close. The floral fragrance of her perfume wafts into your nose, sending a jolt through your body. “I won’t let you down! I’ll get everything on the list, I promise.” 

“Good.” Muzan pulls away, standing to her full height. She turns around and gives a dismissive wave of her hand. Nakime sends you off with a strum of her biwa.

Once you’re gone, the demon king walks back to her desk with a smirk. You were so easy to work, so malleable. You would do anything she said. She liked that. Unlike some of her demons, you never complained or whined; never asked for anything in return. Just working for her seemed to be enough payment. She couldn't help but wonder, would you still serve her in her other forms?

Hours had passed, and the sun was going down on the horizon. 

“They have returned, Lord Muzan,” Nakime announced as she strummed the strings of her biwa. The infinity castle shifted and shuffled until you were back in front of Muzan. You held bags and parcels of many shapes.

You stand tall, bowing your head, and a light blush covers your face. “I’m back, my lady. I got everything on your list.”

In a flash, the items were out of your hands. Muzan takes her place in front of you. The way she looked down at you made your heart beat faster. She brings her hand to your cheek, a well-manicured nail grazing against your skin. “Well done. You didn’t have any trouble, did you?” Her voice was like honey, and you just wanted more of it.

“No! No trouble at all. I found everything with ease. I only had to visit two villages as well.” It didn’t matter how many villages you went to. You’d scour the whole globe if it made Muzan happy.

Slowly, Muzan leans in. Her fragrant perfume fills your senses once more. “Perfect. Now, for your reward.” 

The touch is light, but it still invigorates you. Her lips were soft and gentle against yours. Still cupping your cheek, she used her thumb to stroke your skin. The smooth feel of her lipstick was pleasant on your lips. Just as quick as the feeling came, it was gone. Though it was a chaste kiss, it felt like an eternity to you.

Once Muzan pulled away, she smirked. “Hm, you just might be my favorite. If you keep working this diligently, I’ll have to keep rewarding you.”

[bluerose-sims]

HOT SUMMER COLLECTION

New meshes

Kimono Cover Up, Acc in gloves category

Two pieces Cover up, Acc in gloves category

Plastic Jacket no Acc

Male shorts

Bell swimsuit, with and without pearls

All lods and maps

Thumbnail

Compatible with HQ and Base Game

Download

Please don’t redistribute, respect the work that has led to doing this, hours of creation, if you don’t like you don’t use it, you can continue playing without it, but respect the work of others

I DON’T allow conversions to any game, don’t ask

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[biolumien]

i had all, most of, some and then, none of you

jo togame x gn!reader ty to @/yisxn putting some thoughts in my brain... i did want to write some more pre-shishitoren arc togame because hes so... shakes my fist at him generally implied that reader is at the very least smaller than him word count: 1217

strong is one of the words you can use to describe togame. it’s an apt word–probably the most apt word there is. he’s strong. he’s the collected one, when compared to jumpy choji. he’s the one who strikes down the weakest links, skins them, as it goes–a language he uses with a cold kind of certainty. all the unworthy, all the scumbags, all the weak–skinned, as if scraped with a knife. that’s his job. 

and he’s certainly got the brute force to enforce it, at the very least. the room always seems to go quieter when he shows up–a mixture of quiet terror and buzzing anticipation crackling right underneath the surface. waiting for the all-great and all-powerful jo togame to show some fuckers what-for.

so why is it that he’s at your door right now, in the middle of the pouring rain?

the summer rain is balmy, causes the air to become sticky and humid. you felt condensation sticking to your skin as you opened the door, the chilly air nipping at your skin. 

“togame?” you ask, rubbing at your eye. “it’s… fuck, it’s late. didn’t i tell you that–”

togame slumps.

he doesn’t seem hurt, but he leans forward, pressing soaked hair against your chest.

“i didn’t know where else to go,” he mutters, and his voice is flat, that slow characteristic drawl you’ve always known, but when he raises his head to look at you, he suddenly seems so much more exhausted than you could have ever anticipated. so you fold. you reach out a hand to cup the back of his neck like he’s a misbehaving cat, and are met with the freezing cold of his skin. his shishitoren jacket is soaked all the way through, soaking past his kimono. 

“come on,” you whisper. “let’s get you inside, dry you off.”

navigating togame through your house is hard, especially when he’s about as flexible as a cadaver right now. once or twice you’re forced to catch his head right before he smashes against a cupboard, seemingly relying on you to navigate him into your bathroom. you sit him down to lean against your bathtub, and you sit on the edge of it, producing a white fluffy towel to dry his hair. he wordlessly takes it from you, staring at it.

“and your clothes,” you say, after a moment. “take those off. all of it. i’ll get you something spare… if any of it’ll fit you.” 

togame makes a noise of assent, reaching to the back of his neck to undo the tiny, soaked braid before starting to rub at his hair. 

it’s hard to find anything. you produce a few overstretched shirts from the wash, a pair of sweatpants with the waistband so obliterated that the elastic’s more of a suggestion than an actual band that would snap on your skin, but the pickings are slim. as you pick up the offerings to throw them into the bathroom, you turn to find that togame has already stepped out of the bathroom. he’s wearing his boxers, thankfully–but you can see the toll fighting’s taken on him–scars littering his skin, and more concerning were the smattering of new and old bruises on his skin–reddish to purplish-yellow on some of the deeper ones.

he’s still drying his hair, his expression still strangely sullen, dark.

“here,” you say, holding up the shirts and sweatpants you picked out. “hopefully these can fit you.”

“... thanks,” togame mutters. he sits down on your bed, slumping his head forward. you watch him put on the sweatpants and one of the shirts–you silently thank your lucky stars that they do fit, after all. 

togame’s not much of a talker–he’s said to you multiple times before that he’s the kind of person who doesn’t mind it being silent–that he loathes small talk meant to fill up a space. and you’d usually agree–silence between the two of you has always been comfortable, never awkward. and yet, today, it’s abundantly clear that it’s a hollow kind of emptiness, a miniature kind of death.

“did you finish drying your hair?” you press, after a moment. you reach out a hand to touch his hair, and you can almost feel the way he flinches–but you push through for the moment to touch at his head. it’s damp, but passable. 

togame reaches out a hand to touch yours where it’s still on his head, shifting his other arm to pull you closer to him. you fumble for a second, stumbling a little bit as your knees knock against each other. he presses his head to your chest, a shaking exhale passing his lips.

“i’ve fucked it all up,” togame says after a moment, his voice sounding choked. “i’ve lost him…”

“lost him?” you ask, and your fingers brush through his hair, and he leans into your touch, before jolting away when he realizes what he’s doing.

“choji,” togame says, his voice sounding hoarse. “i’ve lost him–what am i going to do–” the hand grasping yours shakes for a moment, and you feel something in you break ever so slightly.

“hey, hey,” you say, quiet. your free hand moves to touch his face, and when he looks up at you, his eyes shine with unshed tears. “togame…” it’s an expression you hope the rest of the shishitoren will never see–because the reformed shishitoren seemed so much more unkind. it’s an expression you thought you’d never see–and he doesn’t even seem to realize he’s close to crying–the pain of his eyes stinging probably no different than any other injury. “i’m sure you haven’t lost him.”

“i made him do it,” togame says. “i made him become leader–and now he’s worse than ever–i thought skinning people, i was loosening the weights on him–that he’d be able to find freedom on his own, but–”

you shift forward, sitting on the bed next to him, pulling hs head closer to your chest. his hand tightens against your shirt, tight but not tight enough, as if he’s terrified of his own strength. perhaps he was, now–frightened of his own actions–frightened of the weight behind them. 

“it’ll be okay, togame,” you whisper. “you’re his best friend, aren’t you?”

“some friend i am,” togame says with something like bitterness, resentment, worry, hatred in his voice. “i’ve led him down a path i don’t know i can pull him back from–” “you can,” you say. “you will. if there’s anyone who can, it’s you.”

togame’s shoulders shake when he cries.

it’s not a fact you’d like to know, not really–you wonder if togame let his shoulders shake when choji stared at him with dead eyes, and told him bluntly to leave if they didn’t share the same vision. you wonder how long togame had stood there in the rain that day, wondering if he’d made the right choice. and yet today, on another rainy day–he seemed to have come to a completely different conclusion.

you hold him until he falls limp against your arms, his shaking sobs turning into the soft and slow breathing of sleep. and when you lie in bed, feeling his grip tightening on your shirt as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear on him, you wonder who will be the one to put him back together, should he be the one to lose his way.

[yandere-daydreams]

very loosely based on this post from @ddarker-dreams.

Scaramouche collects dolls.

He won't admit it's a collection (because a big, scary Harbinger would never actively seek out something as childish as dolls), nor have you ever heard him refer to them as anything other than 'antiques', you have working eyes, and you can see that the objects of his fixation are of a certain type, with a certain pasted, acquired through a certain method - always fished out of gutters or bought off the shelves of run-down pawn shops, repaired by Scaramouche's surprisingly adept hands, and posed in one of his many estates among other members of his collection. You think he sympathizes with them, an abandoned doll in his own right. You know that, despite his protests, he can't stand to see another discarded toy go forgotten.

None of his dolls go neglected, but of course, he has his dearests. He seems to prefer those of cloth and porcelain over wood and clay, favors the softened, simply-dressed babydolls you might find in a child's toy chest to the delicate, life-like figurines who'd be more at home behind glass. His absolute favorite looks quite a bit like you, and you've long since stopped trying to convince yourself that this fact was simply a terrible coincidence, even if you don't think you'll ever find the strength to admit it aloud.

It's the only doll that lives in his personal chambers, on its own little raised platform beside his vanity. You know better than to get rid of it (he'd once had each of a soldier's fingers broken for accidentally tearing the arm off a decaying ragdoll, and while you doubt he'd be so harsh with you, it doesn't seem wise to test your luck when it comes to comparing his sick obsession for you to the protectiveness he feels over his ever-growing hoard), but you try not to look into its glazed-over eyes, to avoid acknowledging the longmoment Scaramouche takes to run his fingers through its hair every morning while you pull a comb through his. On his demand, of course.

He seems to be under the impression that every doll needs a proper caretaker, and he's chosen you as his.

He has clothes tailored for it, too, a hand-stitched wardrobe that eerily mirrors yours. You've never caught him in the act, and you know he'd never let a servant touch anything so precious to him, and yet, it seems to be adorned in a new outfit every day, dressed in miniature kimonos or fur-trimmed coats equipped with every detail of the real garment - down to the red thread you often use to refasten loose button and torn clasps. The likeness is uncanny, the similarities too drastic to ignore. That might be why you loathe it as deeply as you do.

Once, while Scaramouche busy meeting with some nameless Snezhnayian offical, you'd found his doll displaced from its pedestal, left on the center of his bed, lying on its stomach, clothes disheveled and hair in a state of disarray. Out of solidarity with your fellow captive, you'd attempted to move it into a more dignified position, but your fingertips brushed against something cold and slick, your eyes falling to the translucent stains that ran in distinct stains across its fine clothes, and--

And, you hate it. You hate that it's another version of you, made small and helpless and delicate. You hate that it shares your face, and your clothes, and your subjugation underneath a man too cruel to treat even what he holds closest to him with kindness. You hate that there's nothing you can do to protect so much as a toy from Scaramouche.

You hate that there's nothing you can do to protect yourself from so much as a heartless, soulless, unfeeling doll.

[renranram]

Your stories r so good qigehwjw I keep rereading them when there hasn't been a new one updating, but would like to ask which u can freely ignore.

What if schlatt takes us once again to Japan and we try out a kimono he's either filming her or someone else it's up to you🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 once again have a great day!!

Kimonos

sfw + fluff

this is like the part 2 from the last japan related schlatt one shot i wrote

a/n; HI YANNVI!! IM GLAD YOU LIKE MY WORKS SKSHSHFJ + YOUR IDEA IS SO CUTE OFC I CAN'T JUST IGNORE IT ILY ( PARASOCIALLY )

schlatt and you return again to japan, this time it's just both of you two, no cameras, no nothing

the photo booth pics of you two are still in the back of his phone, showing you off but in a lowkey way, as you two scroll through a small festival in japan you two look around as schlatt pause, approaching a small stand before picking up a small pink cat plush

“ it looks like you “ schlatt smiles as you chuckle, “ do i really? “ you ask, standing next to him as you pat the small plush before gasping, grabbing a large brown bear

“ it looks like you! “ you giggle, as he chuckles back, gently grabbing the bear from out of your hand as he poses with it

you grab out your polaroid, before snapping a photo of him and the bear, “ you're so cute “ you mutter out as schlatt could only pull you for a peck in your cheek

“ i thought we agreed on not bringing any cameras hm? “ he gently caresses your shoulder before you respond, “ i knoww, i just wanted to snap some photos “ you reply, “ preserve the memories you know? “

“ of course you would “ he states, before glancing at the two plushies, “ do you want them? “ he asks

“ uhm.. but what if they're too expensive? “ you ask, he always spoils you without a problem so why would he care now?, “ there's nothing to expensive for me “ schlatt retorts patting your hair as he grabs both of the plushies

respectfully paying for the toys, as he looks at you proudly, holding the bag, “ it's us but if we're plushies “ you added he intertwines his hand with yours, as you two continue to walk around the festival

you two ate traditional foods, looked at shrines and even paid respect for the spirits by lighting up some candles

your polaroid collections started growing and growing with every shot of you two, that was until fans of his spotted you two, both are wearing kimonos as they reluctantly approaches schlatt

“ hi! we're such big fans “ the boy, who looks about 15 and his friend, a girl, who looks older smiles at them as you glance at schlatt, happy that he was recognized, “ hey im glad you like my content “ schlatt replies

the two kids looks at you before gasping, giving him a cheeky smile, schlatt scolds the kids in a playful manner, “ we keep this a secret alright? “ he daps up the kids before the two nod, being a chuckling mess

“ can we take a photo with you? “ the girl asks as schlatt glances at you, looking for permission as you respond with a small nod, stepping away a little as the two kids, pose, and snaps a photo with their idol

schlatt pats both of their shoulders, “ we're so happy to meet you! “ the kids state in unison as they bow in unison too, “ me too, “ schlatt pauses before glancing at their attire, “ hey, before you two go, can i ask where'd you'd get those? “ he asks nicely, pointing at the kimonos

“ oh our parents rented these in a nearby store… like over there! “ the kid points at a shop, who's only a few blocks from where they were

“ alright, thank you “ schlatt gives them a little bow as the kids run away, giggling, schlatt approaches you, noticing you looking in awe at a beautifully decorated shrine while chewing on her dango

“ hi toots “ he greets you again, his hand on your waist as you smile, “ they seem like nice kids “ you commented as schlatt nods in reply, “ i wanna try something with you “ he added as you raise your eyebrow in interest

“ oh? “ you blink as schlatt gently grabs your wrist as he starts pulling you behind him, “ what is it? “ you ask, smiling, “ just something “

you nod in defeat as schlatt and you stop at a kimono shop, you gasp, “ what's this for? “ you ask him, “ wanna try those kimonos with you “ he nudges your shoulder

“ really? “ you squeal, before nodding, as two staffs comes up to you two speaking in japanese but they're generally greeting you in their shop

you two were separated by them as they let you chose the preferred color of your clothing, unironically, you and schlatt chose the same color, light blue

the staffs gently dresses you up with the obis, such as ( obi-age, obi, obi-dome and obi-shime ), they were that kind to even gently put on the tabi on you, even letting you borrow a tradional umbrella and a kinchaku

schlatt of course paid for everything, the staffs calling him handsome and he could only bow and chuckle in response flustered

as you got out of the dressing room, schlatt swore he fell in love again, he smiles, your hair was put up, the staffs cooes at you two as you chuckling, noticing the same color you two wore

“ we're twinning babe “ you approach him as schlatt pulls you by your waist as the staffs squeal like teenage girls

you two chuckle as schlatt pulls out the polaroid before approaching the staff, whispering something at them as they nod, even with the language barrier schlatt just hands them the polaroid before going back to you to pose

“ ah “ you mutter, his hand on your waist, as the two of you pose, after with a small shutter, schlatt bows in gratitude as the staff returns the camera, all smiles, “ uh…you return in… hour “ the staff states, her broken english is very obvious

the two of you continued to walk around the festival even managing to get into a petting zoo, before it was you who was taking photos him and this time it was him taking pictures

it was an adorable sight really, you chuckle, scrunchiour nose as you feed a lamb, another shutter, “ you keep taking pics of me “ you mumbles, fixing your hair

“ it's cause you're adorable toots “ he smiles at you, “ plus, it saves the memories you know… so.. if we do get children in the future we can show them how pretty their mother is “

you blush like a teenage girl, “ awh come on, it is real tho, i want us to have a photo album of us, a photo album dedicated to you, showing how much we love eachother “

“ … you're so cheesy “ you can only comment, as schlatt pecks your cheek, “ it is real tho, i wanna share these memories with them in the future “

-

@.isniffschlatt’ssocks • 7 minutes

AHH OMG SCHLATT WAS SPOTTED IN JAPAN WITH THE SAME GIRL, ANY THOUGHTS??

↳ 427 ⇆ 308 ♡ 592

↳ @.jschlatt • 1 minute

that girl is my gf btw

↳ 799 ⇆ 987 ♡ 1.8k

[seabirdtxt]

Hey, back at it with a request. I wanted to dump you with requests, but I also know that it takes you a bit to write, and I didn't want to overwhelm you ^^"""

Honestly though, with the requests I have in mind, I have a feeling they're going to become a spinoff series called "In which the Puppets learn the Creator is really, really bizarre."

With that said, this request will consist of some habits I have, and how our puppet boys would react to them! That being: reader is a night owl magpie who likes to collect a number of things. Whatever sparks their fancy, they hoard (It's why the Traveller has such a hoarding problem in the first place).

They collect some semi-formal things, like flowers and different plants, and like shiny rocks (Reader is familiar with the Language of Flowers, and I can fully see them and Kabukimono spending hours going over them. With Scara, Reader finds a piece of Rose Quartz in the shape of a heart and gives it to him, saying "You said you wanted a heart, right? Here you go! I know it isn't a real heart, but that's okay: because you already have a real one!")

But then they have the weird stuff they collect, like bones -and teeth -and scales - and bugs (Scara or Wanderer: "Why do you have this?" Reader, holding up the carcass of a beetle: "I just think they're neat!")

Or the worse part: literal trash. I'm talking broken pieces of glass and random metal parts, and like old candy wrappers that they've been keeping. (Again: Scara or Wanderer: "Get rid of this." Reader: "But it has sentimental value-!!!" S or W: "IT IS LITERALLY TRASH!!!")

But yes. Reader is a hoarder of many things.

i love this LOL i also hoard some pretty random things so like 🤝

(Might not have touched on all the same points as your ask bc i tried to keep it in-universe, but i tried to hit the major themes of each!)

WC. 1.5k

----- ⚘ -----

Flowers and Gems: Kabukimono

This collection is one of your gentler ones, and you take care to replenish it often with new blooms and interesting stones you pick up along your way. There is so much more novelty to collect here than back on earth, after all!

Kabukimono is fascinated by the variety of it, begging to be taken along with you the next time you venture out into the world to add more to your stash, and maybe take inspiration to start a collection of his own! It takes a bit of convincing, but you eventually relent and allow him to accompany you.

He follows you with wide eyes and an awed grin, asking you all about the various plants that the pair of you come across. You try to remember them as best as you can, reciting what you remember from the ingame tooltips.

“Wow! What’s this one?” Kabukimono asks, bounding up to a reddish pink bush. He delicately plucks one of the flowers, showing it to you proudly.

“That’s a silk flower!” You tell him, smiling as you take the flower from his hand. He only smiles and picks himself another one. “The people in Liyue can process them and make them into a very fine fabric!”

Kabukimono nods in understanding. “That makes sense! I know lots of kimono makers back home often talk about the quality of fabric from Liyue.”

“Fun fact,” you add, “back in my world, silk is such a sturdy material that it can resist piercing damage, to a certain extent! But it is very weak to slashing, or cutting damage.”

“That’s so interesting!” Kabukimono’s eyes go wider at the information. “I wonder if that's true of the silk from this world, too!”

“We probably shouldn’t, y’know… test it or anything,” you interrupt him before he lets his curiosity get the better of him. “We can probably ask a seamstress about it later.”

“Ohhh, good thinking.” Kabukimono agrees. He pockets his flower and looks around the area, scouting for the next object to collect. “Hey, do you have an electro crystal, yet? I heard you can only mine them using pyro!”

You let Kabukimono lead you to your next destination, already planning to press the new flower for your collection. Distantly, you wonder how the two of you are going to get an electro crystal, considering neither of you have pyro visions.

----- ⚘ -----

Beetles and Bones: Wanderer

“I went back to Springvale to ask if those hunters still had some of those ancient boar bones,” is what you say, offering a sheepish grin to Wanderer, who stares down at you with his arms crossed. In all honesty, you probably deserve the scrutiny for having somehow escaped his supervision for several hours.

“Did you at least get the, uh,,” Wanderer gestures at the cloth bag you’re holding in your arms. “Special bones you were looking for?”

“Yeah!” You exclaim, shaking the bag excitedly. It makes a rattling noise as you move. “Do you want to see them?”

You don’t wait to hear the answer, instead leading the way to your room, where part of your collection resides. You hear Wanderer step in and close the door behind you, waiting in curious silence as you carefully put your bag on your bed, pulling open the drawstring with reverence.

One by one, you bring out the intact bones the hunters were able to unearth from you. You brush off some of the remaining dust, then you begin laying them out on your bed in their approximate positions.

“That’s your special ancient boar?” Wanderer asks, sidling up to you and looking at the bones with you.

“Yes!” You finally place the jawless skull at the top of the unfinished skeleton, putting your hands on your hips with satisfaction. “I found it during a quest when I was still guiding the Traveler. I knew I had to have it in my collection when I got here!”

“Fair enough,” Wanderer nods. “Can I see the rest of your stuff?”

You are more than eager to show off the cool stuff you’ve been hoarding since your arrival in Teyvat, from smaller animal bones, to surprisingly intact shed lizard skins and molted duskbird feathers, and even some hollow onikabuto shells.

Wanderer picks up each one with care, mindful of your enthusiasm for your strange collection. He turns each object over slowly, inspecting them as you’re explaining the particularities of your collection.

“Hey, do you mind if I borrow some of these?” Wanderer eventually asks, as you’re nearing the end of your impromptu lecture. “I’ve got this Amurta elective that I haven’t started my project for, and some of these are interesting enough. I could probably write something about them.”

Your sudden silence is worrying, and he’s quick to backpedal in case he’d offended you in some way.

“Or, forget it, I mean-” he turns and pretends to scratch his nose to hide the dumb expression he knows he must be making. “I know this is all probably hard to get, so if you don’t want to risk it getting broken or stolen…”

“I would love to share it with you!!” Your sudden shout scares him out of his foul mood, and he looks at you in bemusement. Your eyes are wide and shiny, matching the stupid grin that settles on your face. Just as he’s about to reply, you leap up and scramble for one of the unopened drawers.

You proudly present a wooden box, and when you open it Wanderer can see the interior is padded and separated with thin wooden strips, creating protected compartments just big enough to fit some of the larger items in your collection.

“You’ve got to take extra good care of this stuff, okay?” You instruct him, and you help him pack the items he’d chosen into your carrying case. “I mean, I can probably find some of this stuff again, but the more delicate things are harder to come by. Promise you’ll be careful?”

He looks up at you, closing the lid of the box slowly and fastening it shut. “Yeah, I promise,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

----- ⚘ -----

Literal Garbage: Scaramouche

“You’re throwing this shit out, right?”

The noise you make, of absolute disgust and denial, is enough to make Scaramouche second guess his own words for a moment. He recovers faster than you’d give him credit for, picking up the broken clay jar and the dull shard of a broken sword. He holds up both in front of you, an accusing glare pinning you.

“Does this look like normal stuff to collect, to you?” he demands, tossing both back into the bin where he’d found them, retrieving a foil candy wrapper and a graphite pencil with no nib. Again, he discards both items with a noise of exasperation. “None of this stuff has any use! It’s all just garbage! Where do you even find this?!”

“Like,” you say, shuffling closer to your collection bin and putting the cover back on it slowly. “On the ground and stuff? I don’t know what you’re expecting.”

Scaramouche pinches the bridge of his nose with a loud sigh, but doesn’t make any move to reopen the bin. “You’re seriously testing my patience, here. Why are you collecting all this garbage? Can’t you collect something less… bizarre? Like seashells, or something.”

“I have some of those, too!”

“Not the point, here!”

You look down where your hands are pressing down on the lid of the bin, then back up at Scaramouche with a bit of a pout.

“Are you really making me throw it all out?” You ask, pitifully. He takes one look at you and grumbles with displeasure.

“That’s not what I said,” he rolls his eyes, crossing his arms as he looks down his nose at you. “You want to waste your time picking up other people’s trash and pretending it has meaning to you? Fine, be my guest. But don’t come crying to me when you realize you’re stuck with a container full of useless junk that nobody wanted anymore.”

“Sometimes, even the things that people feel have no practical use can be worth a lot to someone else,” you tell him. “Things don’t have to be worth anything to be wanted.”

Scaramouche chews on your words for a moment, then shrugs. “Sure, whatever you say, I guess.”

He doesn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon, so you tentatively open the bin and reach inside, fishing around until your fingertips grasp what you’re looking for.

“Are you sure you don’t recognize this one?” You ask, holding up the candy wrapper so he can see it. He scrunches up his nose at the offending item.

“Am I supposed to?”

“It’s from that festival in Inazuma,” you smile, bringing the wrapper to yourself gently. “The one you guys took me to when you found out I hadn’t been to one before.”

Scaramouche looks at it closer, out of the corner of his eye. He lets his shoulders slump and shakes his head with a huff.

“Whatever,” he says. “The rest of it is garbage, though.”

You put the wrapper away with a cheeky grin.

[yumeka-sxf]

It's time for another merch post, my biggest one yet since I went kind of crazy for merch in Dec/Jan...my wallet is still recovering 😵‍💫 (also, I made scans of some of this merch in a previous post here if you haven't already seen).

First is one of two Mercari orders. I only intended to get the movie booklet (which I've posted about previously) but added some more stuff to make the shipping worthwhile!

I got the towel with the cruise arc outfits that's part of the merch line for the Tokai Steamship collab. It's a bit small, but I still love it!

I always liked the art for the Tower Records collab, so I got a poster! (the seller also included stickers and postcards).

I also like the art for the Cruise Buffet collab, so I got a paper placemat which makes a great poster! The seller shipped it in this nice plastic cover, so I decided to keep that on to protect it (they included a postcard too, which will be part of my next miscellaneous scans post 😁)

The below acrylic stands were recently released as part of the movie merch line (sold at theaters I believe). Anya had a couple different designs, including one where she's in a director's chair and one where she has 3D glasses. But I picked the one where she's eating popcorn since Bond is with her (gotta always get the whole family when I can!)

A couple weeks ago I took a trip to Animate, where they just happened to be having a SxF promotion where you'd get postcards of the new camping designs if you spent a certain amount on SxF merchandise. I bought the four camping acrylics, which was more than enough to get all the postcards 😊

Also picked up these two magazines, since a Kinokuniya store was at that mall as well (scans of these coming soon!)

Below is the second Mercari order!

I absolutely love these painting acrylics! They're definitely one of my favorite sets ❤️

Some acrylics from the movie! The big one in the middle is really cool, the background is reflective but transparent too.

I love the Waku Waku Park designs, but was only able to find acrylics of Anya & Bond. Hope to add Loid and Yor to the collection one day. So I just got a clear file in the meantime, lol.

Couldn't resist this adorable CODE: White overnight bag! I decided to use it to hold my many TCG decks 😅

And lastly (kinda of) was my usual Amiami preoder!

The "Anya helping with chores" designs are so cute, I got them as both acrylic stands (from Amiami) and reusable bags (from the aforementioned Mercari order).

I got more acrylics and postcards of the lovely kimono designs ❤️ (postcards scans coming soon!)

As I posted about previously, I got the Operation Diary video game along with these nice goodies that came with the preorder! (that keychain is rare official Twiyor merch 👀)

And I got even more TCG accessories! (another set of sleeves, a few deck boxes, a card box, and card holder).

The reason I've been getting so much TCG stuff, as well as why I said the Amiami order was only "sort of" the last of my merch from the past couple months, is because I had also preordered a case of SxF Weiss Schwarz cards! I preordered it back in August, and the set officially released in English last week...but that will be covered in another post, so stay tuned~

[themakeupbrush]

Miss Universe Japan 2023 National Costume

Rio from Japan is wearing a kimono from Jane Aiko YAMANO's 'Love' Collection. Jane is a female leader in the beauty industry and is honored to support MUJ with her students in Japan. A mixture of traditional style with a sprinkle of sparkle. The color red represents the sunrise of a new day. In ancient times, all were freed from the dark of the night by the power and energy of the sun. The color of white signifies pureness. We hope that the red shines light to all and gives the strength to love and live with passion through this journey of life.

[tanuki-kimono]

First of all- thank you for your work with this blog. I really enjoy the information you share, and the kimono designs are wonderful. I have a question- I know you've talked about how 'men don't/didn't wear Bright Colorful Designs' is more complicated then people assume! (Which makes sense- saying 'in X period men Never Wore Colors' isn't true about, say, the Victorian era either!).

But to get to my point- I happened to be reading a very old collection of mysteries called "The curious casebook of Inspector Hanshichi". In them, a young Hanshichi is described as wearing a very bright red and yellow striped kimono that made him 'look like a merchant'. At the time I assumed this implied he was dressing a little flashily- I'm curious if I was right about that!

You most welcome :D

And the parallel you draw with Western men fashion is pretty accurate: we tend to think menswear was always pretty dull (arf modern business suits) when in fact this tendency is quite recent!

As to your question about fashionable Inspector Hanshichi (for those who don't know: hero of early 20thc detective novels with "supernatural" elements written by Kido Okamoto), I think you are right. The "look like a merchant" is probably a mix of:

He's dressing below/above is condition. I don't remember Hanshichi exact social status (is he a yoriki? a doushin?), but samurai class were supposed to dress differently from merchants for ex.

He dressing flashy - "nouveau rich" style. Merchant class was at the bottom of social order BUT hold in fact all financial power in Edo period. Some merchants tried to emulate samurai dress (=conservative), while others didn't hesitate to show their wealth and dictate new fashions.

He is dressy flashy - dandy style. Hanshichi is a wakamono (young) and probably fashionable man, following whatever trend he likes - a late Edo heritage of early Edo kabukimono (flashy young samurai)

[joy-haver]

Social Fabric; Clothing in a Free Society.

A Speculative Fiction Essay. _

Amongst the anarchists, there are great collective lending libraries of clothes, and accompanying them are great collective laundries. Most clothes that are washed in the collective laundry are held communally, and can be selected from the whole on a basis that anyone can use them, but no one is allowed to destroy them. 

Those who do not wish for a great variety of clothing will often go to the seamstresses and tailors and have constructed for them a few perfectly chosen items, or will select a few items from the whole which are close enough to be made over to their needs. Often, these choice items are of a form of traditional dress; those articles that have proven themselves under the wide test of history; kimonos, saris, chitons, the great plaid and shirt, shift and petticoats and stays with an over dress, the various robes of the various monks and nuns - although, there are some more recent designs which serve the function just as well, such as the common overdress. Many of these traditional and custom dressers have very few total articles of clothing, but also rarely share them. In a majority of these styles, there is an under layer that is easy to launder, and most individuals have 2 or 3 of these under layers, and launder only them frequently and often by hand or in smallbatch guilds, creating little strain on the great laundries of the clothing libraries. 

With these two main ways of organizing one’s dress, the society manages to keep overall production rather low. Those who wish for variety hold their variety in common. Those who wish for more custom design tend to need little more in the sake of variety. In any case, the total number of clothing articles someone from either group may be using at any one moment is fairly comparable.

Those in society who are at the outlier of size and shape interact similarly to the rest, just in an expansive system of time. New articles of clothing are almost always brought into the fold because an individual cannot find something that suits their exact desires or needs, and there is nothing available which would be appropriate to make over and reshape for the wearer. Items are returned when they are no longer suited, and then they are kept in common till they are suited to another, or made over, or worn out. When one is very large, or needs medically assistive clothing, or is very tall, they have clothing made if there is none available. However, because there is less of a demand on these more specific articles of clothing, they are also worn out less, and take up relatively little in storage space. And so, the clothing of these outliers is also in the library system, just checked out less often- just as a specialized book might be. If something is so particular that after a few generations it still sees no use, it can be made over completely or scrapped for stuffing, and new items can be made for those who come along. 

Due to the nature of bodily change; that we will grow, that we will shrink, that we will convert to new religions and reembrace old ones; that we will give life and be taken from it, there are always a fine number of perfectly crafted custom clothes being returned to the share houses and clothing libraries. 

Having worked in the laundry, and having worked in the cotton fields and flax thrashery, and in the hunt or slaughter, and understanding of the limitations of production, those who make clothes take great care to make them to last. But that is not the only way that they ensure that their uses can be long in years and multitudinous in function. Clothing that is being made for general use is often made with removable panels to adjust the sizing, and over cloths are often pieced together and held by a great many laces, easily stripped stitches, or zippers. The sleeves are often designed such that many are in great bell shapes, with fastening cuffs that can adjust to a variety of sizes. Buttons and loops can be used to bunch or loose the large folds and plumes of fabric, or to hold them higher and short, which creates a vast array of looks and shapes and configurations of one garment. The same is true of many of the great skirts of the common overdress, which is designed to be floor length, but which can be easily folded and set to rest just past the crotch in a great petticoated cone; or nearly any length in between. These adaptations, along with the lacable panels on the bodice, mean that these dresses can sometimes be worn from child to elder in many configurations, sometimes even by the same individual across a lifetime. 

The lower total articles needed by the society, and the immense length of time that many articles stay in circulation, means that garment workers can take much more time for the planning, drafting, patterning, and stitching of each garment. To assist them with this task are the vast collections of patterns, tucked away by generations of previous stitchers, and curated by the many librarians, historians, researchers, and other everyday individuals who take their interests there. There are also a great many people in the society who seek something to fill their minds and their hands, and whom are willing and eager to assist with the hand sewing and embroidery and button hole stitching; but not everything is done by hand. Where it is of no sacrifice to the garment's quality, mechanical means of stitching, riveting, and weaving are used. Those within the society are not against such machinery; they are only against its application for the sheer purpose of speed when speed is not warranted, or the purpose of abundance when clothes already abound. In this society, it is seen as the duty of everyone, the most sacred duty, to use resources in the best ways possible.  To intentionally make an easily-exhausted garment is seen as a great disrespect to the cotton, linin, wool, or hide that gave itself for the production, and it is seen as a great disrespect to the others who helped harvest it, weave or tan it, stitch it, store it, and wear it. 

The clothes are maintained with regularity, often by each wearer, and also by those who take their work at the laundry. At the great communal undertakings, such as a large harvest or construction, it is not uncommon to see groups take long lunches and darn each other's nipped clothes. In the community houses and eateries, there are also a great many people whose fidgeting hands turn just as gladly to mending as to creating. Objects being moved from one repository to the next are often passed along with people on the rail lines - and often, they reach the new destination having been embellished, cherished, and turned over several times by several hands looking to find where they are weary. 

There are many regional variations in dress that develop to suit the climate and culture of the wearer. However, the overlays of climate and culture tend to be rather expansive and slow, not reaching sudden shifts upon some border.  And so interchange between the local systems of depositories takes place in overlocking regional scales, with each library of clothing taking its exchange and refreshment from those nearby. The microcommunities of regular laundering and stitching and curating in any area tend to have some overlay with one another, and that overlay allows them to contact one another to ask for specific patterns, fabrics, skill sets, or garments to be shared or exchanged or gifted. 

All members of the society participate in the production of attire, as the production of attire is a result of all the interlocking elements of the society itself. Urine collection assists in the processing of wool and leather. Leather and wools themselves are a byproduct of ecosystem management tactics. Sheep eat away at invasive and aggressive plants, and they form a coat to keep themselves warm. They do not shed the coat of their own accord, and those who assist them are left with the need to dispose of it. Not wanting to be wasteful, they turn it towards the purpose of fabric. The textile it makes is incredibly useful; it is warm when wet, it is water resistant, it can hold its shape, or it can be felted into new ones. 

This is the general principle of the anarchist’s, that all society is in process, and that the meeting of one need is always in process of the meeting of others. Interlocking systems, in which each individual does what is most helpful for the least effort given their personal and social circumstances, and in which the whole of the society takes on together that work which no one likes to do very much, leads to little begrudging in labor. And the complementary design of the ever changing social systems leads to new innovations being constantly added into the system. The ecological project of invasive species removal leaves a grand number of seeds which cannot be planted; and so the largest are turned over by jewelers as beads, and rendered sterile, whereas others are pressed as dyes, or sterilized as coat stuffing. Many other parts of this flora rendered into cordage or fiber, assisting in making the body of clothes that can be selected for different purposes, but also in the weaving of baskets, which aid in the transport of many things besides the clothes themselves. 

Overall, the relationship to clothing amongst the anarchists is their relationship to a great many things. It is complex, as the needs and desires of the community are complex. It is seen at scale, as the management of resources must always be done. Each individual playing their part, the day to day small scale of weaving, wearing, washing, and darning; and the social organism as a whole managing the long term store and circulation. And even then, the social organism and the individual being on the same continuum of self, each covers where the other cannot. 

Basic mending skills -in relationality and in fabric- are acquired by most through mentorship, sometimes with relatives, but most often mentorships develop out of the simple connection between one who knows and one who will come to know. The communal holding of labor creates a great many opportunities to ask questions of artisan crafters, and the slow nature of production, and the abundance of skilled crafters, lends to no shortage of time for education. These mentorships often create lifelong structures of support and kinship, and can serve as a primary social means for transference and norm setting, but not all are so long term. Some last but just a single moment, in a single stitch. The informality and overlapping of the mentorship structure leads to many students and many teachers, and often one is a student of one craft and a teacher in another, reversing the roles of knowledge giver and receiver, flattening the power between. And when that is not enough to flatten the hierarchy of knowledge, the simple giving of knowledge over time, and the gathering of one’s own skill, brings the mentor and the student together in talent and regard. If one teacher is a jealous guard of their hardwon tradeskills, the student simply moves on and learns from another, or watches and interprets the actions to recreate them. 

Those who are less socially skilled, or who find themselves no compatible mentor, or simply desire extra or specific training, often attend lectures and workshops and such that are arranged by other crafters. Often, these workshops are organized out of a sheer exuberance with one's work, an utter yearning to share information about it. Occasionally however, some person or group will ask of someone to share in an open setting, and this is rarely refused.

There are of course a great many people who participate little to none in the direct social production of clothing, but whose very existence, and whose feedback and desires, inform the trends and advancement of production. There are those with little use of their hands, or an inability to learn motor skills, for whom laundering and stitching and patterning are most often out of reach. The abundance of high quality garments, seamsters of all skill levels, and the length of time in which clothes can remain all lead to their being plenty extra to go around. In fact, it is in designing assistive clothing for these individuals that many crafters take their finest joys, and sharpen their design skills towards greater invention. In building a dress suited for all seasons, not abrasive to the skin, and which can be put on and adjusted with the use of only one finger, for instance, even the greatest crafters must return to thoughtfulness, experimentation, and research. For this reason, those circles of high craft and artisanry spend many meetings and byside conversations discussing the nuances of clothing the disabled. Disabled people themselves, especially those who cannot participate in social clothing, often host the most widely attended lectures and roundtables within the halls of the great laundries and pattern libraries. 

Babies also do very little to participate in laundering or stitching, except occasionally bring smiles to the eyes of those doing such work.. And yet it is the babies' clothes that wear out the fastest. They often do not notice the holes to be darned, nor do they ask others to darn them. They take no care when catching the nape of their jumper on a twig, and move blithely forward regardless of the damage. Their exemplary quick growth often means things are quickly returned to the library of attire. However, babies rarely suggest new designs, or give clear and concise feedback on flaws or opportunities, and they almost never order custom designs. This is all of little concern to the stitcher, in spite of it all. Babies' clothes are easy to make, famously small, and can be incredibly entertaining. A swaddling cloth designed to look like a fish becomes, when worn, a stunning image of a baby being eaten by a fish. When the baby is sad, the baby looks sad about being eaten by this fish, and this is heart wrenching and sympathy driving. If the baby is happy, the baby looks happy to be eaten by the fish, and this is silly and jovial. In this way, design can be used to help assure appropriate reactions to the baby's behavior, ensuring socialization and emotional coregulation. The babies being dressed very funny also serves as a good impetus to look at them with regularity and rigor, forming one line of care in the overlapping fabric of child rearing. For all of these reasons, it is not uncommon for the tired milliner to lay down their dress form, and take a restful opportunity to stitch some baby clothes. There are a great many festivals and art fairs in which baby clothes are shown as fun and enriching representations of the collective’s ability. The novelty also rarely wears away, as babies grow so quickly and baby clothes are exchanged so widely that one is always seeing new babies in new fun fits, doing new silly things.

Still, though, the novelty and sweetness of a babe does little to assuage the dread of laundering the baby's diapers. There are a few in the society, however, who don’t quite mind the smell, or who cannot smell it at all. They cannot alone handle the masses of baby breech clothes, but as everyone does what is most helpful for the least effort, there's a lot of effort left over for the more difficult and undesirable tasks. When each knows it has been done for them, and -should things go well enough into age- will be again, it is not hard for most to swallow their pride. But still, some cannot handle it, and turn themselves to other unloved tasks to take their share in the whole.

The menstrual pads and rags and cups are much less challenging, as most can be rinsed or boiled and then washed aside the rest. The blooded water is often boiled down for meal, to be used in the fertilization of soils, just as the wastewater of the babies and the incontinent are processed into the greater waste treatment for ecological return. All things, even the least desirable things, are revitalized to make part of a complete system. The laundering can circle back to the growing of the very fibers from which the laundry came, making them thrive alongside their niche neighbors and other biologic users, such as the butterflies and flowers and vines that form the very dyes that are then represented again in the clothes embroidery and patterns. 

There are, of course, some items of particular sizing and customization which must reliably be returned to each individual for whom they were made, until such time that they are no longer of direct use to them. The low sorting pressure applied from the communality within other aspects of the laundry system leaves this a much less daunting task. Those working in the laundries do not have to return each item to its preferred wearer; infact, relatively few and relatively small items are returned. Injury preventing daily support items like bras and corsets, and medical assistive items like splints and braces, take the first priority in both washing and in sorting. Many of these items are also designed to need fairly irregular washing, but the labor required to make them, and the changing nature of the body, often means that wearers rarely have multiples that suit their exact specifications. In this case, the library laundries also keep on hand more general purpose items that perform the same functions, if not quite as specifically. General adjustable braces, a selection of corsets that previous users have given over to the system, a variety of wrap bras, compression bras, and retired bras all serve the intermediate function whenever a custom item is in the wash, awaiting repair, or under construction. The sorting of other items is not unavailable, just rarely used. The most common requesters for this are those who wear underdresses and undershirts, and these being relatively easy items to launder and to sort, this request is most often obliged by simply placing a hold on the item in question. However, something given over to the larger system always has some risk of being missorted, or mistakenly checked out to another, and this is understood by those who choose to handover such important items for general laundering. Hand laundering or small batch laundering are often tactics used to mitigate sorting pressure and ensure diligent return.

Small batch laundering forms a layer of communal organization and laborsharing that is far more personal, and used for more personal items. Crotched underwear is one item for which many wearers have their own personal or near-personal supply. Except in the coldest of environments, these items are rather small, and not difficult to hand wash or small batch launder. These items are often shared between small groups of friends, family, or partners, but just as often held individually. Within the larger laundry system, there are often undergarment guilds which co wash and sort together. This smaller scale tends to provide more comfort and ease than sharing such personal items with a whole library's worth of users, but also helps benefit from the pooling of labor. Still though, there are those who hold these garments in full commons, taking from the library whatever will fit their body and their use, and returning it with no desire for privacy. It is the nesting of larger scale and smaller scale systems that makes the meeting of all of these seemingly conflicting needs simultaneously possible.

There are also some for whom crotched underwear is rarely worn, such as those who primarily wear skirts and underskirts, or shifts or other underdresses, and they often hand launder out of a sense of ease. A couple shifts can take only a moment to rinse, and are often set in soapy bathwater, then rinsed in clean water, then hung to dry. This process fits so neatly within the routine of many wearers that it forms almost no extra labor. However, any particular stains or longwear smells are often requiring of a more specialized removal, and so shifts are then sent to the laundries. This rare return makes individualized sorting somewhat unnecessary. In the great rooms and halls and closets of the libraries, there are sections for different categories of items. One room or wall may be devoted to underdresses, with each section sorted by color, then circumference of the garment's fabric at its waist point, and then from shortest to longest. The measurements of each are typically then sewn in tags to the outer hem. This creates an ease for those seeking to find something in their particular size and use, often such ease that one can find the exact item they left to be laundered just days before. One can even send a message ahead to hold an item, and each item’s tag has a unique identifier. Occasionally these are barcodes, but most libraries have their own systems of identification tagging.  The selection of underdresses may be large, but the selection which meets one's needed measurements is often concentrated to a few racks per type of clothing item. In this way, very little time is needed to actually find desired items, especially considering most members in any given community have worked at least a few hours stocking their library’s shelves and becoming familiar with its methods and its collections.

Perhaps the most abundant particular clothing item is socks. In appropriate climates, many individuals wear sandals and slides much of the year, but even so, socks add that extra layer of friction and size adjustment which allows for wear during even hard labor. The greatest extent of clothing mechanization takes place in the weaving of these thinner, warm weather socks. These wear out extremely quickly. A pair of thin socks may only last the dedicated wearer 5 or 10 years, and then, that is with less than weekly wear. Those socks held communally often last even less time, being worn near daily, and get worn out in about a year. The society does have an ethos of repair; however, these items being so thin, and also so easy to produce, they are one of very few items in the society where repair is less sensical than disposal. This quick disposal does form an abundance of easy rags. The society does also have purpose made rags, often those made of old clothes converted to new lives, but the socks fill a different role, especially in cleaning those things that are rather unpleasant. It is no great loss if they are sent to an early life in the compost, but many are used and reused as rags for longer than they ever survived in their intended purpose, as is with many things. The abundance does also lead to them being seen as wonderful test items and craft supplies. A learner trying out a new stitch may use an old sock, and worry less about ruining it and more about learning. This allows breathing room for mistakes within a society where the proper use of resources is the most prized social virtue. These socks are often embroidered with strange frills, and are taken with the others and made into craft items. Dolls of sock are a common children's craft. Sock coats and capes are a pleasant and fashionable adornment, especially for the many festivals, which themselves are lined with sock garlands.

The abundance of socks, however, does not speak to a great uniformity of them. Many cuts, shapes, sizes, thicknesses, and materials are used. For the purpose of laundering, socks are separated from the rest of the clothes, and then themselves are split into batches by cut. From there, they are sorted by size. Different localities have their own standardizations of sock sizing and therefor their own sorting methods. One of the most common methods is that socks of a certain size have a certain number of horizontal lines across the toe. This method makes machine storting and hand sorting both fairly simple and reliable, as well as adding little extra to production. It does sometimes clash with other intended designs of the sock, however, and so is not universal. The interchange of people can also occasionally cause socks of one standard to enter into a sorting system of another standard. These tend to be placed in their own sections at the clothing library, and those who wish for a little more variety in their life often spend time digging through these to find the most different and unique examples, often saving them as personal items to hand launder. Most of the rest, though, are sorted by system type, and, if feasible, used as packing material when a shipment is made to a nearby area that uses that system. If there is no shipment to be made, or if there is more relevant and needed resources to be sent as packing material, then the socks are simply retired early. Even a near wasteless system must balance between reuse, return, and efficacious material and energy management. In such a case, having a few select categories of items which are generally exhaustible and low priority can free up the system to more easily prioritize everything else.

The rest of the worn out clothes are not treated with such abandon as the humble summer sock. The respect of the labor put into them creates little incentive to waste. Trimmings and leavings, the cabbage of the patternmaker, is used to stuff sleeping pillows and mattresses or coats, still being of high quality and not inundated with allergens. Old clothes worn to thinness find new homes in the cookeries and kitchens, assisting in the straining of broths and cheeses, or as the cover of steaming vegetables. The leftovers of cloth, after spending many years in their function with the body, can continue to serve for even longer after. The stuffing of seating, the control of erosion, the wrapping of fruit trees in a harsh winter, lining, all are beloved uses of the clothes of a great granfparent's generation. Work clothes are drawn from those items who are close to being put to these purposes, but whom still hold some rigor. Those tasks which may be most compromising to the cloth are often done in near dressup, emulating the visages of the past. This occasionally leads to rips and tears in the clothing, but it is seen as no great waste, and in the lack of worry, laborers are able to take joy and laughter in the mild embarrassment of a crotch seam bust open. Otherwise, many of those fabrics which are beautiful -but well worn- are turned towards quilting, or used as patches. This creates a fine degree of adornment and expression, with those who do keep personal garments being able to customize to the extreme, and with those socially held garments each having their unique quirks and flourishes.  

It is the entropic nature of things to decay, and decay does reach the usufrutuctian society. However, this decay is made use of, slowed, understood, and worked with. Each moment where material reality causes a breakdown in the system becomes an adaptation within the system, increasing complexity and diversity, preparing for the next breakdown, and innovating for new uses. Moments of waste are turned over to become the foundation of other systems, or to be used as input. The very waste of death; that we may die and leave behind that vessel which has made us, is undone in its revamping towards use. The body is processed, with that which is meat serving the ecological role in carnivore rehabilitation, or in feeding those animal domestics which require it. The skin is turned over to leather, often making up shoes, or strong gloves. The same is done with those animals which must be harvested, either for the purpose of ecological management, medicine, materials harvest, research, or cultural use. Those items which would be contaminated if made from one another are made from the other living things; bog tanned hide and organ bags for food and water storage being the most common need. The usufructians do not harvest from animals what they will not harvest from their own dead, feeling no justification in holding only one species’ life sacred. Still, however, the human body does not provide for all services, and the death of animals is inherent to ecological systems. Some, not wishing to take life, utilize glass for drinking and food storage purposes, and avoid all leather whenever possible. But those who can not bear such heavy material,, often require the use of the more light and durable animal derived bags and wraps. These items are treated with even greater care than the fabrics. It is not uncommon that when one sees people sitting down to eat on the sides of the lush walkways, one will notice them spending more time looking over their packing materials than actually eating from them. 

The use of animal products, human and otherwise, is treated with both graciousness and solemnity. A great deal of meditations and spiritual practices revolve in part around this posthumous use of the body. Usufructian funeral services are varied, with hundreds or thousands of regional, cultural, individual, and religious options to discern between; but even so, a great majority of them speak of the return. Not all return their body through leather and fed flesh; a great many are composted, returning to the soil which fed them. Some are burned in the great forest fires that bring the flowers. Bones are turned to field powder. All things that come from return to. From ashes to ashes, from life to life, from body to body, from soil to soil, from all to all; to be a usufructian is to eternal only borrow, to never completely own. The anarchist takes what they need, and gives to their ability; and in death, there is alway the last giving.  

A central premise of anarchist philosophy is “From Each Their Ability, To Each Their Need”. In the world of the anarchists, the near complete overlap of hobby and labor, alongside complementary labor facilitation systems, social principles of nondestruction, and production paced to an abundant sustenance allows for this to be accomplished. “We who waste not want nothing. We who do not destroy are never led to destruction. We who meet needs are met in abundance,” goes the song the launderers sing to pass the time. 

Amongst the usufructians, most beloved is the social relationship.This is the relationship of the individuals to one another, the individual to the society, the society to the ecology, and so on. The social relationship is, in essence, the whole relationality between all parts of reality, interconnected, caring and providing for each other. In this regard, all are cared for and all are accounted for. One who allows their clothes to tatter unmended will be doted upon by the community, offered a great deal of help in repairing them, and in stabilizing whatever aspects of their life must be out of order for such a tragedy to occur. One who does not maintain their leather storage wraps will be repeatedly brought food in glass containers, with many people offering to bring them food each meal, up to their mouths if needed, and to take the storage items to be cleaned afterwards. This is done with a special caution against condescension, and the work is passed amongst the abled participatory community as to not fatigue one anothers compassion. In this way, neglect is managed by understanding that it comes from a place of inability. Those few who are able, but unwilling, often find the hassle of being cared for more exhausting than caring for themselves, and tend to begin maintaining their resources once again. Unable and unwilling is rarely the case however. Most neglect comes from an inability in other respects, throwing one off of balance and out of systemic living. Those who are in greater need are offered care, and offered it with regularity and without shame. This care is like water, and sinks to the low places in them, filling them up, rendering them unneeding; needs continuously being met.

There are occasionally those who seek to accumulate, not wishing to return their clothes. This is often met without issue. A few hoarded items by a few people is not enough to break such an abundant and cared for system, and most of these individuals return their hordes eventually, after community support and care drives them to unlearn their anxieties of scarcity or fear of noncontrol. However, occasionally, one or a few people will attempt to checkout a great sum of the most desired and necessary clothing, setting themselves up as lords of such a resource, and demanding that others give to their whim in order to attain things. In the many upstartist attempts of this nature, this is thwarted simply by those users of a library going to another library for whatever items are now locally scarce. Those whom have such hoarded abundance are then denied the access to remove further items of the type they took, and are given only standards that meet whatever real gap in need they have. Eventually, their whims not being sated, and their laundering now needing to be done individually, they almost always end up returning the clothes to a laundry, and quietly returning to society as though nothing had happened. In those few cases where individuals hold out for their entire lives, the clothes are simply reclaimed upon their death. In rare instances, some small familial groups have established long lineages of holding on to hoards of checked out clothes. However, much of what they know is the library model, and seeing its practicalities, they often emulate its customs and systems. Having no input aside from their own craft, they care for the clothes just as diligently. Within a few generations, they become indistinguishable from the collective laundries and libraries around them, and begin to slowly open exchange and public services. These more isolated library systems do tend to create new systems and innovations in storage, sewing, distribution, and laundering, so, in this way, those who dissent become great contributors to library society. On the scale of time, their return is as blessed as any return to the collective while. 

The same principle is applied to any area within the whole that does not seem to be in alignment with the usufructian values. There are those materials that seem more time or labor intensive than their fibers or substance could possibly be worth. However, to a utopian, one who views all society on the great scale of the fullness of time, it is known that ease comes through careful work, not through abandon. The ecologist knows that it is complementarous diversity which brings ecosystemic tranquility. The anarchist knows that it is noncontrolling complexity, each acting in their best towards a shared future, that drives all of reality into collaboration. Each being all three, they clothe themselves not just in the simplest of fibers, which are easiest to mechanize, have the most history and example, and are most comfortable. With such a great portion of labor assuaged, and such a great portion of discomfort brought low, these people find themselves with extra tolerance to bare labor, and extra tolerance to bare discomforts, and they measure these tolerances out and find ways to use them towards the greater social good, and the greater good of themselves. If there is a great waste in hickory nut shells, for instance, one may practice methods of grinding them down into a fine powder, and pressing them with adhesive to form the shape of a sandal. This is not ideal for daily wear. It is too hard and uncomfortable. But the wearer finds themselves building familiarity with the material, seeing where it chips and what surfaces it is assistive to walk on. This process is intended to be personalizing and generative. Even if hickory nut shells never become a meaningfully useful clothing material, their temporary adoption as such allows individuals to build a relationship with them as a material, and explore what they could be used for. All things and all people have their place in the society; so long as careful attention is given, with understanding of needs, through personalization and diversification of the relationships that are had with them. 

The society is not, however, in any lack of materials.  There are a great many fibers grown in the great many biomes, and much of global dispersement of goods is in textiles, used as packing inbetween medical components and other fragile specialities, and bedding in the rooms of travelers.  The great diversity of communities - and the uniqueness of each bioregion- leads to a multitude of fabric fibers, an abundance of processing methods for each, and then still a great many more use cases constantly being developed and discarded and elaborated upon. The many cotton species in the world are referenced in guides for their strengths and weaknesses and sourcing and abundance. Yucca, nettle, wool, cashmere, linin, seagrass, straw, mulberry bark cloth, jusi, silk, river cane, and hundreds more are grown in mixed ecological systems around the world, mostly in their places of origin or long term cultivation. This variety means that crop failure, blight, or other disruptions in one area do little to depress the collective supply of textiles. 

To avoid species invasiveness, new crops are introduced slowly and carefully into the ecology of desired regions. The primary focus of new introductions is to provide redundancy in local and regional food systems, ensuring that all nutrients are available in multiple forms at every time of year, preempting crop failures, and ensuring that allergies and other health conditions can be easily dietarily accounted for. However, the longscale nature of society, and the ability to selectively breed native crops towards different seasonality, nutrition, and shelf ripening, often mean that there is little desire to import new food crops. Many ecological maintenance systems are built to expect new species introduction every generation or so (with some more fragile ecosystems being on much longer time scales). While crops suiting some ecological niche besides food are also often needed, such as to hybridize a beloved blighted local species, there still, on the grand scale of time, comes moments where the opportunity to naturalize a new species for the explicit purpose of human use and human joy arises. In these moments, new base fibers for textiles are considered by the sortion selected councils and ecological research syndics, and occasionally are selected. 

The clothing arts, being widely shared and thoroughly understood practices - weaving, stitching, drafting, patterning, grommeting, buttonholing, thrashing, and all the rest - all help form the shared cultural motifs by which metaphor, aphorism, and wisdom can be drawn. Young lovers first separating compare themselves often to the grommetted panels of the common overdress; coming apart, fitting together, finding their way into new patterns that suit the body. To unfold one's skirts can mean to be growing, or otherwise, to be seeking more warmth, both emotionally and practically. Similarly, to raise one’s skirt often means one is preparing for hard work, acting unencumbered and uninhibited; tho sometimes it can take on other, more sensual meaning. In the great stories of the many peoples, one often finds motifs of dress demarcating the overall plot of the story, giving character insight, or implying new layers of rich meaning. This shared understanding of material culture is often generative in individuals' attempts to further interpret their own experiences, and in the describing and shaping of relationality between one another.

In this metaphorical approach, it is said that all reality is the fabric resulting from the tension of the threads of dialectical synthesis; overlapping and informing and supporting one another. Physics is the loom. Society wears the fabric. Individual consciousness is the act of looking in the mirror. Social consciousness is the act of looking over the fabric to see how it is made, and to understand its construction. To darn is to reform. Revolution is the act of changing the drape of the fabric, often requiring the ripping of many seams, experimentation, and many practiced and skilled hands to sew it up right.

The richness of metaphors that arise from such  a multi-skilled population is a driving force for innovation and communication. Familiarity with the methods of weaving allows for consistent innovation in data storage, requiring less and less resources to store more and more information, which further feeds back into the accessibility of reference material for further garment drafting. The fine motions of needlework teach movements of the hand that carry forwards into music, facilitating unique styles of plucked tremolos, allowing those so inclined to play and bring joy to the laundries with their sweet songs. Experimentation in waterproofing outerwear and soft shoes has led to the invention of canvas boats, as well as patches that can be applied to fix leaks, further assisting in the safe and ecologically sound transport of materials.

 All aspects of the society overlap to form a cohesive and coherent whole. Each process is entangled with one another. The waste from one becomes the bedrock of another. Each skill learned in the pursuit of a task is then applied to the next task, and each lesson learned in the specific is then analogically applied to the general. 

The society is clothed together in the great cloth of interdependence, woven in the ten thousand strands formed by the tensions of material life. It does not come to pass without thought, or planning, or intention; just as a length of flax left loose will tangle. But together, each giving and using, but none destroying, all are cool in summer, warm in winter, and cozy all year round. 

[xxnghtclls]

Permission

Chapter 10

(Chapter 9; Chapter 11)

Rating: Explicit

Warning: Graphic Depiction Of Violence

Please see Chapter 1 for tags!

Monster

The sound of a door sliding shut.

You wake up, still being in the position you last remember. On your stomach, naked and on King Sukuna’s bed. You’re alone. Not remembering how you fell asleep, you shift your body a little. It aches. Bruises on your hips, aching muscles in your thighs and ass. You feel a wetness on your thighs.

Sticky.

His cum is still sticking to your holes, sticking to your thighs. It almost shocks you how much it is.

He’s not human after all.

You slowly get up and slide off the bed. Every movement hurts. You take a step and feel your pelvic muscles relax. Down it goes. His fluids run out of your holes, down your thighs. You didn’t expect him to take care of you after he’s done, but experiencing this right now... it feels embarrassing, used, alone.

Asshole.

Let me make you mine, his words are replaying in your mind.

He made you feel so good. You never experienced this kind of feeling before, not even with your hands. It was just so intense. A proud feeling tickles your heart, because the mess between your legs must mean, that you made him feel good, too.

Your King’s cum is slowly reaching your knee as you step back into reality, you turn around to look for your undergarment you tossed to the floor last night. Spotting it right at the other edge of the bed, you painfully crouch down to pick it up, as you hear a knock on the door. You jump and press the garment in front of your bare figure, as the door opens. Instead of Sukuna, a maiden walks in, her head lowered. You’re frozen, because she caught you naked in his chambers, but as you watch her collect the dirty sheets and putting them on the food tray, you figure that that’s one of her duties. She doesn’t look at you once, just quietly leaves the room with the cart and the sheets.

You loudly exhale. Again you must’ve hold your breath without noticing. Cum tickling your calf, you remember to quickly get back into your room. Peeking out of the door to his chambers, you make sure there’s no one outside, before you run as fast as you can back to your room.

As you enter your room, panting, you remember that your Kimono is still at the hidden hot spring behind his chambers.

Fuck.

Before you can take care of that, you go to the bowl of water that’s seated in your room to wash yourself. Rubbing your skin with a wet cloth, you have to work at some parts, because some of the fluids are already dried on your skin. You wrinkle your nose, because you didn’t think sex would involve this kind of unpleasant parts, but here you are, cleaning yourself from the seed of the King himself.

I should be honored, you think sarcastically.

After you finish cleaning yourself, you turn around to your futon, only to find a neatly folded Kimono on it. You didn’t notice it when you came in earlier. It’s new. You know, because you only own two. One’s at the springs and one is still hanging to dry. This one is not one of them. How convenient. You try it on immediately and ...

it looks so similar to his.

Did he send it?

Its white with dark blue edges, a few pink coloured cherry blossoms decorate it. A white triangle shaped pattern on the obi, just like his.

Your heart jumps, it looks so pretty and you can’t help to think it might have been a gift from him.

After admiring your new piece of clothing and whining about how much your body aches, you decide it’s more than late to start your duties for the day.

Scrubbing and polishing the floor in the halls again, your mind is busy recapping what happened last night and when and if you’re going to do that again. You remember him denying the kiss you so badly wanted and wonder if you “earned” it now, with him claiming you. Just as sex, you never kissed anyone in your life before and it’s a weird thought to you that you lost your virginity before you had your first kiss.

How his lips must feel?

On yours. Down there. His spit. His tongue. Wait.

You remember the tongue that appeared on his hand as it licked right through your folds. The tongue that stole your taste in the hot spring. Sighing, you can’t help to think that you want to feel it again, also want to feel his face between your thighs, tug his soft hair, maybe even earn a purr. Mindlessly scrubbing the floor, you can feel it.

You’re horny again.

Your horny thoughts get interrupted by a loud splash as your bucket with water is being kicked over.

Again.

In the fraction of a second you’re being pulled up and pushed against the nearest wall.

“You filthy little slut. Think you can just go after him? Think you can just offer your dirty little cunt to my King? Wear this fucking piece of shit?” the mean bitch spits through her teeth.

“Fuck you!” you’re not holding back this time.

She slaps your face. “Watch your little mouth or i will make sure to stuff it!”

“Just like he did with yours?” you chuckle.

She spits on your new kimono and rises her fist “I swear to my King, I will-“

“Damaging Master Sukuna’s subordinates will get you in trouble. You know that.” a slight threat paints their monotone voice. You look to your left and are relieved to see Uraume.

What a timing.

The bitch doesn’t even turn around, she just pants angrily in your face, as she lowers her fist and lets you go.

“Master Sukuna will await his dinner from you tonight, y/n. Make sure to be on time.” Uraume says.

The bitch huffs and walks away with heavy steps.

What a child.

“Thank you, Uraume.” you bow your head and they walk away quietly.

At sunset, you find yourself walking up to his chambers.

The incident with the mean bitch lowered your mood. You were so happy about the new kimono and yet she managed to ruin it and ruin your excitement to wear it for your meeting tonight. Since the other kimono is still drying and the other one still at the springs, you just washed the stain with water and patted it dry. The stain is still slightly visible but its better than to catch a cold with moist clothing. You only hope, that he won’t be angry with you.

You stand in front of his door. Excitement washes over you again, which lifts your mood. You want to feel his touch again. Knuckles rise and

Knock

Knock

Knock

Same procedure as every night, you walk into his room with the cart. The door to the gardens opened like usual, a chilly breeze is coming in from the outside. Looking carefree around the room, you don’t see him anywhere, only the small fireplace. It’s softly crackling in the corner of the room.

“Sukuna?”

Silence.

Maybe he’s not here tonight.

That’s your thought, as his energy creeps up behind you, gripping your throat.

“Tch Tch Tch, my little kitten just walks into my chambers, forgetting all her manners.” his voice so seductive. In combination with his energy on your throat, it makes you clench your thighs and you can’t hold back an audible exhale.

He’s behind you, walking slowly towards your back. You can feel his fingers replace his energy on your throat. His hands so big, they wrap around your neck so easily. Warm. You feel his face and breath softly graze your hair.

Closing your eyes, you dwell in his touch, until the grip grows unpleasant. Forceful. Eyes shoot open, as he pushes you a few steps against the cart and bents you over it.

“I think I have to teach her some. Make her remember her place.” Sukuna whispers into your ear. You would think he wants to take you there on the spot, if there wasn’t this intimidating energy around you. Threatening.

You understand. Understand, that your dumb little mind made you walk into the room like you weren’t just another one of his subordinate. Losing your virginity to him made you act without thinking. You would lie if you would say there isn’t an ounce of fear running in your veins now. He let’s go of his grip and walks into your sight. Sukuna is only wearing the black sirwal, you’ve seen him wearing in the throne room once. His naked upper body is painted in the soft blue moonlight and some orange from the fireplace. Just like last night. You look up to his face. His bottom left eye is watching you, as his other eyes are fixated on the plate on the tray. The orange of the fireplace softly shining upon him, his muscular figure, stern look on his face and freshly cut hair make him look like a warrior.

Sukuna carefully removes the hood of the plate, revealing his usual dinner. A heart. Some fingers. Some slices of meat. Raw.

He picks up a finger from the plate in a little bit too casual manner for your taste and puts in his mouth. Like a snack. The cracking sound of the bone sends shivers over your back, as you watch him while your face grows more white by the second. He turns to look down at you, his eyes flaring.

“Eat!” he hisses as he motions to the heart.

“I-I... I’m not hungry, my King” your throat grows dry. Crack.

Another bone breaks between his teeth. Sukuna takes the heart in his right hand. It still seems to be wet with blood. He squeezes it softly, painting his skin in a dark red. His bottom eyes watching you intently.

“Forgive me for my ignorance earlier, Master Sukuna.” you bow your head. “Your treatment last night must’ve clouded my mind.”

He huffs.

Hearing it makes you nervous. In a bad way.

“I couldn’t- ahhh!” you get interrupted as he yanks your head up again with a hard tug on your hair.

It hurts.

Without a warning, he shoves the raw heart into your mouth. His gaze emotionless while he does that, saying nothing at all. Your eyes scream into his, as you start to gag. Gripping onto the wrist of his hand that’s shoving the heart into your mouth, you start to tap on it. He doesn’t care, shoves it further.

You panic.

Tears forming in your eyes, heart racing, your brain decides to bite it. You press your teeth into the piece of muscle, cutting through different kinds of tissue, some soft, some hard. Blood squeezes out of it, running down your chin, your throat, onto your kimono. Your teeth bite through and you end up with a piece of raw, human organ in your mouth. Seeing your efforts, he slams the leftover piece back onto the plate with a loud clatter.

“Swallow.” he orders in a low voice as he hovers over you, his eyes threatening.

You try with every might you have in you not to vomit all over your King, as you start to chew the piece of muscle. It’s chewy, tastes like blood and corpse and death. Your jaw hurts from your efforts. He’s punishing you, challenging you and you hate it.

Why today?

You manage to chew and finally, to swallow even. Sukuna huffs again as he lets you go, picking

up one of the slices of meat. You pant, trying to calm yourself from this situation, watching his movements, concentrating hard to not retch your guts out. Ignoring you and what he just did to you, he holds a slice of meat up, it appears even larger now and suddenly you hear a deep rumble, a low smack. Your eyes shoot down to his belly as you notice movement there. The slit on his belly, that you’ve noticed a few times before, suddenly opens, revealing sharp teeth and a big tongue. Horrified, you watch as Sukuna casually tosses the piece of meat into the maw of his torso.

Monster.

You gulp. “Permission to leave, my King.” you ask carefully.

“No.” he says, not even looking at you, already picking up another one of the fingers. You lower your gaze again, listening to the sounds of munching, crunching, swallowing of human flesh as he continues feasting on his dinner. It reminds you of the sounds you heard six years ago.

Devouring that woman. You try to breathe, calm your mind, calm your guts, until the sounds grow silent.

After a pause, you feel him staring at you, before he turns to walk into the direction of his bed, slumping down into the armchair beside it.

The armchair, on which he pushed you onto his cock last night.

You stand there, waiting, eyes fixated on the ground, unsure what will happen next. Minutes pass in uncomfortable silence.

Two taps.

“What happened?” he finally says in a calm voice.

“P-pardon, Master Sukuna?” you hate to admit that you feel scared of him.

You hear him stand up and walk towards you. Still looking down onto your feet, he suddenly appears in your sight, crouching down, looking up at you. You look down to him. Eyes so soft again, as if he hadn’t just done something horrible to you. His gaze makes you want to cry, but also relieves you of the tension that he built with his actions. Sukuna’s energy growing more and more gentle.

In silence, he moves is left hand up, puts his finger right onto the stain of your kimono, the stain of spit you failed to remove earlier. His finger bores into your sternum between the red traces of blood of the heart he forced you to eat and again, it all becomes too much. You lips start to tremble. He notices.

Sukuna’s look grows even softer, gently rising his eyebrow at you in an understanding manner, even gifting you a soft smile.

“I didn’t mean to, my King. I’m sorry!” your whispering voice breaking, tears pooling in your eyes.

“I know.” he says in a calm voice, as he stands up, moving out of your sight again, as you hear him walk towards the opened garden door.

“I feel so embarrassed.” you breathe, as you press your hands into fists “If you want me to leave, I will leave, my King.”

A pause. The sounds of the night fill the room, sounds of crickets, the pond, the wind.

“Last night I claimed you to be mine. You’re not allowed to leave.” he finally says.

Heart aching.

Your eyes still fixated on the floor, you hear him walk right back at you again, stopping at the tray. Eyes peeking up, theres still the bitten heart on the plate. He takes it into his right hand again.

“Permission to ask you a question.” carefully now.

“Ask. You also may raise your head, since you’re peeking again.”

Sometimes I want to slap myself.

“Do you make every of your subordinates bite a piece off a heart?”

“If they forget their place.” Sukuna pauses. “Usually...” he turns to look at you and raises his eyebrow. “I make them eat all of it.” he says as he bites into the remaining piece of bloody muscle.