#Silk-ka

[ofpolitics]

“plots please” / either Mon Mon, Padme, Breha, Tenel Ka or anyone we've yet to write with

𝙼 𝙾 𝙽 / listen, this may be obvious, but i would very very much like a plot surrounding the fact that orson and mon knew each other starting either during the clone wars or just after the rise of the empire. please, i want to write her being the gracious, smiling hostess at her husband's parties when she would much rather be anywhere else. i want to write her confronting orson for trying to convince perrin to divorce her, deeply upset because she still cares about her husband even if he doesn't feel the same for her. could be that it was a rumor, could be that her husband told her, could be that she overheard it herself. just let me write mon being deeply unhappy with her situation and those who are only making it worse... while still having to hold back. make us all wonder why would mon ever let orson defect to the alliance!

𝙱 𝚁 𝙴 𝙷 𝙰 / i know we've talked a bit about if both breha and orson survive, but how about a plot where mon thinks there's nothing more fitting than at least part of the time orson needs to help breha in her quest to reunite and protect the survivors of the disaster. orson can be his bitter, angry post-scarif self as breha struggles with losing her world and her husband all while watching her daughter spiral with the same grief. they can try to duck imperials as she insists on working however close to the 'front line', they can argue... and hey, as you so often want, breha might even slap him. it could be something to break up his time under satine or something else entirely but yes, please, let's have fun with this.

𝚃 𝙴 𝙽 𝙴 𝙻 𝙺 𝙰 / let's have some diplomacy... either in the new canon timeline or one where she actually becomes queen mother during the reign of the empire, i think it would be quite fun to have a plot where orson gets to know tenel ka through the attempt of getting hapes to do something... whether it is because they have a resource he needs or because one of their outmost ports could be useful as a safe stop on a shipping route/he needs safe passage for them through the notoriously pirate filled edges of the mists. there can be meetings, parties, potentially some unplesantness too!

plots please ›› accepting

[globalfloor]

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[yonch]

it's been 15 years and you can see better than ever

(design notes under the cut) (there are spoilers)

ok this got really long. here you go

sif:

ditched the cloak. it was collecting dust in their closet until recently, but they realized they don't need to cling to their grief so much anymore. someone else will need it more soon.

ditched the eyepatch. the prosthetic eye is a labor of love designed by isa, as is literally everything else they're wearing.

they cut their bangs finally and started braiding their hair back so it wouldn't obscure their vision as much anymore.

they like darker/tighter clothing and prefer function over form but unfortunately their gay ass boyfriend keeps treating them like a dress up doll so they're stuck wearing waistcoats and a fancy cloak. (they don't mind. it's designed to look like loop.) they keep flowers in their many pockets to give to people.

they're a woodworker in their free time. they don't usually talk about being any sort of savior so he just becomes sif the guy who's really good at carving birthday presents for people and also tags along with isa to charity parties and fundraisers

41 year old 5'1" they/he absolutely zero intention of Changing. bonded to isabeau. they adopted a kid who leo or i might post about some other time i think. her name is estelle.

isa: i'm not taking credit for the design that's by my friend @fembard /@leoweooo. i'll include his design notes

isa dresses mostly for comfort, he doesn't like wearing stuff that might get stained or ruined when he's dyeing clothes or chasing stelle around in the mud or something, all his fashion sense goes into his handiwork

he Changed a few more times over the 15yrs, eventually settled. picked up she/her pronouns again on the side but was never really able to ditch the name isabeau and he kinda ran out of names anyways...

kept the long hair, kept a few inches in height, very happy to fulfill the role of male (space) wife

can't ditch the kimono jacket it's the piece de resistance. odile influence and Wisening Of Age means its made with a little more knowledge of ka buan technique but still very clearly an Isa Design. the fabric is imported silk sif!!!!!!

39 year old Tall with a capital T he/she "i swear i'm not a weeaboo i'm just really into ka buan fashion" vaugardian indie clothing designer in your area help support this man in his attempts to use his family members as living advertisements for his brand

mira: with design input from @jastertown thank you my friend

i took a lot of inspiration for the sparkly, sheer fabric on her dress from euphrasie. she's not head housemaiden yet because she doesn't feel like she's ready but everybody knows it'll be her

speaking of inspiration. she's been taking a lot of fashion cues from a certain lady in dormont that she thought was kind of scary, but it turns out she's very nice? they're besties now.

she got rid of the earrings for a little bit but then she realized she just liked how they look on her. so now they go ding ding! it's for her and nobody else, and that's how she likes it.

moved her ornaments to her skirt because they ding ding more often there. her necklace also jingles with merriment.

38 year old she/her advanced cisgender+ legend who's realizing that people are trying to get her to be the pope but all she really wants to do is write yaoibait fiction that looks like it came straight off of ao3

odile:

my glorious hag. she started shrinking about 3 years ago. all those years of bending over books has finally caught up to her. her hips are fuuuuuucked. but she has a sick cane that sif carved for her so everything's okay

she was already pretty comfortable and settled in her sense of style when she was nearing 50 so i don't think she would change much. darker clothing maybe. ditched the high-waisted pants for some looser slacks.

she's started writing a familytale of her own. the only person she's told about it is bonbon, who caught her up way past their bedtime, and scribbled all over one of the pages. she'll pass it on to sif when the time's right, after she's written down everything she can remember about their family.

64 year old she/her wasian researcher recovering from hernia surgery who's getting really into things like "political activism" and "body craft law reformation in ka bue" and "making sure people aren't sourcing their hrt from back alleys"

bonnie:

prefers to go by boniface these days. it's cooler. more mature. please stop calling me bonbon that's a nickname from when i was 10 guys c'mon guys ugh fine frin you can still call me bonbon but not around my girlfriends ok (nobody calls them boniface except for odile)

speaking of which they have 3 butch lesbian girlfriends. this got established as a joke but i think they have it in them. they're still young!!!!!!! they should be at the club!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

they traveled for a while with everybody but eventually settled down back in bambouche to start a little family owned restaurant with nille featuring dishes from all over the globe. people travel from all over to get a taste of boniface's good eats... bambouche is bustling. (they have a few recipes that are sourced from the country. they meet people every once in a while who find something achingly familiar about it, and they usually direct those people to jouvente to get in contact with frin.)

26 year old they/them "i dont know how tall i am but i'm taller than za" chef cooker whose restaurant keeps lighting on fire because this time i swear nille i can figure out how to do cooking craft i swear i wont explode the kitchen this time please i promise

loop:

ok. this is where lozy gets to just talk about what he thinks happens post game. i think they stick around for way longer than they really should and follow the crew around on their travels (mostly invisibly) because they're sooo fucking scared of change they're sooo scared and they're so scared of their wish fucking up beyond belief. they're kind of incapable of aging or dying in this body and theyre like permanently 26 which is what spurs them to finally move on.

i think they go back to their timeline eventually after making a Brand New Wish to "go back to their real family." alas the universe leads and we can only follow. and it turns out loop has actually made a real family in stardust's world also. this is my justification for why they can pop in between sasasap and isat worlds without much repercussion. i think they're always permanently loop shaped in isat but i imagine they can probably go back to their original body in their home timeline... might design that later. who knows. i'm fucked like that

i just think they deserve a chance for their own happy ending you know. isat's a game about how it's never too late to communicate and how you shouldn't punish yourself forever and ever. and i think theyve punished themself enough you know.

ok tank you for reading if you read this far. it's really big and long so i would understand if you didn't. but i hope you liked it. thoughts appreciated. here's a little something for the people who read all the way through.

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: Post-Shibuya Nanami x Classical Dancer Desi Reader

In the aftermath of Shibuya, an injured Nanami struggles to balance his eroding self-worth with his desire to conduct his duty as a sorcerer. He finds healing in the fragrant garden of your dance.

Genres: Romance, angst, suspense.

Content warnings: depictions of low self-esteem, dealing with trauma, erotic and sexual content.

Thanks to @tsukimefuku for reading and editing this piece that is so precious to me. 🧡💜

Please refer to the glossary for the meaning of certain terms used. 🧡

(I)

Pushpanjali: an offering

"Tha ka dhi mi, tha ka dhi mi, tha ka ... "

It is a chant that spans centuries, leaping from the high-ceilinged, airy chambers of a land and time long past, to here, and now. It winds between the gently rippling silk scarves that adorn the walls, a drumbeat like the slow collapse of ancient kingdoms under the steady tramp of cavalry.

Time seems to pass at a stagnant pace in here, in this place where your domain has taken root and unfurled, a red, red bloom in the heart and hand of a painted god.

Feet slide and strike against the worn wooden floor, precise and weighted, as you perform the basic stance before your pupils, watching faces tight with the concentration of the inexperienced.

"Tha ka dhi mi, tha ka dhi mi ... "

Your voice guides them, as does your form, an arm straightening here and a pair of knees bending further as they watch you. The twist of your lower back, the stretch of your arms in a line to some point behind you, the rejoining of your fingers in katakamukha, the arch kept between chin and the line of your shoulder, all shifting in a single fluid movement that requires no thought.

Incense snakes through the air, close to the glass double doors, the heady scent of sandalwood gathering in tendrils there, where the gentle push of the breeze cannot dissipate it. It is through this fine mist that you see him, for the first time, standing just outside the doors in the narrow passageway.

Shoko had informed you of his arrival, of course. She had warned you about his physical condition, about the nature of his grievous injuries. It wouldn't be the first time she'd made use of your services to assist in the rehabilitation of wounded sorcerers.

Your eyes meet his, through the shifting coils of fragrant smoke from the brazier, and you see, in a single, fractured moment, why he is here. He has been sent here for a form of healing, but his gaze is not soft and receptive. It is shuttered, its passion muted and closeted away, defences piled so high they might as well be weapons. He scans the dance hall with the kind of predatory clarity that long, long years of being a sorcerer would bring.

You excuse yourself and step outside, the open door allowing the scent of the incense and the soft evening air to filter out into the hallway. Behind you, the silk scarves flutter gently in the draught.

He is a tall man, poised and elegant. He wears the jacket and comfortable, warm trousers in a way that speaks of someone more accustomed to formal wear. As soon as you enter the hall, he bows with deep formality, and the mellow resonance of his voice seeps into the narrow space like honey spilled across the floorboards.

"Nanami Kento. I was referred here by - "

"Shoko. Yes. I've been expecting you."

You return his bow and introduction, aware of his scrutiny travelling the length of your spine. You can sense that he is picking you apart in his mind, fitting together the components to try to build a coherent whole.

Close-up, the severity of his burns are evident. A layer of darkened scar tissue covers the left side of his face and scalp, running down his neck and further, where your eyes cannot follow. The left eye, according to Shoko, had been unrecoverable, now shielded with a soft, surgical patch. The damage to his arm had been even worse, as it seemed he'd used it to shield himself. A fuzzy growth of pale hair had started along the scorched skin of his scalp, a sign that even now, his body was knitting itself slowly back together.

Your eyes travel over his sharp-edged countenance, and he stares back, unphased. You make a rapid mental list, a trickle of first impressions that will later build to a torrent.

Stength, and plenty of it. A deathly, well-controlled calm that permeates his living flesh, skin over smooth stone. The martial bearing and powerful arms and shoulders, even scorched as they are, speak of the force he must have presented on the battlefield.

He assesses you in return, and you tilt your head as the dim sunlight filtering into the corridor catches his eye, turning the honeyed brown of their depths to a moss-flecked river bed, steady and cool.

Beautiful.

That is your first impression of him.

(II)

Alarippu: the flowering

Recovery.

Kento has heard a dozen variations of that word by now, couched in the language of choice. 

The road to recovery. 

Recovering your mobility. 

Getting your old self back. 

A return to routine.

He is aware, by now, that any such full repair of the damage that has been done to him is a castle in the air, one he cannot summon the lightness of spirit to ascend to. Positivity had never really been his hallmark. Now, even less so.

The world had shifted around him while he was asleep, you see. Comrades had fallen. The new generation had triumphed. The very fabric of Jujutsu society had been rewoven, the dawning of a new age embroidered for all to see across the hard-won horizon.

The sacrifices he'd made were but a few of many. They'd hardly mattered, in the larger scheme of things. Many had given their lives. What had he offered up?

The ability to walk without aid, for one. Also, most of the skin on the left side of his body. Basic movements, things that had once been second nature to him, were now carefully calculated because of the pain.

The lunge of an arm through a coat sleeve when he was in a rush. The brisk pace he'd maintained to keep his body temperature up in cold weather. The sensation of a soft cashmere scarf against his cheek, or the brush of an aerated cotton shirt against his skin in summer. The cascade of hot water on tired muscles, after a long afternoon swinging diligently at cursed spirits. All muted, fuzzy, lost.

And what else?

Kento had never been soft with himself. People often thought that sentiment never clouded his cool judgment, allowing him to make objective and sensible decisions. While that was largely true, it flew wide of the mark in terms of what really pushed him, what gave him direction. It was ironic, as he'd speculated later, that his mortal enemy had been the one to identify what many of his comrades hadn't.

Mahito, in that light, youthful, jubilant voice, declaring how he'd seen Kento's soul quivering. And he was not wrong.

Kento was a man driven by a quiet, desolate desperation, a desire to fill an empty space that yawned endlessly within his soul, a black hole with an insatiable appetite. Emotion was as vital to his function as breathing. It drove him out of bed everyday, into the office, into the boardroom, into the bakery, back to jujutsu tech, into rain, snow, sun and wind, into the face of his darkest imaginings.

He watches traffic from the window of his room at the private clinic, pedestrians going about their lives, people chatting on precariously held phones, children dancing through a world of make-belief, people on lunch break. People with purpose, a certainty of their place in the world. What could he offer, in this world of colour, sound, movement and shadow, this world that threatened to leave him behind?

Kento had paid the price, and would do it again, and again, and again, in every known reality, if it meant maintaining the stability he saw outside his window.

(But if that was the case, why was the darkness inside him more ravenous than ever?)

********

Shoko comes to see him most frequently, even with her workload at the Tech. She can't really help it. Nanami is her last remaining bridge to the past, as selfish as that makes her seem. She doesn't care much, not anymore. She'll take what she can get.

A tenuous bridge, is Nanami.

Shoko is accustomed to seeing the damage that can be done to a body by the uncontrolled hatred of a curse, or the more conscious destruction of a cursed technique. She has seen it all, performed the most grotesque procedures on the corpses of those she loved. But something about seeing Nanami's injuries, seeing him like this, is more jarring than any of those horrors.

Her technique has allowed his skin to heal, the raw flesh, exposed tendon and muscle beneath now covered by the new epidermal growth she has stimulated.  The chances of oedema and infection are also minimal, considering her precautions. All that was left now was his slow physical conditioning and therapy.

(If only that were all.)

If Itadori, Kugisaki, Fushiguro and Ijichi had their way, Nanami would never know a moment of solitude. They wanted constant updates on his condition, to bring him his favourite foods, to talk, weep, mourn and rejoice with him. She allowed them to see him, every other day, but drew a firm line, citing his recovery as priority. She didn't have the heart to tell them that every gentle glance, every proud smile, every glimpse of the old Nanami they received came at a great cost.

Standing in the doorway of his room now, she could see it. Or rather, the lack of it. That vitality, that pain from which he drew his vigour, the firm lines of his back and shoulder that reminded her of an implacable bulwark against the raging of the cursed world, all absent. When he didn't think anyone was looking, that is.

Stepping into the room, she offers a slight nod as the door slides shut behind her. The change is immediate. He straightens, the corners of his eyes regaining their sharp edge, the set of his mouth firm and familiar.

"Shoko."

"Nanami. Ready to talk about physical therapy?"

She gets straight into it, knowing that he wouldn't want it any other way.

"I'd like that very much. When can I begin?"

His words are still slightly muffled, the burnt edge of his lips stiff with a new layer of scar tissue.

Nanami had never been a vain man. He had always been in possession of striking features, and had taken care of his appearance, but in a way that was more attuned to practicality; if he was neat, well-presented and unremarkable, Nanami considered this a success.

It was why he had been able to look in a mirror with such equanimity for the first time after his treatment. All she had seen was a slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, a slow nod, a brief look of exhaustion and resignation as to this new set of scars.

The loss of his left eye and the damage to the arm on the same side had been the worst of it. There, she'd done everything in her power to restore the lost tissue, but Nanami would never regain his eye, or the full range of motion with that limb. There was, however, the soft growth of new hair on his scalp, a promising sign that elsewhere, her rejuvenation of the underlying tissue layers had somewhat succeeded.

Shoko doesn't reply to his query just yet. She approaches the bed, and he sits up, unlacing the front of his hospital gown, accustomed to the routine by now. She place her palms a few inches from his skin, closing her eyes as she maps him out, bone, muscle, blood and water, the minute synapses where impulses leap in a frantic race, the steady beat of his heart.

Inhaling deeply, she steps away.

"The sooner you begin, the better. I know you've been walking a lot. That alone won't help in the long term."

There is a hint of reproach in her voice. Nanami, displaying his singularly stubborn streak, had been discovered out of bed on more than one occasion, standing by the windows, staring into space in a way that made her worried.

He gives a wry, crooked smile.

"What do you recommend?"

Shoko places the file she'd carried along carefully on his lap.

"There's a family with a specific cursed technique I've corresponded with before. Sent some of my patients to them. They specialize in therapeutics."

Nanami is watching her closely, taking note of the way she focuses on the view out the window.

"And you're sending me to them?"

"They aren't local. The main clan is located in India. Scattered at various locations in the Tamil Nadu province. One of their members moved here, some years back, to conduct research on the compatibility of their techniques with ours. It wasn't a success, for various reasons, but he stayed, with his family."

"So it's a hereditary technique?"

"In a way. It manifests with varying degrees of efficacy. I'd simply like ... for you to meet with their representative."

She returns his gaze, and when she speaks again, he understands why she has been so hesitant.

"It's not just physical therapy, Nanami. We can achieve that pretty well here. Their methods go ... deeper than that. I can mend physical wounds. They might be able to help you heal in other ways."

He doesn't agree to it immediately, looking through the list of exercises that came after the therapy recommendation letter. One eyebrow lifts slightly in a comfortingly familiar query.

"You want me to do yoga too?"

"Gojo's idea. He added it to the list before he - "

She stops abruptly, one hand finding purchase on Nanami's ankle, squeezing lightly on it where it rests beside her, under the blankets.

"Anyway. He said he wanted to make video edits of you with your ass in the air. Said it would be good to bring you down to earth a little."

Her chuckle doesn't sound hollow any longer. She can talk about her friend (yes, he was that too) without that tell-tale catch of agony in her chest. Nanami sighs before opening up the file, his good hand leafing through the printed pages.

"I suppose ... I could humour him. This once."

(III) 

Shabdam: The Word

In a month's time, with Shoko's regular treatment, Nanami is in good enough condition to leave the clinic. He still makes use of a walking stick, especially for longer distances and steeper flights of stairs. Ijichi makes sure he is permanently on call, for the occasions when Nanami simply needs to get out of the sterile halls of the clinic, the rapid intake of the world outside enough to sustain him.

Nanami has, for the most part, been following Shoko's regimen religiously, adding his own variations without her knowledge. In this way, his strength and endurance steadily build up to a point where he is ready to be discharged (with daily check-ins, of course).

Nanami keeps the file that Shoko had handed over, but every time he spies it out of the corner of his eye, he occupies himself with something else, procrastinating in a way that is wholly unlike him. Eventually, his own conscience prevents him from delaying further. He is entirely skeptical that anyone can truly help him. He has felt that way since Haibara died, but even he can admit that there's no harm in trying.

He finds the address given with little issue, and Ijichi is more than willing to take him there. The place is nondescript, no signage giving any indication of the activities that take place there. There is an wood-panelled foyer, a colonial style spiral staircase leading to the upper floors. The stairs themselves have been worn smooth by many generations of feet.

Nanami is half an hour early, anticipating some kind of registration process, or introductions, as there had been in martial arts dojos he had frequented. There is nothing of the kind. He finds himself in a corridor, flanked by two pairs of glass double doors. In one of the rooms, a wide open space with a wooden floor and a view over the city, he sees some kind of class in session.

Approaching slowly, he hears it. The rhythmic thump and shuffle of feet, the feminine voice that called out a pattern that he's never heard before, but seems familiar all the same. The glass doors give him a clear view of the room, of the five occupants (a small class, then) who were engaged in some kind of dance practice, and the instructor, up front.

He pauses, body coming to a complete and rare standstill. He watches as she moves through a repetitive step, in time with the beat she calls out, firm, musical, lilting. The grace of movement, the low centre of gravity, the rigidity of the lower body in contrast with the flow of the upper, arrests his vision.

The disciplined line of her throat turns, and she is facing the door, facing him, hands brought together in a signature pose. Long lashed eyes, observant, catching and holding his glance. For a moment, he feels the desire to back away from the door, to hurry out into the street, a return to his comfortable routine. He stands his ground, as always.

He watches as she approaches the door.

********

Once your introductions have been dispensed with, you gesture to Nanami to follow you into the smaller room you use for individual therapy. His gaze lingers on the class that continues, even in your absence.

The same silk scarves ripple gently along the walls of the room next door, orange, grey, red and green. The rug is old, but rich and plush. There are two chairs, comfortable and supportive, their orange upholstery lined with faded gold thread, and an urn on a stand nearby, on the boil in readiness to prepare chai.

You pour him a cup now, the fragrant liquid a rich, caramel brown in the small glass, eyeing his expression through the steam.

There. Immediate interest. A man with a varied palate, considering the way he accepts the tea with polite deference, but takes an appreciative sniff before sipping deeply.  The way his shoulders relax slightly afterwards has the corner of your mouth tipping up.

"So, Nanami. Shoko told me that you're here for our specific line of therapeutics."

He puts the cup down with a decisive motion.

"Yes. She told me a little about the effects of your technique."

"Did she explain what exactly it involves?"

He pauses, gaze traveling to the students in the dance hall next door who were now stretching and rounding up their practice.

"I assume it has ... something to do with that?"

You set your own cup down and clap your palms together.

"Well observed. It has everything to do with dance. Bharatanatyam, to be exact."

He raises an eyebrow, and you explain obligingly.

"Where I'm from, Bharatanatyam is one of many classic dance forms. The practice itself goes back centuries. My family's technique is rooted in the principles of the dance itself."

Nanami cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid ... I'm not a good dancer."

Your laughter comes easily.

"That's what they all say, in the beginning. But don't worry. You won't have to do anything strenuous, nor am I going to make you prance around in a dhoti."

"You have my thanks, I suppose."

"We will do plenty of physical conditioning, but you will also be my audience. My technique requires that you are ... receptive and open to answering the things that I ask."

Here, the easy flow of conversation stills a little, and the tea swirls gently through the motion of his dexterous fingers. He does reply, eventually, softer than before.

"I chose to come here. I think that speaks for itself. I will accept whatever your technique can do for me."

The non-committal nature of his reply does not escape you. You nod, understanding that this is the best you'll get from him, for now.

"Hmm. I think it's best that I demonstrate. That always works better than sitting here and explaining."

You stand and gesture for him to do the same, observing his movements carefully.

There. The burned side of his body has slower movements, as expected. He still displays agility and grace, despite the stiffness and pain he must feel. You approach and stand directly in front of him.

"Nanami, I'm going to lay my hand here, on your abdomen. Please tell me if this is fine."

He nods, but his body is now taut, anticipatory. This close, you can smell the surgical cleaning fluid that he must still use when changing dressings, the scent of the clinic still clinging to his clothes and hair. Beneath it, something warm, vital, pleasant. The scent of him. His hair falls over one brow, unhindered, and he impatiently pushes it back. Judging from the length, he must like it shorter than it currently is.

"Please try to relax."

Your hand presses against the firm planes of his stomach, centering around his navel. He is shockingly solid, vitality surging under your fingers. And something else. You frown, but keep your hand in place. After a few minutes, your fingers begin to move. You start to tap out a gentle rhythm against his skin, tentative, repetitive.

You keep this up for a while, eyes shut tightly, focused. When you eventually look up at him, he is watching you with close attention. You know what he sees, that he is following the currents of cursed energy that swarm around your body, fluttering and pulsing in accordance to the pattern you've been tapping out.

This part is crucial. The manner with which you approach this will determine his response, and you can feel his resistance to an invasion of this kind, how he could shut himself off from you, the giant ribcage of self-preservation sealing to the sternum, forever shielding his heart.

You step back and take your seat again, and he pauses before doing the same. He leans forward, elbows on knees, watchful. This man doesn't miss a thing.

"Your diagnosis?"

He had a lot of cheek too.

"There is no diagnosis. Not in the sense you're thinking."

"So, what was the purpose of ... that?"

"It allows me to plan my dance. For next time."

"Your dance?"

You reach for your glass, take a quick sip of the cooling liquid.

"In plain terms, my technique is called Arangetram. It's named after the dance recital performed by a bharatanatyam student after many years of perfection of their art. The recital takes place in stages, and each stage reveals more of their dedication, their skill and their unique talent."

Your palms, placed together, draw apart and Nanami's gaze falls between them.

"It's an unfolding. A gradual one. My technique enables me to read deeper into the patterns of your own energy, gently peeling apart each layer in stages, until we reach the crux of the issue. The wound to your Atman. Your true, and eternal self. With my guidance, and your cooperation, we can possibly help heal that."

As you speak, Nanami's gaze falls to his glass, the bitter dregs collecting at the base. He stands abruptly, and turns away from you, facing the window. You remain still, waiting.

When he speaks, there is something in his voice that makes you wince slightly. So much heaviness. So much despair. The weight of it must be crushing.

"That sounds ... familiar. Before I was saved by another young sorcerer, someone I helped mentor, I ran into a curse that could have ended my life for good. I'd met him before, you see, but he escaped me at that time. His technique ... wounds the soul. Our perception of ourselves."

You take in a sharp breath. What Nanami was describing was a form of cursed technique in direct opposition to your own. Nanami continues, eyes fixed on the steady stream of cars that pass by below.

"Are you telling me that you can heal that kind of damage completely?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because damage to the soul requires accurate perception, but a callous disregard for any and all forms of life. Destruction is part of universal balance, but to actively go about it, without any consideration for what you will create, is ... inhuman."

You stand, wanting to meet his eyes when he turns to face you again.

"Healing the soul is nothing like this. Nor can it be done in the same way for every person. But Nanami, here's the question I want to ask most right now. Why, even now, are you thinking about all the victims of this curse? Why, since you've heard the nature of my technique, have you never once thought about how it could actually help you?"

This demand is what it takes for him to finally tear his gaze away from that window, mouth opening in protest, but your silencing finger is up. You're not touching his lips, not quite, but close. His warm breath ghosts over your finger.

"Dont answer that question now. Answer it tomorrow, after you watch me dance."

(IV) 

Jathiswaram: Purity of dance

He is early the next day, and you can sense that this will be a pattern. A seasoned sorcerer, through and through, gaining intel on the lie of the land. He is dressed with casual elegance once again, this time in a soft sweater and old jeans.

You guide him through a series of stretches and stances, eyes following his movements. As hard as Nanami is to read, you can tell, from the softening of the lines at the corners of his eyes that these exercises give him relief.

He is also unlike any other pupil you've ever encountered. There is something about having that keen gaze trace every line your body forms with such close attentiveness, the lithe mimicking of each pose, the easing of the stiff line of his mouth when he gets something right, and is aware of it.

It is like practicing yoga alongside a panther, one that won't harm you, but with every stray connection of the eyes, you are aware of just what it is physically capable of. It is both thrilling and strange; new.

When the first short session is over, and he seems slightly more at ease, you serve him tea once again.

"Take a few minutes. Relax. You'll wait in here until I call you into the hall next door."

"What would you have me do?"

"There will be a cushion on the floor. You're going to sit cross legged, as comfortable as you can get. Arms relaxed, hands resting on your knees. Then, you watch."

"A performance of some kind?"

"Yes. To be more specific, you're going to be inside my domain."

This was the one detail he seemed most hesitant about. You wait, in silence, giving him a chance to defer, to push back, to delay the inevitable. He doesn't do any such thing. You're beginning to understand just what kind of courage this man possesses. It takes a different kind of bravery, you're well aware, to face your own demons rather than the gnashing beasts of the cursed world.

*****

Kento does his best to let the soothing spiced heat of the tea perform its dutiful relaxation of his limbs. He sits, legs spread slightly, staring at the wall. The door to the small side room effectively cuts off any sound from the dance floor beyond. He does not know what to expect and he doesn't like it.

Finally, a soft chime sounds. His signal. Setting the glass of tea aside, he stands and makes his way into the corridor, then into the room beyond. He pauses, taking in the transformation.

The view of the city outside has been completely blocked by rich, embroidered curtains, a screen propped up all along one end of the room. Behind it, he hears soft voices speak in another language, rapid and lyrical. The experimental pat of drums and the musical clink of small cymbals indicates that a band of some kind has set up back there, in readiness with their instruments.

Following the instructions he'd received earlier, Kento pads quietly to the centre of the room, where the large, solitary cushion sits, and lowers himself onto it. It is surprisingly comfortable. When everything seems to be in position, a hush falls over the room.

The first hint of her approach is the chime of the anklets she wears, many layered, the bronze shimmer of the individual bells catching the buttery light. She wears a sari, but something about it seems tailored differently from those he'd seen before. The waist has been cinched in with a belt, the pleats of the skirt fanning out around the knees. Beneath, she wears a pair of loose-fitting pants, the shimmering material caught in at the ankles by the bells he heard earlier.

Her hair has been fixed back in a long braid, flowers framing the outline of her head. Dark kohl lines her eyes, and her hands and feet are decorated with a red stain that stands out against the ocean-coloured silk of the sari.

She approaches and crouches nimbly before him, that long-lashed gaze travelling over his form, attentive. Her voice is low pitched, as always, but now there is a new undercurrent to it. He can feel the latent energy within her, as if she has been calling to it, like some long- submerged civilization breaching the surface of the sea.

"Nanami. I'm about to start. In order for me to do so, I need you to picture something in your mind's eye for me."

He nods, slowly.

"I'm going to touch your navel the same way I did yesterday. When I do, don't fight the image your mind throws up. It is natural. It may be a good memory, or an upsetting one. Either way, just let it be. Do you understand?"

"I do."

The pressure of her hand is barely tangible through the material of his sweater, but her cursed energy slides against him with a force he can push back against. He doesn't. Even as it goes against every preservatory instinct he has, he lets her in, watches the slow dawn of soft surprise in her eyes. She has kind eyes, he is only just realising.

And then an image flashes across his mind, just as she warned. Another era of lost kindness, a boy who looked at him with eternal patience, good humour and warmth. In the instant that he sees that face, laughing, animated, lips peeled back from wide, white teeth in that trademark grin, the world shifts. The face is no longer filled with life and humour. It is cold. Pale. Lips purplish and creased, dried blood flaking from the corners.

He wants to pull away, to stop, but he cannot. This is important. This has to be done.

Her hand comes down on his abdomen, harder. Then again. She is finding a rhythm in his own cursed energy, hand mapping out the pulse, scenting his weakness, his pain, following it. Again. And again. And again. The steady pattern builds. So does her cursed energy. It fills the room, filtering into every space, until Kento feels like he is the inhabitant of a fish tank.

Blue silk fluttering, she steps back suddenly. The scent of the incense is heady, intense. Behind the screen, the unseen musicians have somehow struck up the same tempo she has been playing on his abdomen. Her expression changes, and he straightens, slowly.

The kohl-lined eyes open wide, the whites stark gains the smoky backdrop of her lids. She drops to the same stance he'd seen her adopt in the class she'd taught yesterday, knees slightly bent, thighs holding a rigid line, arms outstretched, hands slightly bent at the ends. Her entire upper torso forms an elegant line, see-sawing gently, before the arms snap back and forth, as if tugged by an elastic band.

Red-painted, flickering like four flames, her hands and feet move with rapid precision, taking her through a fluid series of steps that are timed exactly to the beat of the drums, the beat of his own cursed energy, humming and writhing. Her dark, dark eyes meet his, and he understands, now, that every movement she makes entwines their energy, tangles it further, a cat with a ball of yarn, edging the threads closer to a woven pattern.

Her hands stretch toward him, shaped in what seems to be something symbolic of a flower. They spread, and he follows the reddened unfurling of her fingers, the crash of the cymbals louder, a portent of her ability.

He sees the incorporeal lotus, the shadow of it on the screen behind her, petals rifling past each other like the pages of an endless book, and her hands are dragging something out and away from him, emptying like fragrance into the room.

This is her domain, and he shudders in sudden understanding, as memories he'd long buried, bruised and raw, come fluttering like a cloud of butterflies to the surface of his mind.

The first time he'd met Haibara, the way the bright-eyed boy had handed him a shared ice cream, that hot, hot summer's day. The way he'd followed Kento, ignoring his grumpy demeanour, pressing snacks and home-made creations (less successful) into his hands. The long days of training, the sudden and pleased widening of his eyes when Kento had let slip that he'd been improving. The muted tones of his exuberant voice when he'd spoken of his sister, of the path he'd make sure she'd never choose.

And that, right there, was that focal point of pain, the sore spot that had festered, untreated, deep in the knowledge of his soul. Haibara had known, all along, the dangers of their job. He'd known, full well, how easily his life was spent by those who did not understand the full value of such currency. He knew that his youth was a fool's game, one that may never be completed. And for all of these years, since his death, Kento had chosen to -

The loud clash of cymbals dissipates those thoughts instantly, the energy permeating the room, surrounding them both, snapping back to her still form, controlled and under her command. She is watching him closely, the tight grip he now has on his knees, the sweat beading on his brow.

She takes three steps forward, legs lifting high in the stylized movement of her dance form, and her palms come together as she bows to him. Instantly, the performer is gone, and she is back with him, no longer in command. She pads quickly over to him, kneeling and touching his leg.

"Hold on to those images for a moment. Tell me, who was that boy?"

Kento pauses, swallows thickly.

"Haibara Yu. A boy who studied at the Tech with me. We trained together."

She does not need to ask what has happened to Haibara. She has seen it, through the binding of her dance. She has seen his death. Her next question catches him off guard.

"Why is his spirit so strong inside you? You carry him with you like a briefcase to work everyday. Why is his reflection on every surface you pass? Why does he force you forward, and yet, drag you backwards too?"

Kento is still, the sweat cooling on his temples. His muscles are rigid, cording. Pain flares along his jaw, where he has been clenching it. She raises a hand, palm up.

"Don't answer me now. Take the next few days off, and think about the questions I've asked."

*******

He does consider it, as she asked him to. In fact, it's all he can dwell on. As much as it robs him of sleep, leaving him tossing and turning, blankets rumpled and damp with perspiration, he thinks that this is better than staring into formless space. This torment is preferable to the endless battle played out against the pale, sterile walls of the clinic.

How long has it been since his pain has been cut out of his chest, a fully formed, hard-edged diamond, the corners so sharp they slice through him at every touch? How long has it been since he's turned over that crystalline fragment in his hands, allowed himself to remember, to cherish, to grieve?

He understands why he could not, before this. There were missions to undertake. Work to be done. Curses to be dispatched. An endless cycle of activity to tear his mind away from such things.

And then, there had been the students. He goes over each of their names in his mind like a mantra. Yuuji. Megumi. Nobara. Maki. Panda. Inunaki. Ino. The faces of children, the minds of warriors, the scars of those who had known their worst fears and overcome them. It was his duty to protect and serve, to keep them safe, and yet ...

If he had convinced himself, so many times over, that Haibara had needed an adult like the one he had shaped himself to be, then why wasn't he needed any longer?

(V) 

Varnam: The Centerpiece

When you see him again, you can't help the smile that breaks across your face. Nanami is a tricky customer. In spite of his natural strength and charisma, you can tell that he is unaccustomed to relying on others for his emotional well-being.

And yet, here he is, standing in the hallway, expression controlled and muted as always. There is a certain tension and guarded quality to his demeanour that is lacking this time around, however. He has seen the extent of your technique. It cannot harm him any more than he harms himself. This, you are also aware of.

"Nanami. It's good to see you."

He nods, that keen eye of his taking in your expression.

"You were not expecting me to return."

It is not a question. You laugh and gesture to him to follow you into the smaller room beside the dance hall.

"I can't say what I expected. But rest assured ... I'm glad to see you here."

He dips his head in acknowledgement as he follows you through the door. You note that he's had a haircut since the last time you've seen him, the flowing blonde hair slicked back on the right side. His surgical patch has been replaced by a soft black one. His walk seems a little steadier, even if he still has to use the sturdy cane to navigate the stairs.

You pour him tea in silence, waiting for him to initiate the topic that you've asked him to consider. He takes a sip, a soft grunt of satisfaction escaping him, before he sets the glass down with that decisive motion you've come to recognise.

"Last time I was here ... you asked me about Haibara."

"I saw him. In your memories. He must have been important to you."

"I said that we studied together. We were in the same year. There was ... a mission. It was assigned wrongfully, by the higher ups. The difficulty level was ... too great for two fledgling sorcerers. We'd held our own against curses before, but this was different."

"And Haibara ... "

"He was killed. I escaped."

There it was. The words seem to exit him easily enough, because he's probably said them many times before. There is a raw quality to them, though, that cannot be disguised. He has never forgiven himself for Haibara's death. You give him a minute before resuming your questioning.

"My technique showed me that Haibara had a sister. He did not want her to become a sorcerer like you two?"

Here, Nanami's hesitance is tangible.

"No, he didn't. He knew the dangers of our work."

"And yet, in your memories, you clearly see him as someone to be protected."

"He was."

The words emerge sharper than Nanami likes, because he tries to lessen the bite of his tone as he continues.

"I believe that the younger generation of sorcerers should be protected at all costs, whenever necessary. It doesn't matter how much they've seen, how much they've experienced. What matters is that they are not robbed of responsible adult figures in their lives, who can help them cope with what comes later."

"Did anyone help you with coping? With dealing with what happened to Haibara?"

For the first time, Nanami does not meet your gaze. There is a softness to this man, that shows in the gentle, considered way he touches objects, the way his dark lashes shadow his cheeks, the way he is always thinking of someone, anyone other than himself.

"No."

His voice is charged, but quiet.

"And so, you think to play this role for the future generations?"

"I hope to. Yes."

You already know what must be done, as painful as it may be.

"Nanami, is it possible for me to meet with your students?"

******

"Nanamiiiinnnn!"

The boy with soft-hued pink hair is enthusiastic in his greeting, none of it contrived. You can see from the way his eyes light up, the way his whole body gravitates to the sorcerer standing beside you, that Nanami means the world to him. The girl with the eyepatch beside him gives a more staid greeting. There is a certain tough rakishness to her bearing that you've come to recognise as well-earned bravado.

It's Nanami you are more focused on. He introduces you to the students who greet you politely, each giving a small bow.

"How's the progress, Nanamin? You look great!"

The young sorcerer, Yuuji, truly means it. He is taking in Nanami with an air of triumph.

"It's slow, in some ways, but I'm getting there, Itadori."

You note how he still refers to them by their family names, even after everything they've been through together.

"Why don't we have lunch together?" you suggest.

Nobara immediately points at Nanami.

"Ask him. He's knows all the good places, in just about every part of the city."

And so, you find yourselves seated at a small soba place, one you haven't come across before. The food is excellent, and Yuuji and Nobara chat animatedly across the table with their senior as they plough through a selection of dishes.

It is now that you notice all of the things that Nanami doesn't.

The way Yuuji constantly keeps an eye on how much his mentor eats. The way Nobara adjusted the table when they sat down, such that Nanami could be more comfortable. The way they both scoped you out with clear protective instinct, forming their opinions of you.

Yuuji keeps up an encouraging stream of comments, complimenting Nanami on his receptiveness to treatment, on his hair, on the fact that he's been getting out more. He asks Nanami's advice on missions he'll be undertaking solo, and with others.

"So, Ino got his grade one promotion!"

"He told me."

Nanami cannot help the small smile that appears on his face. Yuuji shakes his head.

"Ha. I bet he told you before he told his mom."

Nobara snorts in agreement.

"Did you know he's picked up wearing a suit on missions now?"

"He does?"

Nanami seems surprised by this.

"Sure does. Keeps his hair shorter too. Thought I was teaming up with a Yakuza the last time we went on a mission together."

"Surely not."

"Oh, absolutely! He tried acting all cool, until I told him I'd video him and send it to you, and then he stopped with the persona real fast."

Nanami chuckles. It is a rich, warm, hearty sound, one that flickers over the table like the heat of a fireplace. You see the aching softness in Yuuji's eyes, the way Nobara grins triumphantly at having wrung that sound out of him.

And you understand, fully, like you knew you would.

These are no fledgling sorcerers. Nanami can never again offer them the kind of protection he once had. It is obvious that they value him no less for that. He is a glowing lantern of comfort, of hope to them. If he'd ever desired to play the role of responsible adult to these youngsters, then he'd exceeded every expectation and made himself indispensable, and loved.

If only he could see that.

You catch yourself watching Nanami's smile throughout the meal. It is, at times, contagious, at times shy, at other times a sarcastic tilt. He likes sandwiches, as you learn, and Nobara makes fun of the time one of Yaga's cursed dolls knocked a fresh salmon bagel out of Nanami's hand and he'd snapped and almost destroyed the garden it had escaped into.

It's only when the meal is over, and you are gathering up your purse, that you spy Nobara's eyes on you. The curve of her lips is discreet, and knowing.

*******

During the next few weeks, Nanami's physical condition slowly, but gradually improves. He does not ask when you will ensconce him in your domain again, and you do not offer. You feel that there is some fundamental hurdle he needs to overcome before this.

He still comes regularly, though. For someone who lived a regimental lifestyle like he did, you suppose it has something to do with maintaining a routine. Every other day, he is present, and sometimes, you note, he arrives almost half an hour early, watching the dance practice through the glass doors from the room across the hall.

You now leave the chai where he can help himself to it, and the cushioned mats rolled out so that he can take himself through the preliminary stretches while he waits.

The muscle atrophy, that is sometimes expected in cases of severe burns, does not present in any such way with Nanami. You can see, in the firmness of his stride, in the way he is able to balance his weight, in the slow loss of infirmity, that he has been working hard to maintain his strength and regain his physical abilities.

This is not what worries you. It's what comes after.

One month after treatment began, you see him ascend the staircase without assistance from a cane. He looks across the small distance, that bewitching hazel eye so firm, so proud, so accomplished, turning to you for acknowledgement that you cannot help the small sound of delight that escapes you. You also feel your stomach clench in anticipation.

Once in the room, you notice the small hint of amusement on his face, as you serve him from a plate of samoosas. You lift a curious brow.

"What is it?"

"You don't have to look so concerned. I won't be trying to take on any missions."

"I'm not concerned about- "

You cut yourself off, busying your hands with the tea. When you look up again, your breath catches slightly in your throat. He is watching you with what looks like tenderness, one hand still holding the plate you've absently passed to him. He speaks again, leaning back in his chair.

"There is something I haven't told you yet."

"And what's that?"

"About a dream of mine. One I've had for a very long time."

"And I presume it's a good dream?"

"In every sense. When I worked as a salaryman, I planned to save up enough money to retire. Live somewhere affordable, near the sea. Somewhere like Kuantan. I'd finally get to read all the books I'd bought and never finished. I'd live peacefully. Travel now and then."

You hum slightly, considering this dream.

"That sounds wonderful. Do you still think that this dream ... belongs to you? That it can be your reality, someday?"

"I always have. But ... I also know that such dreams come at a heavy price."

"Nanami ... I'd say that you've paid a thousand times over for such a dream."

Your heart twists at the pained knowledge in his glance. You've underestimated his astute nature.

He knows.

"I did tell you that one of the younger sorcerers saved my life, before. It was Yuuji. He found me when I was half conscious, burned, hallucinating about ... but that's beside the point. When I walked through that subway, I kept thinking the same thought, over and over again. 'Haven't I done enough?'"

The silence that descends upon the room is stifling. You clasp your hands over your knees.

"And have you?"

"I don't know, truthfully. Every time I think I have, there is something else. There will always be those who need the help of sorcerers. As long as I am able, how can I deny them that help?"

He is testing the waters, you can tell. Something about the last time he entered your domain must have triggered a curiosity in him, a desire to know just how much you could help him. You're not sure what it is, but you feel a rush of hope, a sense of a dawning breakthrough.

He spoke of a dream, and you know that Nanami never speaks idly. You pour him another glass of tea.

"I have a suggestion. Would you like to enter my domain again?"

(VI) 

Padam: Simplicity

This time, there is no pre-amble. Nanami seats himself on the cushion at the centre of the room with preternatural calm, but you sense the roil of emotions beneath. It gives you a sense of purpose, as you prepare, focusing your technique as you braid your hair and apply the red alta dye to your hands and feet and leave it to dry.

When you enter the room, you see his gaze immediately follow the movement of your hands. You crouch beside him, and something feels different.

Prior to this, Nanami was yet another patient of Shoko's, referred to your family for the kind of healing that physiologically-based cursed techniques couldn't touch. It was the reason that the study of their connection had fizzled out. Practitioners like Shoko were fully aware of the effects, but could not recommend them without a sense of hesitation.

And what was Nanami to you now?

You'd been avoiding that question. You know, full well, that helping him has become a desire birthed inside you as vital as breathing. You want to see him well, you want to see him happy, you want his laugh to echo through the corridors of Jujutsu Tech and his feet to find their way to warm sands and the gentle caress of waves. It is that simple.

(You wish it was.)

Your touch on his abdomen is charged with the weight of this knowledge, the heat that floods your veins intoxicating as he opens himself to you. You feel for the thread that hangs in the still interior of the self, the quivering vibration that changes and slides from his soul to yours.

There. It is different this time.

There is a tug of greater urgency, a rhythm that swells into a powerful current that threatens to snatch away your control.

No. You won't let it.

The reigns twist in your hand, but you pull them further into yourself, taking them, pioneering your way across the ocean of his desolation and uncertainty. You begin the steady rhythm, synchronized with the music of his soul. The drums behind you take it up. The song holds power, heady and fractious.

There will be theater in your performance tonight.

You spring away from Nanami, the connection between you thrumming with latent energy. The visions of his mind's eye flash upon yours, a series of broken images. You need more coherency. And so, you dance.

You allow your expression to mould to a frightening form, eyes wide, shadows gathering beneath them. Your palm raised, the other thumb above it, quivering.

Illumination. Let the soul reveal itself.

And it does. Nanami's form, dragging his feet, fresh, horrific burns across his torso, swimming into your vision. As you take measured steps across the floor, knees poised high, anklets chiming, his footsteps echo yours.

You turn, palms facing floorward and ceilingward, the red seeping between your fingers in the dim light reminiscent of the blood that creeps sluggishly from the raw ends of his scorched flesh. You take his pain into yourself, whirling across the floor.

And then, something startling. Yuuji appears, but not as the heroic saviour. There is a gaping hole in his chest, those bright eyes, fervent with life, now empty and soulless. He collapses with a solid thud and your steps falter.

This is not -

And then, Nobara. Your hands draw back, foot placed on the flesh of the enemy, but Nobara's face explodes in a bloom of scarlet, painting the walls with a hibiscus flare of bone, flesh and matter.

Why is he -

Nanami's face and neck are drenched in sweat, his eyes shut tightly. There are crescents forming in the fabric of his trousers, over the knees, where his fingernails dig into the flesh. The cymbals are now clashing to a faster pace, and you are drawn along, the river of his despair breaking its banks.

You see them, one by one, in-between the rush of your spinning braid, arms and the red flash of your fingers. All of them. All of the students Nanami holds so dear, lifeless, bodies broken beyond repair. A thin, bespectacled man in a dark suit, motionless on the ground, blood seeping from beneath him. Shoko, with her lackadaisical smile and lazy warmth, neck slit, dropping to her knees. Haibara Yu, his youthful face ghastly and pale, one finger raised, pointing.

There is a dreadful sound emerging from Nanami's throat, pain and loss and suffering ground between his teeth to spill into his lap, along with the dampness that rushes from beneath his single, uncovered eyelid. You fight against the overwhelming current, back towards him, the muscles of your legs screaming as his cursed energy pushes up from all around him, a defensive wall.

You're on your knees beside him now, reaching past the battering of his energy, grasping hard at his shoulders.

Come back. Come back to me.

He is twisting in your grasp, his strength all but overwhelming, even in his weakened state. You position your hands on either side of his face, gently, the tendons in your neck standing out with the effort of keeping them in place.

Come back to me.

You are vaguely aware that words are spilling from between his clenched lips, the muffled sounds slowly gaining clarity as you fix your gaze on his mouth.

"Why not me, why not me, why not me, why - "

You feel an answering dampness on your own cheeks as you draw him closer, feeling his cursed energy envelope you, binding you even closer in mind and body.

"Not you, Nanami. Not you. Because your life is not going to be spent like this. Not like this."

Through the atomic engagement of your cursed energy, you feel for the familiarity of him, and you flood his awareness with images that push away the darkness that lingers. Of Yuuji and his kind eyes and watchful care, of Nobara with her brash humour and protective glance. You force him to confront the reality of the others he's buried in his memory, of the bespectacled man scurrying around his office, of Shoko puffing out a dense, white cloud as her head tilts back against a pillar, of the other students, traipsing back in, exhausted after a mission, of a young man pulling a ski mask over a cheeky, lop-sided grin.

"They need you, Nanami Kento. They need you to be alive and well. That's all they've ever wanted."

Your voice has lowered to a whisper as your domain is finally able to manifest, unfolding in the absence of his resistance. The many-petaled flower blooms in shadow, until the shining heart of it breaches like a whale's head above the turbulent waves.

And Nanami is enfolded in your arms, head pillowed against your shoulder, as your voice draws his drowning mind inwards, a solitary lifeline.

*****

Nanami does not return for his scheduled appointment the day after, or the time after that. Two weeks go by with no sign of him. You debate calling Shoko to enquire after him, your concern growing like a viper, hatched in the pit of your stomach.

Something holds you back, however. The same idea that forces you to confront what Nanami Kento has become to you. Your technique alone is based on facing the uncomfortable truths buried deep in your soul, and your feelings for him are no exception.

You cannot, in good conscience, call Shoko when the man you have come to care for so deeply wants nothing more to do with you, or your domain. The best thing for both of you would be to remain as silent ships, passing each other on the vast ocean, as Nanami gradually finds his way to the uncertain shore of recovery.

You cannot help but wonder, though, if you did truly have some impact on him. Had it worked? Would he now make more positive changes in his life that you would simply remain unaware of, or would he ignore all the progress you had made since the first time he'd stepped through those doors? You had to make peace with the idea that you'd probably never know.

(It still leaves you breathless with hurt, remembering the tender scent of him that remains on your clothes.)

******

Nanami does return, just not in the manner you'd expected.

It is a cool spring day, a full month after the incident in the dance hall. You've just come down from your apartment on the third level, wrapping a scarf around your neck and steeling yourself to brave the chill. You hear footsteps on the stairs, and you will your heart to a regular beat as their steady pace and weight sounds familiar. You've long given up the chance of seeing him again.

And then the distinctive wing of blonde hair makes an appearance past the rickety balustrade, followed shortly by the rest of him, and something in your chest constricts, because all of your discipline and mindfulness is about to fly out the window, and -

He mounts the final stair, pausing as he takes you in, in your outdoor clothes. You are trying, failing, trying so hard not to read too much into his expression, but there ... you see it. His eye kindles; the warmth of it floods the narrow space between you two, seeping into you down to your bones. No scarf can replicate this.

He steps forward, uncertainly, face twisting slightly in pained apology.

"Am I ... I hope you're well."

"I am. You look ... "

He is finally clad in the form most natural to him, a tan business suit, dark blue shirt beneath, a speckled tie cast to one side by the wind. His hair has grown drastically in the time he's been absent, one half of his scalp covered by a short growth of luxuriant white. He wears a dark glove over his left hand, presumably protecting the sensitive burnt skin there.

He is walking, completely without aid, only a slight stiffness betraying the original severity of his injury. All the elegance, strength and beauty you saw in him at first glance, now magnified beyond your comprehension, because something else is different.

His soul, the Atman that had struggled like a wounded tiger, frantic and torn, beating against its constraints, is not whole. Not just yet. It is, however, expanding beyond the borders of his body, exuding that confidence and grace you knew were such a vital part of his being. This is Nanami, the shackles of his mind trailing with uncertainty behind him as his gaze seeks yours.

You take a breath, but he holds up a hand.

"Please, let me speak first."

Seeing your slow nod, he seems slightly relieved.

"I apologise sincerely for not coming sooner. I felt that ... I needed to make progress on my own, to come to terms with what you'd shown me, before I came here once again. Above all I was ... "

Those rich, mellow tones of his drop to the range of the barely audible.

"Above all, I was ashamed. Of how obtuse I'd been. Of all the things I'd missed. I had to make that right somehow, to work harder to show the people who care about me that I can learn. That I can change. That I can ... think of myself and prioritize my well-being."

You are vaguely aware that you've drawn closer, a hapless moth, fluttering closer to a consuming flame.

"And are you at such a point now? You can really think of yourself?"

He huffs a soft laugh, eye traveling slowly, softly over your hair, your face, your lips.

"Yes. Yes, I think I can. If you choose to forgive me, maybe I can accompany you on your walk now?"

******

It is not the only time he walks with you. Nanami starts to visit again, regularly, but not just for yoga and exercises. Many of his visits are social, calling on you with a small gift of some edible treat or other that he'd discovered.

He tells you that he has started working at the Tech again, but in a purely advisory capacity, holding special seminars for younger sorcerers on the dynamics of co-operative missions, prioritizing the safety of oneself and teammates, strategy and appropriate preparation before missions.

He watches each young face that peers earnestly at him from the audience and feels a sense of peace, that he is doing all that he can to help them survive the harsh world that awaits. He is also liaising with various counseling services, trying to build a solid foundation for sorcerers who require emotional and psychological support.

You listen to each of his endeavours with delight, especially when he asks if you are willing to be part of this new co-ordinated team, bringing your area of specialty to the table.

Other times, you sit on the balcony with him, watching the ebb and flow of humanity in the city below, your bubble of tranquility untouched. These times are the most precious to you, because that is when Nanami's shoulders ease, when the lines at the corners his eyes deepen with merriment, when he tells you stories of places he's visited, people he's come across, anecdotes from his days as a salaryman and the latest exploits of the students.

There are times when he leans in close, when your breath halts at the verdant, warm, masculine scent of him. There are times when you pass him a steaming glass and your fingers brush the ends of his, and you notice that he always takes off his glove when he sits with you. Sometimes you stand, side by side on the balcony, your upper arm pressed slightly against his, revelling in the sweet, solid proximity of him.

It is one one of those occasions that you turn to him, to point out a new store that has opened not far away, and you see that he is watching you. There is no shame in his glance, only a gentle wonder that weaves a golden bridge between the both of you. Your voice is soft, reverent.

"What is it?"

"I'm remembering the first time I saw you dance."

"Oh?"

"You were teaching a class, as I recall. I remember standing by the door, watching, and some time later, your eyes were on me. And I realized that I couldn't remember anything that had happened in between."

He reaches for you, the glove absent, and you lean into his touch without hesitation. His fingers are light, so light, as they trace across your temple, your cheek, the corner of your lips.

"And ... during our second session, when you held me, I knew that I couldn't continue like this. That you were using the strength of your soul to heal mine, and that if I didn't do my best to understand what you had shown me, then all your effort would have been for nothing. I couldn't accept that."

Your forehead finds purchase against his, a natural movement that echoes the press of your palm against the substantiality of his chest.

"And now?"

"Now ... I can walk beside you in the sun."

The taste of his mouth is a nectar you've never known you've craved. It is heady, a fiery joining of soft and rough, the edges of the scar tissue tracing along your lips like the light drag of a fingernail.

You open your arms to him once more, and this time, he stays.

(VII)

Thillana: Revivification

After learning the soul, learning the body is as natural as breathing. You were hesitant about touching him, wondering how much he'd allow after his injuries. You needn't have worried much on that account. As much as he makes your heart flutter and sing with his praises, with his eager, gentle touches, with the growing harshness of his lips against yours, all that he seems concerned with is how to use his body best to bring pleasure to yours.

You have seen the barest desolation of his soul, and its healing, and the damage to his body means as little to both of you as the muted rush of traffic outside your small apartment.

His urgency is sweetened by the clumsy tug and pull on zips and fastenings, on the shedding of clothes, the soft exhales, painting skin with warm moisture in between the frantic pace of your lips and his.

His hands are so large, spanning your ribcage as you lead him to your bed, circling and finding purchase on the dip of your waist. His body is a moving furnace that warms you as you stumble and clutch at each other, the ripple of muscle like an unseen beast beneath the waves as your palms explore his shoulders, arms, torso, hips.

Kento's skin is a map of hidden treasures, the smooth, tawny, gold- flecked expanse of chest meeting the ridges of scar tissue halfway across. The new growth of white hair on his scalp is downy soft between your fingers, in contrast to the silky texture on the right. His powerful thighs slide between yours, the forward thrust of his hips spreading you open to receive his weight.

He is not forceful, and yet, takes the reigns of your intimate dance almost as if by instinct. He pauses above you, propped on his hands, chest heaving slightly as he takes you in, his amber-shot gaze misty with adoration and lust. You reach up,  tracing the firm line of his nose, the sharpness of his jaw, the sinew of his neck. Every new angle you spy reveals more, that elusive, predatory beauty that never fails to enchant you.

His head dips, the blonde strands falling forward softly against your skin as he kisses a line of fire down your torso, quickening your breathing as his tongue flickers against your flesh. He holds you down, pressing you firmly into the mattress as he worships each breast, lapping, suckling, savouring.

He moves further down, and your sharp breathing devolves into whispered pleas and whimpers as he nudges your inner thigh softly with his nose. So deliriously slow, so decisive, as in every action he takes, he devours his way to the apex of your thighs, sliding his hands underneath you as you lift your hips and present yourself further to him.

The feast he has been waiting for lies open beneath his gently probing fingers, their honey smearing over his lips as he tastes you, eye snapping up as a breathy moan escapes your lips. He laps at you with heady abandon, that smoky, devoted gaze never leaving the contortions of your face as he brings you to each hard-won peak, drifting you back down to a mellow lake of blinding pleasure.

Your fingers slide and catch on his shoulders, anchoring yourself as blood thunders in your ears, and a rising storm, electric and charged with fresh potency, builds at every ultra-sensitive point of contact. He is your passionate guide, leading you to a shining horizon, familiar and yet fraught with the overwhelming knowledge that he is the one who pulls you over the edge of the thundering waterfall.

You are submerged, the shake of your limbs and the hoarse cry of your voice reaching up from beneath the surface your senses have yet to emerge from. When they do, you glance down at him, past your heaving chest, at the blaze that roars within him as he beholds you splayed out, breathless; an offering.

He takes it.

The slow crawl of his skin, sliding against your damp flesh, the brief touch of his mouth at the hollow of your throat, the brush of his nose against yours. He takes your lips in a soft request for entry, groans into your mouth as you trace the ridges of his spine. 

Kento is almost too much for you, the burning vitality that steals your breath, the fullness of your arms as they embrace all of him. The air rushes out of your lungs as the hardened press of his length breaches you, fills you to overflowing.

He holds you close, so close, as if he could meld your bodies as you had once done with your cursed energy, ragged puffs of air escaping his lips to collect like clouds in the evening sky of your hair. His movements are slow, dragging tears from the corners of your eyes, drunk and blissful moans cocooned within the slowly rotating vessel of your lovemaking.

You are at sea with him, around him, washing over his starving self and nourishing his spirit with every slick press of your bodies together, every arch of your back, every trace of his scarred skin, every gentle touch of your lips to his brow, cheek, mouth. He is now taking as well as giving, rolling his hips hard into the widening harbour of your thighs, soft grunt and pants deepening in their urgency.

The unfolding within you is different, completely out of your control. A wild, reckless dance, the rhythm ever-changing, golden threads running like molten metal between the undulations of your bodies. The flower of your combined desire unfurls, petal by petal, each dropping to the floor as new layers of delight and abandon are reached.

The bed creaks beneath the weighted push of his thrusts, his hands flying to your cheeks as your cries grow louder, louder, raspy and choked. This is the true face of passion, the complete submission to the will of your lover, the way you take all that he gifts you with and reciprocate with the finest nectar that slides from the deepest parts of you, soaking the sheets beneath you.

It is here, it is here in the glazed film of his eye beneath dusky lashes, the sweat between his body and yours, the heat that stretches on and on to an infinity within your knowing and snaps-

Washing over his ears in your sharp scream of release, in the wanton covering of his mouth with yours, the ecstasy of a thousand fluttering birds within the cage of your ribs. This time, the gentle ripple of your tide pulls him forward over the edge, his deep groan of guttural satisfaction reverberating through your whole body as his hips stutter and still their frantic pace.

You lie with him, afterwards, limbs entangled, aware only of the shift of his nose against your collarbone, the tightening of his arms around you, the way you wrap yourself around his form, as if to shield him, just for a moment, from the world he has been born into.

Kento. 

Brightness, shadow, mellow and hard-edged, the loveliness of everything in-between. 

Yours.

How can you ever call it anything other than love?

(VII) 

Mangalam: Gratitude

To be in Kento's presence is to discover a thousand tiny precious shards, hidden in the silken folds of your changing life, piecing them together to form a diamond of unparalleled value.

He is quiet, stubborn, brave, resilient, mischievous and agile of mind. He challenges your thoughts on the jujutsu world, brings summer to your heart and draws you into the sunshine of his embrace. The fractured nature of his soul is not one that can be undone, but weeds (hardy and weathered) have grown through the cracks and your own flowerbed finds a home there, gently blossoming.

You are reminded of every richness he has brought into your life on one summer night, in the aftermath of a taxing mission for some of the students, when he meets them for supper and a discussion of what had occurred.

This time, Megumi is also present, and he reminds you a little of Kento as he watches Yuuji's animated re-enactment of the battle, rolling his eyes at obvious embellishments, adding a solemn word now and then. Kento leans forward on his elbows, listening attentively, as always.

When Yuuji is finished, Kento sits back, contemplatively sipping his coffee.

"What you've described is certainly concerning. I'd take this information up with the research committee as soon as you've filed your report. They may want to know details like that."

Yuuji nodded fervently.

"Already on it. I've been looking it up and there was a similar surge in cursed energy in Okinawa a few years ago. Pretty much leveled a small village. I'm not taking any chances with this one. I've texted Ijichi about sealing technique specialists and requested a team to map out energy signatures in the surrounding area. Anything I may have missed?"

You take note of the small smile that graces Kento's face, the pride that spills out along its sharply defined edges.

"No. You've done well, Yuuji. It's exactly what I would have done under those circumstances."

"Oh?"

Yuuji's surprised expression quickly morphs to something else, a deepening realization that silences him and brings a tight, tender quality to the set of his mouth.

Kento has called him by his first name.

********

On the slow stroll back to your home, you link your arm with his. The night sky is flecked with faint stars, unusual to see in the normally smog-laden sky over the city. You speak into the comfortable silence.

"Yuuji handled that well."

"He's a born leader. I've always thought so. He has the confidence and drive to be the strongest, not just in technique. Not to mention the magnitude of what he's already accomplished."

He pauses, one finger idly tracing over his eyepatch.

"I noticed it on our first mission together. He was not just a young sorcerer, going through the motions, trying to survive. He genuinely felt for the victims of the curse. It ... reminded me of Haibara, a little."

He gives your hand a small reassuring pat.

"Not that I've ever confused the two. They're fundamentally different. But Yuuji ... Yuuji had a light inside of him. He made me take note. He made me see him, and his spirit."

Your fingers entwine with his, tugging his hand up to your lips.

"Your spirit is quite marvellous too, you know."

He eyes you sideways, slyly.

"It is?"

"Of course."

"Would you like to elaborate?"

"Fishing for compliments, are we?"

"From your lovely tongue, always."

Your laughter echoes in the silent street, stretching out along the sidewalk, shimmering in the puddles that had formed after the rain.

"You are beautiful, Nanami Kento, and you're- "

You never finish that sentence, as his hands draw you closer, his lips finding yours in the glow of the street lamp. In that moment, you can think of nothing else apart from the man who strides with quiet confidence beside you, on every conceivable path to an unknown future.

He is a red-painted center, kindling in the palm of your hand, the tiger that inhabits the secret garden of your heart, the flame in a gilded brazier that never goes out. 

************

[dumplingsfordays]

30 strales

blade x florist!gn!reader

genre - fluff

summary - after you fall down into some metal buckets in your flower shop, a certain raven-haired customer happens to be walking by and helps you clean up.

cw!: swearing, blade kinda wants to murder you but ends up changing his mind because he likes uuu <3

note - i hc that blade smells like citrus. no, you're not getting an explanation, sorry lol.

and as always, thank you for reading!

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

When you got your job as a florist at Petals and Pollen, you didn't expect this many people to talk to you - you were just there to make bouquets, but most of the time when someone came up to you to ask for a recommendation or advice on what flowers to give someone, your conversations would end in 'hey, are you free this week? I know a great coffee shop that you'd like' or 'there's this cute bookstore a few blocks away, wanna go there together sometime?' or just straight-up 'do you want to go on a date?'. Of course, you weren't angry or anything, but a part of you felt annoyed. Did these people come up to you only because they thought that you look nice, or did they actually want to get a bouquet and they picked up on your personality midway?

Either way, you always declined. You weren't really interested right now, and besides, you had stuff to do. Planning dates wasn't exactly part of your job description anyway.

But one cold autumn afternoon during a thunderstorm, a rather peculiar man entered the shop - his expression wasn't one of boredom or neutrality like most other patrons, it was one of rigid, almost angry determination. He stomped up to the counter with quick steps, long navy hair flowing behind him as he stopped suddenly in front of the counter.

"How do I say 'fuck you' in flower?" he growls. "Use any flowers you need. I have the money."

You blink a couple of times in surprise at the taller man, processing his request. You knew flower language, it's just that you were wondering who it could possibly be for - a nasty coworker? A disrespectful teacher or boss?

Deciding not to dwell on it, you nod and get to arranging the bouquet. From some nearby stands, you pick out some geraniums, foxglove, meadowsweet, and orange lilies, cradling the flowers in the inside nook of your elbow. You place them in a clear glass vase and tie them together with a sunset-red silk ribbon. You feel the man's eyes linger on your fingers as they knot the ribbon in a bow, and finally, you finish the bouquet and hand it to the man.

"120 strales, please," you say, pressing a few buttons on the cash register. The man quirks an eyebrow.

"No dahlias?"

"Dahlias? Why would you need dahlias?"

"Ka- I mean, I read that they meant disappointment."

You sigh. "Well, that book must've been wrong. Dahlias are a symbol of commitment, not disappointment. I think the author must've meant to write "yellow carnations", but I don't know how you would mix it up that bad. Should I add them?"

"No, that's fine." The man slides you the payment and, grabbing the bouquet, storms out the glass door to the shop.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

"Fuck!" he mutters under his breath as he speedwalks angrily through the crowded streets of Xianzhou, his delicate bouquet gently cradled in his arms. What the hell was Kafka thinking? He was going to bring this to the General as quote unquote "thanks", and she tricked him? Oh, he was going to kill her when he came back.

But this florist was rather... different than others he'd been to in search of a "fuck you" bouquet. They had a special sort of air about them, an air that he couldn't quite pinpoint but knew that it was addicting. Well, maybe not addicting - he just wanted to see them again, that's all.

Wait, see them again? No, he didn't do that sort of thing, he never wanted to up and start conversation with some random stranger that he saw once while buying flowers. He didn't spontaneously show up at their doorstep and ask what their name was - he only did that to his victims, and in this case, this person wasn't a victim. He barely even knew who they were (with the exception of the obvious title of "florist".)

What if they would become his victim, then? He would have a chance to talk to them without feeling guilty of doing so, and maybe murder them at the end. That's what happens to everyone anyways, how was one less person in the world going to impact him?

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The next day, a few hours after opening time, you see him again. He's calmer than yesterday, opening the door to your shop with a small squeak and taking his time to look around at the flowers you have on display. He pauses next to a small tin pail of yellow pansies.

"Those are pansies," you note. He turns his head sharply to meet your gaze with those blood-red eyes and turns back to the flowers.

"They're pretty," he says under his breath, lifting one out of the pail and examining its petals. "What do they mean?"

You can't read his expression at all - it's just neutral, with a small hint of fascination that immediately vanishes when he puts it back.

"They mean 'I'm thinking of you'," you reply as you pull some leaves off the stem of a tulip and throw them into a paper bag. He blinks in response and continues examining the various flowers, finally coming over to your counter a couple minutes later.

"I'd like some daffodils, please." He slides over 230 strales.

"The largest bouquet costs 200, you can keep the extra 30."

He stares at the currency in silence as you pick out the freshest daffodils and bind them together with a pale yellow ribbon, adding some white lace frills into the midst. You hand him the bouquet and he looks up at the nametag pinned to your left.

"y/n," you say. "Nice to meet you too, um..."

"Blade."

"Blade, okay."

You give a small, awkward smile. He takes the rather large bouquet from your hands and leaves the extra 30 strales, which you grab and run after him with as he leaves the shop.

"Blade! Blade!" you yell as you run after him. "You forgot your-"

He's gone, blended in with the crowd, probably, but you daren't go look - you have a business to run, and you already see some potential customers approaching the establishment. You decide to wait for him - if he comes back tomorrow, you'll give him the strales back.

As you're making a rose bouquet for a middle-aged man in a grey suit and tie, Blade pops into your mind again. His eyes were... eerily captivating, like bloodied dark iron magnets that pulled your gaze toward him. Combined with the fact that he was hard to read, and that you've never seen him before in your life, made him the most mysterious person that you'd ever interacted with. But a part of you wanted to see him again, to talk to him, to find out who he really was and what he was doing in your shop in the first place. Guess you'd have to see tomorrow.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Tomorrow was a mess.

You estimated that about 200 customers came in, most leaving with flowers in hand, and to your disappointment, none of them were the dark-haired, red-eyed, "fuck you"-bouquet-ordering man who somehow forgot that he'd left 30 strales lying on your counter before yesterday. By the time you had shut your doors, the floor was completely littered with little pieces of leaves and small, multicolored petals. Guess you had to stay after to clean up.

You pulled out your best weapon, a wide mop, from the cleaning closet in the corner and got to work. Pulling it along the tiled floor, you decided that it was rather boring to mop in silence, and pulled out another one of your favorite items - a pair of headphones, which you promptly connected to your phone and resumed mopping, now with a spring in your step. This spring turned into occasional hopping, which then turned into full-on dancing as you got caught up in the music.

Blade was watching all this unfold outside your shop, standing in the darkness and staring dumbfoundedly through the glass window. He was planning on murdering you tonight - it was horrifying that you were dancing so carefreely, without even noticing his piercing gaze on your moving form.

Abandoning the mop, you grabbed onto a column and twirled around it several times in musical glee before tragedy struck and you fell into a shelf of those goddamn tin buckets. Luckily they didn't have flowers in them, but they still hurt like a bitch - you tried pulling yourself up, only to fall down again and wince in pain as the metal edges of the buckets dug into your skin. Your legs are probably going to be covered in bruises the next morning.

You hear the door open with its signature squeak and a sinking feeling of embarrassment flooded your system.

"Need help?" the navy-haired man standing in the doorway askes, stone-faced. He stared at your trapped form blankly as you gaped at him.

"It's nine, no- ten in the evening," you stammer out, "how are you here?"

"Passing by." He feels a strange pang of guilt when lying to you. "You didn't answer my question."

You swallow and look around helplessly before replying reluctantly. "Yes, please."

Blade walks into the shop and grabs you by your hands, hoisting you up with ease onto your legs for a second before catching you when your knees buckle almost instantaneously. He sighs, lifts you up, and carries you to the nearest chair, setting you down like a fragile vase.

Blade's touch was comforting, and he smells like citrus, which is a very unexpected scent for him to have in your opinion. You thought that he might've smelled like- wait, why were you even thinking about this? The way in which his lowkey kinda attractive strong arms carried you was completely irrelevant to the current situation - why was your brain hung up on this while the poor guy has to clean up after you?

Speaking of cleaning up, he was almost done. He was now putting the mop back in the closet, and after he shut the door, you took this moment of silence to ask a question.

"Can you carry me upstairs, please? Just to my bed."

He freezes. You desperately hope that it's not a bad thing - your legs are starting to actually hurt and you don't think that you can carry yourself up a flight of stairs.

Luckily for you, he walks over and scoops you into his arms once more, carrying you with relative ease to the wooden stairs, which creak a little under your combined weight. You loop your hands around his neck as you climb up, holding on for dear life. When he reaches the second floor you thank him quietly, and he returns the gesture with a nod, turning on the lights by raising his knee up to flick the switch. The hallway fills with a golden light, and when you point to the door to your room, he heads there.

You hope that your room doesn't seem too messy - there's plants everywhere (which probably isn't that much of a surprise given that you're a florist) and the occasional book is lying on every wide surface like your desk and the bookshelf. Blade strides over to the bed in one corner, moving a leather-bound book aside titled "A Complete Collection of Native Bee Species" when he lifts the blanket. He sets you down onto the mattress with that same gentleness and you lean into the pillow, eyes already drooping shut at its softness. You turn your back towards him, and he takes this as a signal to remove your apron, which he hangs on a nearby chair. You, in your near-sleepiness, hear him sigh as he turns off the lights and closes the door, leaving you to drift away in peace. The scent of citrus lingers in your mind.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The next day, as you're setting up shop, you find a note on the counter, written in black pen and a quick hand.

Locked front + back doors. Exited through window, keep the 30 strales.

[bizarrebazaar13]

FL-inspired book recs!

brought to you by hotel wi-fi

Locations

The Royal Bethlehem: “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and “The Room in the Tower” by E.F. Benson. these are short stories, not novels, but they are fairly quick reads and are about locations where reality becomes twisted. the yellow wallpaper deals with mental illness and medical neglect, while the room in the tower is more about the overlap between dreams and the real world.

Port Carnelian: Mycroft Holmes by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. ok, hear me out on this one. if you’ve ever thought port carnelian would be great if it actually dealt with British colonialism and racism in a meaningful way and also had a murder mystery, you might like this book. a much younger Mycroft Holmes goes with his friend Cyrus Douglas to Douglas’s home in Trinidad to investigate a series of mysterious deaths.

Ladybones Road: The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley. Nathaniel Steepleton finds a gold pocket watch in his bedroom one day, but he cannot open it or even hear it ticking. six months later, it opens on its own, and an alarm goes off at the precise time that a bomb explodes in Scotland Yard. he then goes in search of its maker, Keita Mori, who claims the watch was stolen from his shop. Mori has a gift for elaborate clockwork, and though he seems kind and relatively harmless, Nathaniel is sure he is hiding something.

Ambitions/Major Storylines

Early Light Fingers: The House of Silk by Anthony Horowitz. it’s a Sherlock Holmes pastiche, but it can still be understood and enjoyed even if you don’t share my Sherlock Holmes autism. I specified early light fingers, because the mystery of what exactly the house of silk is, and the theme of corruption in highest levels of society, reminds me a lot of exploring and learning about the orphanage. just a heads up, this book is centered around a murdered child, and deals with the systemic abuse and neglect of children in victorian london. its biggest content warning is also its biggest spoiler, so I won’t give it here, but feel free to ask me. I had it spoiled for me on accident and still liked the book a lot.

Late-game Nemesis: “The Moonlit Road” by Ambrose Pierce. another short story, it recounts in three parts the murder of Julia Hetman, as told by her son, her husband, and Julia herself. it specifically reminds me of the dreams of the dead section of nemesis.

Evolution: Into the Drowning Deep by Mira Grant. Tory Stewart becomes obsessed with mermaids after her sister Anne’s disappearance. Anne was filming a mockumentary about mermaids in the Mariana Trench, but the ship she was on disappeared, and was recovered weeks later with no trace of the crew. footage was found that appeared to show the crew being murdered by mermaids, but it’s largely believed to be for the movie, not real. seven years later, Theodore Blackwell recruits Tory as part of his mission to return to the Mariana Trench and capture a live mermaid. it hits sort of the same spot for undersea survival horror that the diving bell section of evolution did for me.

Exceptional Stories

The Bloody Wallpaper: Sign Here by Claudia Lux. hell is an office. literally. Peyote Trip sold his soul while he was alive, and now works in hell, convincing other people to do the same. he’s one deal away from a big promotion, and all he needs is the soul of one last member of the Harrison family. normal laws of space and time don’t apply, the real hellscape is capitalism, and secrets don’t stay hidden forever… sound familiar? in terms of violence and body horror, I don’t think it gets much worse than the text of the bloody wallpaper. one of the main characters does have a pretty brutal backstory involving christianity-related child abuse though.

Totentanz: Gods of Jade and Shadow by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. set in late 1920s Mexico, the story follows Casiopea Tun and the Mayan death god Hun-Kamé on a journey across Mexico and eventually into the underworld. Casiopea finds Hun-Kamé’s bones in a chest in her grandfather’s house, and when she cuts her finger on one of the bone shards, Hun-Kamé becomes bound to her. together, they must find the rest of his body, which has been scattered around Mexico by Hun-Kamé’s brother Vucub-Kamé, who took over control of Xibalba from him. Hun-Kamé intends to retake Xibalba, but he and Casiopea must face sorcerers, demons, and twisted family dynamics- and that’s before they even get to the underworld.

[facelesssbirds]

Dancing In The Rain || Genshin

A.N. I found that some of these were longer than others, which I'm so sorry for <33 Enjoy! You dance in the rain, with, or without them. Implied F!Reader, Neuvillette, Dottore, Kaveh, Arlecchino Warning: None, though the Harbinger sections makes allusions to their "work,"

Neuvillette had never liked the rain, it was a reminder of his duty, a sick, twisted sign of his failures. He was the reason for the rain today, a court trial having just been finished when you had burst in, long after everyone else had left. Only he remained, standing in the centre of the room almost dramatically.

"Neuvillette," You spoke softly, setting down the umbrella you had been carrying to look at him.

He may've looked calm, composed even, but you could tell he was a mess, his face set in a firm frown, but his eyes softened when they met yours. You took his hand, quiet, intimate.

"Dance with me." You murmured, coming to rest your hand on his shoulder.

He frowned, looking around the court room, askew with chairs, desks and other obstacles, "We can't dance here," he said, a hint or remorse peaking into his voice, it was was hoarse from speaking all day.

You nodded in agreement, listening to the rain outside grow louder, a crack of thunder in the far off distance. Smiling, almost hesitantly you lead him out the doors, through the large, grandiose halls of the opera and out into the pouring rain, your umbrella long forgotten.

"We'll simply dance in the rain," You said, ignoring his protests, and forcing him into a ballroom waltz.

His hand slipped to your waist with little resistance, the harsh droplets of rain softening, wetting both of you to the bone. You should be miserable, standing here, dancing in the rain, and yet, a smile comes to your face, and maybe, just maybe, a hint of sunshine peaks through those dark, looming clouds.

Dottore was a man of science, cold and cynical, but the seemingly unending rain of the Sumeru Jungles bothered him more than he cared to admit. Omega had gotten some water in through his eye sockets, normally this wouldn't be an issue that he would deal with, and Omega could've just taken care of it himself, but naturally the idiot (himself) had ignored every sign of malfunction to work on the god project.

The one bright side was that he got to visit you, you oh, beautiful, perfect, you who stayed in Sumeru as a street dancer, and a scholar, despite the akademiya's terrible treatment of someone as perfect as you. That truly, was the only reason he was out in the rain, watching as you, despite being drenched in the warm rain, preformed a beautiful dance, your aerial dance had long been discarded, you hadn't wanted to ruin the silks, he assumed.

Truly, though, he was your only spectator. The only watcher of your fruitless efforts. The market had long since closed down, but you had barely seemed to notice, your eyes focused solely on completing your routine. He smirked from under his mask, watching as finally, your dance ended, your chest heaved as he offered you his umbrella, shielding you from the rain.

"Are you finished already, darling?" He questioned, watching as you glanced up at him, surprised.

"Zandik!" You gasped, your eyes widening, though you grinned, "I didn't know you were in town-"

He chuckled, "I had... matters, to attend to, and of course, I had to stop by and see you, my darling."

You giggled, giving him a look, "Well, then, I suppose you owe me a dance for being gone for so long."

"In the rain?" He mused, "Darling, perhaps we should wait, you could catch a cold--"

You hush him, patting his shoulder, "Oh it'll be fine~"

He huffs, but complies, his hands coming to your waist, watching as you revel in the feeling of water hitting your face, soaking you to the bone. He'll be there to nurse you back to help after you get sick, either way.

Kaveh was a hard worker, you knew, and sometimes, he worked a little too hard. You had stopped by his and Al haitham's house, looking for Kaveh, who had promised to go on a date with you, only to learn he had been in the library since yesterday.

Naturally, you were worried, thanking Al Haitham before running off to go look for your beloved. The rain hardly stopped you, running into the library drenched, your rain jacket soaked, and your hair a mess. The Library was empty, the lights shut off as you perused, looking for your darling little blonde.

"Kaveh," You mumbled when you saw him, rushing over to his sleeping form.

He was hunched over books and a intricate blueprint of some architectural design, it was beautiful, almost as breathtaking as him, even sleeping with ink smudged on his cheek he looked perfect. You knew he thought the same about you, his eyes lighting up when he saw you, rubbing the sleepiness away from his eyes in an instant to sit up, nuzzling into your arms for a hug.

"Darling!" He said into your arms, not minding the cold wet water drenching you, only for him to quickly turn sad, "I forgot-- shit-- I'm so sorry--"

You cut him off patting his back, "Kaveh, it's fine really, just-- rest." You said firmly, giving him a stern stare.

He grinned, looking out at the glass balcony behind him, before deviously turning to you, "Say... do you like dancing?"

You raised an unamused-- slightly confused-- brow, "It's fun, yes, but really--"

You were cut off by him practically dragging you towards the balcony, opening the door, not minding as rain wetted his clothes, his hair, his face, smudging his makeup and washing off the ink stuck to his cheek.

"Dance with me." He muttered, breathlessly, looking out at the rain, the air surrounding him, at you.

And, god, those eyes. You couldn't help but comply, spinning out as you waltzed, a night to remember for you both.

Arlecchino had always enjoyed ballroom dancing, the elegant refinery of performance. She had taught the children how to dance when they were young, cultivating dance into an art form of itself, a show that must always go on. And now, the performance they had made Fontaine was finished, only the epilogue to be enacted.

"Father." Lyney said, bowing slightly, "This performance has been finished."

Arlecchino smiled, restrained in elegance, sharp as a knife and hard as an edge, "Very good. Fetch your Mother for me, Lynette."

Lynette nodded, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared, a flurry of wind replacing her, sleight of hand at its finest. Arlecchino directed her eyes towards Fontaine, unaware of the hours that would soon await it as the sun set.

"Arlecchino, darling-" You came to stand beside her, smiling, "You called?"

She nodded, looking over at you, tracing your shoulder, "Yes, walk with me one. One last performance."

You glanced up surprised, "Of course."

And so, it was. Arlecchino's hands gripped yours as you walked through the garden, marveling at the sunset, and the looming clouds in the distance.

"Arle..." You murmured softly, "It's going to rain soon. We should head back inside."

Arlecchino's grip on your hand tightened, "Nonsense. Dance with me," She smirked, her free hand coming to play with your hair, before trailing down to your waist in slow, languid movements. You couldn't ever resist this woman.

"I suppose I must," You say, sighing through a smile, watching as rain hits the pavement around you. Soon, you too will be drenched, but happier than before, after all, dancing with your darling was something everyone wishes for.

[chic-a-gigot]

L'Art et la mode, no. 42, vol. 17, 17 octobre 1896, Paris. Redfern. Breveté de sa Majesté l'Impératrice de Russie. Dessin de Marie de Solar. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Princesse OB…..KY. Dame d’honneur de S. M. l'Impératrice de Russie.

Collet en soie beige garni d'application de guipure; joli volant de mousseline de soie bouillonnée et plissée en même nuance.

Beige silk collar trimmed with guipure appliqué; pretty flounce of bubbled and pleated chiffon in the same shade.

—

Princesse PO…KA.

Grand manteau en velours rubis garni de point d’Angleterre blanc en application sur du point d'Angleterre noir. Doublure d’hermine.

Large ruby ​​velvet coat trimmed with white point d'Angleterre applied over black point d'Angleterre. Ermine lining.

—

Princesse SO….KY.

Grand manteau Caucasien. Drap entièrement doublé de loutre. Toque de loutre.

Large Caucasian coat. Fully lined with otter. Otter hat.

—

Madame WA……HOFF. Dame d’honneur de S. M. l’Impératrice.

Joli manteau en satin plissé de bas en haut et brode en laine. Col cranté et garni de dentelle et de plumes.

Pretty coat in pleated satin from bottom to top and wool embroidery. Notched collar and trimmed with lace and feathers.

[p1nkc4lyps0]

ISAT PKMN trainer assignments

i've been having brainrot recently and i havent really seen people doing pokemon trainer aus, just a lot of pokemon mystery dungeon aus which i think require different perspectives for so i figured i may as well give it a shot.

with my assignments i was making sure to think about actual symbolism and tried avoiding the canon pokemon assignments for a] more of a challenge and b] i havent really seen all of them so if i have picked some of the same pokemon my bad.

SIFFRIN

gimmighoul: tried taking siffrin's coin once, failed, now just hangs around with him and has gotten quite attatched.

minior: a pokemon he's had as long as he can remember. gets a lot of weird looks about it though and has never seen anyone else with one.

chingling: the only pokemon caught in the castle. ding ding!

popplio: what a little clown! a fool! just a litter jester doing a preformance!

hisuian sneasel: basically siffren's dagger. i picked the hisuian one over the johtonian one because it's white.

absol: not a pokemon he had before the loops and has a sneaking suspicion those two facts are related since it seems to remember them to an extent.

MIRABELLE

morpeko: i think mirabelle would like form changing pokemon and also. near the end of floor 3 mirabelle gets like, really annoyed and then eats and is fine. thats what morpeko does.

furfrou: a pokemon with plenty of styles to choose from! she hasn't been able to get it styled recently and while she is getting nervous of it not changing, she has noticed it's happier staying as it is.

indeedee: indeedees are helpful pokemon! often used as servants, i feel mirabelle would relate with this

palafin: a hero capable of change! and paladins tend to fight for a cause, often a religious one like who mirabelle is fighting as a maiden of change.

escavalier: we don't have a fencing pokemon but we do have a lancing pokemon! also the fact a shelmet has to be traded with a karrablast is something

ISABEAU

mimikyu: isabeau is constantly putting up a facade of being a bit air headed, disguisigng himself. i also think with mimkyu wearing a cloak with him being a fashion designer would make this the most stylish mimikyu the world has ever seen

leavanny: this pokemon is known for making clothes from it's silk and any leaves it finds, making it into a clothing maker of sorts, they're also super protective.

bewear: what a big sweetie! aw it loves hugging people, it can also snap your back in two... i feel like this the most fitting attacking pokemon isa with it's bulk, cuteness and hidden scariness [something we see from isabeau when he gets... very protective of the sif nickname]

ODILE

carbink: this was my first thought for an odile pokemon, it's a little rock! and with it's links to diancie, a perfect red herring for what she's studying, they're just native to ka bue. she hardly uses it in battle.

steelix: now this is her attacking pokemon! i know it doesn't cover her primary paper type technically but it does cover her use of rock and scissors type by being steel/ground. i also think she mega evolves it from time to time, for the gems theming.

relicanth: i tried to go with the theme of old pokemon for odile, not generations wise but in the way that relicanth hasn't changed in a millenia. it's also a map, which could be interesting with the island siffrin is from.

bronzong: i can't really explain this one i just think it fits with her character? maybe it's the shape language but it is another old pokemon, showing up in the ruins in arceus so once again, more red herrings for her research.

sinistcha: ka bue is very implied to be japan or at the barest of minimums asia. odile is absolutely a tea drinker to me, this might have been one of her earlier pokemon that came with her when she left ka bue. they also have similar hair

drampa: hahahahah funny grandpa dragon joke~ drampa is reported to burn down the houses of any bullies the child they've befriended, odile has said that she would do horrible things for the party. im not fucking with you. think is not just a odile is the grandma of the party joke. i am dead fucking serious when i say this is her most in character pokemon.

BONNIE

applin: i think bonnie tried to gather apples at somepoint and it turned out to be an applin, they kept it. they seem like the type of kid to enjoy bugs [im counting the none apple bit of applin a bug cause it is to me fuck off]

alcremie: a pokemon evolved completely by accident. their milcery took a strawberry from them while cooking and in an attempt to get it back, span around enough to where it evolved. just some complete loony toons bullshit

yungoose: their first pokemon! caught back in Bambouche and their main defence between themselves and sadnesses when they left. i picked yungoose over some of the other early route mammals because a] tropical and b] i fully believe that bonnie bites people.

unovian darumaka: potentially a gift from the party, more specifically odile who was curious of darmanitan's zen form. it's obviously not a darmanitan yet but it is very useful for lighting fires to cook with.

kantonian farfetch'd: it's basically THE food pokemon being a duck carrying a leek and i opted for the kantonian form over the galarian form since the galarian form is far too cool, bonnie is cringe [/pos]

smolive: cooking oil is a crutial part of cooking are you insane and olive oil is some of them best! very useful pokemon to have on hand and it's slightly more emotionally and nervous natural creates and almost parrallel to bonnie where both end in the same outcome of tears since both are young and not yet capable of fully handling their emotions.

LOOP

gimmighoul: somehow the only pokemon they kept when they gave up on the loops, unsure if it actually remembers the loops or is just a clone...

natu [multiple]: loop can't actually catch any pokemon since, no pokeballs and they'd lose it at the end of the loop. so they've been slowly learning how to befriend all the local natu in dormont, secretly on the hunt for the roundest one. they've found shinies before and would usually be more snappy and blunt after all of those loops due to loosing them. they've gotten good at befriending them all too, being able to tell them apart and what they like. they would never admit any of this though.

[traitorszine]

CONTRIBUTOR LINEUP 🖤 🐦 

At last, here is our wonderful lineup for BLOOD OF A VILLAIN! Please look forward to seeing their versions of the Black Mask shine in this anthology ♥️

Please view under the cut

Thank you for the boost! 🖤♥️

@zine-scene @zinewatch @fandomzines @zinefeed @welovezines @zinecenter @zinefans @zineforall @zinesunlimited @personacalendar

Cover Artists: strzh88 (@strzh88) ✧ Alex Siple (@alexsiple)

Page Artists:

Vio (@vio-draws) ✧ succulentul (@succulentul) ✧ rienri (@rienri) ✧ franklyshane (@franklyshane) ✧ Nicki (@thiscatisonfire) ✧ Apollo (@apollogies-all) ✧ Alba (@mafuwara) ✧ Sen (@senblades)

Lynn (@shadowmatcha) ✧ TheFunkyLime (@thefunkylime) ✧ Sniper (@snipescythe) ✧ Theo (@draconicdeityarts) ✧ chocoda_jib (Twitter: chocoda_jib) ✧ minkidoodles (@minkidoodles) ✧ Ame (@ameamedraws) ✧ Inu no Ami (@inunoami) ✧ Horrorosa (@la-horrorosa)

Siemingly (Twitter: sieminglyy) ✧ Akittyk (@akittyk) ✧ Alex (@emikumaarts) ✧ okenki (@okenki) ✧ Kas Flowers (@monstroustea) ✧ Roach (Twitter: tsururoach) ✧ AuroraBM (Twitter: Kaysa21) ✧ doulbedo (@juusbox)

Fleur (@onionglitter) ✧ Lode5tars (@hand-painted-5tars) ✧ Ceramic_Avocado (Twitter: Ceramic_Avocado) ✧ SpellStruck  (@spell-struck) ✧ lunemoths (@lunemoths) ✧ Leoninai (@leoninaiart) ✧ KIELLUSTRATIONS (@KIELLUSTRATIONS) ✧ Wooly (@woolydemon) ✧ Nottheeconomy (@Nottheeconomy) ✧ coffeerekohai (@coffeerekohai)

Merch Artists:

Kiipio (Twitter: Kiipio) ✧ ARYLL (@aryll) ✧ Khrisz (@saewokhrisz) ✧ Ore Kitsune (Twitter: ore_kitsune) ✧ Arbor (Twitter: Grumblecorn) ✧ vv (Twitter: yxnki_) ✧ Eve Freaks (Instagram: eve_freaks) ✧ LostKimin (Twitter: LostKimin) ✧ thel0llip0p (@thel0llip0p) ✧ crocrubies (@crocrubies)

Writers:

Zaura (@emanation-aura) ✧ flowersforthemachines (@flowersforthemachines) ✧ pyrotechnicalities (@yikes-its-pyrotechnicalities) ✧ KupoWonders (@KupoWonders) ✧ specterthief (@specterthief) ✧ Nao (@naometry) ✧ Kitty (@glittrcrittr) ✧ Liv (Twitter: rebeiiionblade) ✧ Ned (@hoarderofliterature)

Trouble (@troublewriting) ✧ Rin (@rindomness) ✧ calm (@forceofcalm) ✧ Kip (@joulethieves) ✧ Zoe (mintcookie.bsky.social) ✧ Daxie (@daxieoclock) ✧ Myaami (@myaami) ✧ Rio (AO3: gorokiichi) ✧ Ace Swervey (@swervey-silks) ✧ afterreign (@afterreign)

[killerpancakeburger]

Hi! I got your ask and I'll answer it soon <3 in the meantime, I was curious about

Ka-freaking-boom, baby | Pinning (against a wall) | Renegades

👀👀

The titles/descriptions are a net, and I am but a fish you caught with it

majinbangus 🥛🐟

Hiii! Tysm for the ask! 💕

For the WIP ask game.

Alright, here we gooo *rubbing hands with glee*

Ka-freaking-boom, baby

That line by Soap drove me insane, so I came up with a Reader feeling the same way lol. It's very short so I'll post it entirely here:

“Ka-freaking-boom, baby.”

The perfect mix of rasp and silk in his voice seemed to drain all the blood from your brain and send it rushing south. It was almost worse than having his fingers stroking every inch of your skin.

Before Soap had any chance to react, you dragged him away into the nearest dark alley and kissed him furiously.

A confused moan escaped him under your assault.

Once you’ve had your fill, you withdrew, glaring at him. He was panting, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, torn between bafflement and pleasure, and, a rare occurrence, at a loss for words.

“Fuck, what the fuck… was that!?” you yelled in a whisper. “Do I have to be a freaking bomb for you to talk to me like that!?”

His eyes widened even more before understanding spread across his face. A chuckle left his lips.

“Jealous o’ an explosive, hen? Yer too cute.”

Not in the mood to play around, you grabbed his flak jacket to pull him where you wanted and, lips pressed against his ear, you described all the unspeakable acts you would do to him if he used that voice back at the base.

He let out an agonized sound at that, as if you were torturing him.

“Steamin' Jesus…”

He covered the hand that was holding him in place and took a deep inhale, most likely to keep it together.

“Bonnie, love ye, but the mission…”

You aggressively shoved your index in his sternum, looking him in the eye.

“You're making it up to me later, you hear me?”

His head was swaying with the contrast between your filthy promises and your harsh gestures, but he straightened up, recognizing an order when he heard one.

“Yes Ma'am.”

Pining (against a wall)

I read a fic where in one chapter, Soap and Reader hide from enemies with Reader stuck between the wall and Soap, and our beloved sergeant gets...hum... affected by their proximity lol. So I wanted to do a version where Soap is the one pinned between Reader and the wall. It's also the same vibe as The powder and the fuse, aka Soap sees his gf in action being very badass and finds it hot. It's smut tbh, with their clothes on tho.

WIP:

"At the sight of your enemies getting closer to your location, your bodyguard training takes over. Before you can even think about it, you grab Soap by his flak jacket, drag him into a dark alley and end up half-pining, half-slamming him against the nearest wall without warning, shoving your hand over his mouth for good measure. It's a professional reflex you'll have to apologize for later.

That, and if there's one thing he's never been good at, it's keeping it shut.

Not that he ever gave you a reason to call his skills into question, always proving himself serious and reliable on the job, but missions with only the two of you together are few and far between, and he certainly never stops running his mouth over comms during them.

Wholly focused on your opponents’ behavior, head turned away from him, on the lookout, the hand on his mouth keeping him against the wall, the other by his head, caging him in, you don't pay attention to your newfound proximity. How your faces are barely a centimeter away from each other, how his warm breath strokes your skin with each respiration. You don't notice either how much you’re pressed against his body, how your chests are touching, the contact exacerbated by each inhale, or that one of your legs is nudged between his.

Or the way his cerulean eyes are devouring you, drinking in your every move."

Renegades

It's a retelling of MW2 with Shadow!Reader, from the mission Alone until Graves die. Lots of action.

Reader kills her own coworkers when they go after civilians and deserts the Shadow company. She comes to the rescue of an injured Soap in the hopes that she can ally with the TF to take down Graves.

It's called renegadeS because It's not only about Reader's treason, but also because the TF is considered treators thanks to Shepherd, and that Reader consider that Graves betrayed her for sending her after civilians when she stated from the start she wouldn’t go after unarmed ppl/civilians.

Something about having to betray either your community/organization/group, or your own moral code, but doomed to be a traitor all the same…

WIP:

"Joining the Shadow Company had never been your first choice. Military organizations tended to be bad news, and private ones were even worse. However fate forced your hand. Or, more exactly, capitalism did.

The pay offered by the Private Military Company exceeded your wildest dreams. You've made more in a week than in one year of your regular job as a bodyguard. And you were in desperate need of money; a lot, and fast; it was the only way to afford your sister's cancer treatment.

Things weren't so bad at the start. The commander was a bigmouth, but he was sensible, and he got the job done. At some point, the corporation allied with a special task force, an international group of elite combatants, some sort of legendary military unit. You hadn't paid them much attention, since they weren't the enemy.

Until they were.

Somehow the General that commanded both those guys and the Shadow Company decided to betray his own men, turning them into traitors. At the same time, your orders brutally changed. You were expected to turn the whole town upside down to pinpoint the ex-Special Forces, and if civilians happened to be in the way, well… there was no one to hold you responsible if you put a bullet in them.

You didn’t care about the Task Force. Sucked to be them, but surely they could handle themselves.

However, the moment your coworkers started to execute unarmed civilians right in front of you, you snapped.

The latters’ screams for mercy still resonate in your ears. The racket caused by the bullets you sent through your former companions in arms hadn't been enough to make you forget their bloodcurdling yells. 

You hadn't even had time to ponder your actions. Your body acted on its own. You slaughtered them without batting an eye. They probably didn’t even understand what happened to them, not expecting your betrayal. You didn’t regret it.

You hid the bodies to the best of your abilities, and slipped away.

Now here you are, lost in Las Almas, a small city in Mexico, operating in the blind. Between the dark of the night and the rain, your vision is execrable. You have little time before your ex-colleagues’ death and your disappearance get noticed. The clock is ticking, and you can see only two options presenting themselves to you: fight or flight.

You eventually stumble upon a squad of Shadows. You've been monitoring the comms, and your treason hasn’t been noticed yet. 

So, in a rush of insane hope, you do the unthinkable and reveal yourself to them.

Maybe, just maybe, not all Shadows are bloodthirsty mercenaries who shoot innocents at the first opportunity. Maybe they can be reasoned with. Maybe you don't need to fight alone. Maybe…

You salute them as you approach, acting with as much natural as you can muster.

One throws one look at you and turns away. The other two stare with curiosity.

“Whattya doing here? This isn’t your area.”

You play dumb. Easy to perform when your interlocutor is already looking down  on you. The only perk of being a woman in this field of work is idiots underestimating you.

“Lost my way. The others left me behind. Mind if I join?”

You make your tone as silly and harmless as possible, turning your voice higher pitched than normal. It works like a charm.

You put up with their mockeries that sound a lot like insults and other jeers, keeping a naive smile on your lips.

Following on their heels, it's easy to fall back into the routine that's been yours for the past few weeks, since you became a shadow. But that illusion of normality shatters the moment you come across inhabitants.

“They don't know shit,” grumbles one of the shadows, after barking orders at the civilians only leads to desperate pleas for mercy in spanish. “Might as well get rid of them.”

You stare at him with incredulity, your bewildered expression hidden by your balaclava. How could someone be so callous with human life was beyond you. Yes, you were killers for hire, but between fighting seasoned soldiers on a battlefield and slaughtering unarmed families in their own home, there was a world of difference.

“Sure,” shruggs another.

The third one doesn't even bother answering, already taking aim with his rifle.

You feel trapped in a horror movie, an alternative reality.

“That's not necessary,” you step in, loud enough to be clearly heard, but still attempting to not sound too authoritarian. “Killing them isn’t gonna give us any answer.”

“Who cares?” snarls the first one at you, irritated by your intervention. “We get a bonus for each target, it's all that matters.”

“But they're not targets,” you hiss, getting riled up despite yourself. “Is that what your morals are worth? A bunch of zeroes?”

“For the love of… knew admitting women was a bad idea. You’re too soft-hearted for this job. So either shut the fuck up, or-”

He never gets the chance to finish his sentence, as the bullet you fire lodges itself between his eyebrows.

As the other two squad members let out expletives in shock, you’re already shooting again. The one who was aiming his rifle at the denizens drops dead just as he gets you into his sights. The last one scrapes your side with his handgun before you make him join his teammates.

Panting, you lower your weapon and kick at one of the corpses in rage.

“Fuck! Why did you have to be such a rotten piece of shit!”

From the corner of your eye, you notice the group of civilians nearby shaking with fear, glancing at you with horror and uncomprehension. You sigh and tell them to leave, unable to look them in the eye, ashamed.

Once left to your own devices, you let your fury and your frustration explode.

“Shit, shit, shit! Never should have taken this fucking job!”

Overwhelmed, you crouch, covering your face with your hands, and swear some more.

“Why'd ye do that?”

The hoarse, foreign, barely audible voice coming out of nowhere makes you jump. You point your handgun in multiple directions, in vain.

“What the…?”

You cautiously inspect your surrondings, on your guard, ready to open fire at the first sight of an enemy. Eventually you find the owner of the voice, inside a nearby building, slumped against a crumbled brick wall, and immediately take aim at him. 

“Hey there.”

The salute may be casual, but his body language shows nothing but extreme vigilance and sharp suspicion, his own handgun pointed at you. The tone of his voice isn’t exactly warm either.

At the first provokation, he will swiftly end your life without any qualms.

Your eyes roam over him and, as you take in his bare face, the soaking wet blue t-shirt adhering to his skin, and jeans, you realize you're not dealing with one of Graves’ guys. The british flag displayed on his bulletproof vest silently answers your interrogations.

“You're one of those brits,” you sigh in relief.

Well, half-relief. You may not consider them your enemies anymore, but unfortunately, that doesn't mean the opposite is true.

He scoffs at your remark, apparently mildly offended.

“Scottish.”

[giantpacific-octopress]

Fic: A River in Egypt, by @nenya85 Fandom: Yugioh!

[kaiba voice] MIRU KA II! ENDPAPERS FROM JOANN'S!! WAHAHA!!

Nenya is an icon in Yugioh fandom - and an adored friend <3 It was time she got to hold a hard copy of all her hard work in her hands. Working on these books over the past few weeks has brought me insane joy, and I'm so proud of how these turned out - they are #5 and #6 in my current book tally, and I learned a pile while working on them.

The covers are silk moire in black, gold, and a sandy white, while the blue is Japanese book cloth. The body of this text is set in 10.5 point Perpetua font, with accents in Skandal and Aquifer.

Some additional details below the cut:

Every chapter in this fic starts with a little meditation/vignette on the five stages of grief...

So I translated each of the five stages into their hieroglyphic equivalents (using either direct translation or good-enough approximations - I think the word I used for "bargaining" actually means "to exchange or trade.")

I also managed to split the fic exactly in half, into two volumes of 17 chapters each. Volume I is 216 pages; Volume II is 208 pages. In other words, the volumes are both balanced in their chapter count and almost identical in their widths, a testament to Nenya's skill and consistency as a writer.

[artbylenshypnotix]

@marzipanthots Hi Here are some of my Top MM Love stories - Enemies to Lovers.. Slow burn, hot hero tortured, MC1 abused by MC2 turn Lover , MM Whomp books - highly recommended

#1 Captive Prince - CS Pacat

#2 Prince’s Assassin - Ariana Nash

#3) Kate Aaron - Free Men Series - MM Romance - The Slave, The Soldier, The Master

#4) Ann Somerville- The Surrogate - hell yeah MMM

#5) Ai No Kusabi book series - holy shit - an elite kidnaps the head of a street gang and and sets out to break him down until he’s a willing Pet/ sex slave - MM

#5.5) Taming Riki book series the Alternative Universe of the Ai No Kusabi series -MM, MM

#6) Bloodraven PL Nunn - only for the strong - M M(other) -Serious Warning labels

#7) Jex Lane - Beautiful Monsters - ( Captive, Sire , Broken) MMM(Other) - Warning Labels

#8) Ariana Nash- Silk and Steel (4 books) Series - Fantasy MM

—- What’s your favorites?

——Some new adds

#9) Adrienne Wilder - 2 books - NOX & Anubis - a powerful Beta abducts the man that will be his alpha -Other M/M

#10) Lily Mayne - 9 books of the monstrous series starting with Soul Eater - Other M,M

#11) KA Merikan - Feel My Pain - triggers

[littleeyesofpallas]

So, Shutara in the anime, huh?

okay okay yeah i got around to e13 this morning and I see what everyone was excited about. Some of the new lore i'm a little iffy on, but ooo the visual designs are more than enough for me to chew on.

So the obvious highlight is Shutatsu Karagara Shigaraminotsuji[娑闥迦羅骸刺絡辻]

Shutatsu[娑闥]: Oldwoman* gate

*weirdly this kanji does not appear to be commonly used in Japanese at all, but does have the Japanese specific(as in Chinese and Korean don't use it this way) meaning of "old woman" but I have no idea in what context it would be used or if there is some other usage of it that could be evoked here other than to mean "old woman."

The "Gate" in question though seems to be a more obviously superficial reference to the shape of the bankai itself using the bits of sewing machine to make a tori gate.

Karagara[迦羅骸]: "Kala" Husk

So it appears that the Kara[迦羅] here is from the Chinese writing[摩訶迦羅] of the Sanskrit Mahakala[महाकाल] which is alternatively named Daikokuten[大黑天] in Japanese, and is a Buddhist god of wealth. (it is also the way the Japanese write the name of a 6th century Korean kingdom? but that doesn't feel relevant here...)

But of note, the Japanese name itself made up of ka[迦] which has no meaning(?) and is just used phonetically? and ra[羅]: referring to "Silk" or "gauze" or other similar lightweight fabric. The -ra at least seems to have more literal applications here, but honestly it feels less pertinent next to the extremely conspicuous word choice...

And gara[骸] is "shell"/"husk" and other similar things that get left behind when you remove the innards. The character itself can also mean a "corpse"/"cadaver" but not generally when it's pronounced as "gara." (The image it evokes to me is letting a robe or gown slide off your shoulders and drop to the ground, the robe being the "husk.")

(but apparently some people think this could be a play on the sanskrit karagara[कारागार], meaning a "prison"/"jail" or otherwise "place of confinement"? But i have no idea why anyone would have chosen the kanji in question to approximate that... I'll be honest, I don't buy it; it gives me very "I'll send you to the netherlands!" translation flub vibes. The techniques themselves do feel reminicent of the Buddhist naraka in theme and aesthetic, but the leap from "prison" to "naraka" seems unsubstantiated by the wordplay here.)

Shigarami-no-tsuji[刺絡辻]: Bloodletting crossroads

shiraku[刺絡] is the bloodletting technique used in old Chinese medicine. It's sometimes thrown under the umbrella of "acupuncture" but the methods are different. Where as the needles in acupuncture are meant to be precise and release pressure, the blood letting involves a few semi-random pricks in a localized area and then the use of a heat cup to create a vacuum that draws the blood out.(better than leeches at least...) The thing with the heat cups is what's being referred to here.

But broken down it's, shi[絡] "thorn"/"prick"/"splinter" + kara[絡]: "entangled"/"entwined"/"enmeshed"/"wrapped up in" etc... literally describing being "in the middle of (many) needles"

tsuji[辻]: a "crossroad." Nice and straight forward.

my issue however is that I'm not entirely sure where the "mino" phonetics here came from, or what that very deliberate choice of alternate reading might mean in this context... (see comments section)

(also, sorry if anyone's squeemish about cups full of blood, but I tried to find an image that at least obscured the actual needle wounds)

and then there is...

Shideno Rokushiki Ukimonnohata[死出六色浮文機]

Shideno[死出], lit."death+exit" a more specific term for "Death" from shide-no-yama[死出の山]: "mountain of death" that refers to a mountain the dead cross to get into the afterlife. Appropriately evoked by forcing the Sternritter each through their own illusory ordeal.

Rokushiki[六色]: "Six Colors" appears to just refer to the fact that there were 6 of them.

Ukimonno Hata[浮文機]: "Brocade Loom." "Brocade" being made up of the words [浮文]: "Floating+Character" referring to the raised patterning. and [機] being a kanji for "machine" but when pronounced "hata" it specifically refers to a loom or other textile machine.

Much easier to pick apart by comparison at least...

[takemetobogman]

yes babe you're urdu poetry mummy ki silk saree silver jhumka amrita pritam faqir chand book store nukkad ki chai dilli haat jagjit singh ki ghazal pragati maidan book fair lag ja gale ghalib ki haveli baalon me gulab ka phool gf

[cuoredimuschio]

wip wednesday ✨️

tagged by the lovely, the esteemed @puppy-steve!! thank you, cj!!🩵🩵🩵

rules: send me the name of one of the wips below, and i'll write and post three new sentences for you!

the wips:

a stout heart, a good bow, & a merry life

wound up (guitar lessons au)

line of apsides

hey, batter-batter

snippet from a stout heart, a good bow, & a merry life:

His touch is as paradoxically soft as the leather of his gloves as he guides Steve to a fallen log and bids him sit. His finger dance confidently over the laces of Steve’s doublet, loosening it with a dexterity Steve himself has never quite developed. Despite the rough quality of the fabric, he eases the garment off Steve’s shoulder as if it were Lenoran silk, spectacularly gentle on the right side, and folds it neatly, setting it down at Steve’s hip. He makes even quicker work of Steve’s undershirt, puppeting it over his head and slipping it down his afflicted arm.

“Seven Hells,” he breathes. “Loviatar must have a grudge against you. She painted you up pretty good.”

“I’m not sure what I could have done to—” Steve hisses, jerking back, as Kas prods an indelicate finger into the very heart of the worst of the pain. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” His touch returns, meek once more, fingertips tracing the ugly coastline of the black-and-blue stain on Steve’s shoulder. Goosebumps ripple across Steve’s skin, but Kas cuts his assessment short and sits back. “Hold on—”

On his hands and knees, like a particularly clumsy beetle, he scutters across the ghastly ground and retrieves his pouch. Digging past the piles of stolen coin and personal effects, he returns with a palm-sized vial. A storm of pale, glittering blue swirls against the frosted glass.

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i'm not sure who's been tagged yet but here's a round of no-pressure tags: @cheatghost, @thefreakandthehair, @patchworkgargoyle, @starryeyedjanai, @sharpbutsoft, @kkpwnall, + anyone else who'd like to partake!! 😘