#anime plastic folder

[oneesanmarket]

Fukigen na Mononokean: Ashiya Hanae & Abeno Haruitsuki - Clearfile

Size:A4

Price:5€/10USD

(Shipping price not included)

Units Available: 1

(Send us a message or comment if you’re interested)

[bluebeads-art]

As the flash hits your eye, you feel something crashing into you from all directions. Below you is obvious, Bonbon situated themself to bump into you while the picture was taken. You look to your right, and Mirabelle’s cheek is pressed up to yours. On your left, Isabeau’s sheepishly hugged you to his side. There’s a hand in your hair, too, and it feels like Madame Odile. [...] “We need a souvenir of this trip,” Mirabelle adds. She rushes to the ground to pick up the picture and snort-laughs as she looks at it. “Oh no, Siffrin looks like we’re holding him hostage!” — Curtain Call, Chapter 9, by @openphrase123 (Link in the replies)

2024 October 22nd

Fanfic fanart fanfic fanart!! When I read the "hostage" line, it invoked such a clear image in my head of Siffrin tensed up like a startled prey animal that it got added to my list of things to maybe draw immediately.

Dooon't think about the words 'left' and 'right' in that quote too hard. I know how to read I prommy. :) (I did Not process those words and lost the coin flip in the composition phase...)

Close-up and ramblings about the cans of worms I unleashed upon myself under the cut

Time taken on this was [head in hands] 48 hours and 37 minutes.... That bloated number has two culprits:

1) I got a new tablet! My old one was 10 years old. Its plastic was melting and the electronics had ghosts in 'em, so it needed the sweet release of retirement. However, I had just gotten to the line art phase when the switch happened. Clumsily getting used to the new one during the most precise phase of the process did devastating things to my perfectionism.

2) I made a GRAVE mistake with how I chose to color this. I wanted to keep the grayscale layers for accuracy instead of just slapping a B&W filter over the colored version, so all the colors come from gradient maps, color balance layers, overlay layers, and raster layers clipped to other layers. Listen. I'm used to working with lots of layers. I like keeping things separate so I can edit them more easily. But this is the worst layer system I have ever created. Going from color to B&W requires toggling exactly 20 layers & folders on or off. There are 87 visible layers total. This file lags when you edit it. I've never wanted CSP v1.13 to have layer comps more in my life.

Not helping matters was Isabeau. I said he was the easiest to draw in my last post, but he took that as a challenge, apparently. It's a simple fist-on-hip pose, why was that so hard!?! His face gave me grief too.

Odile's lil' wave got added at the end of the line art phase. I've never added to a sketch that late in the game before, but I felt bad about how little screen area she got, haha. Girl, I tried, but this composition was not kind to you.

Giving Isa, Odile, and Siffrin skin colors felt cursed. Well... "color" is maybe a stretch for Sif. The pallor from being affection-jumpscared isn't helping. In the dev's nose reveal post, they said that Siffrin isn't white but is white-passing, so BOOM albinism headcanon. Like c'mon, they wear a big hat and have most of their skin covered because the sun is a deadly laser when you have little to no melanin and idk if sunblock exists in-universe. Heck, maybe most Islanders have it, their whole religion is about the night sky so maybe they're nocturnal. This makes perfect sense. :)

[clockwayswrites]

Little excerpt of the next Masked chapter for you all:

“Hey Damian,” Dick said with a smile that he hoped didn’t look too forced.

“Grayson,” Damian sniffed.

“I brought you something!” Dick pulled his backpack off and searched around for it. He had brought something for each of his brothers. He was trying, damn it. The grey and white stuffed animal cat was stupidly soft in Dick’s hands as he pulled it out. “Tada!”

Damian leaned back. “What is it?”

Dick blinked. “What? It’s a stuffed animal. I know you didn’t get to really bring much of anything with you, so I thought something comforting would be nice.”

“I am not a child, I do not need to be comforted.”

Dick bit back the retort that Damian was very much a child and just set the stuffed animal down on the edge of the table.

“Everyone needs comfort. But it’s okay if you don’t want it! Just leave it there if not and I’ll see that it gets donated or something. It’s—yeah,” Dick said, making himself cut off any blabber. It’s fine, Damian didn’t have to like him. “I’m going to gather up Jason and Tim to play a game before lunch if you want to join us. If not, that’s okay too!”

Damian just gave a little click of his tongue and regarded Dick coldly as Dick made his escape.

One brother down, two to go. Tim next. Tim was easier than Jason.

Tim was, though, challenging to track down.

“Hey Tim, what are you doing out here?” Dick asked when he finally found Tim on a balcony that was really more decorative than functional.

Tim started and dropped his pen. It rolled off the balcony and fell, fell, fell down into the bushes blow.

Tim sighed.

Dick winced. “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me. I was just surprised,” Tim said as he quickly closed the folder that he had been had been working in. He hunched slightly around it. “I didn’t even know you were in town.”

“Still, I’m sorry. I’m just back until after lunch. I wanted to see you’d like to play a game. Oh, and give you these.” Dick fished the plastic box out of his bag and handed it over. “I noticed your skateboard wheels were pretty worn out, and I know you can just get what you normally have, but I thought I’d get you something fun to try too. These are supposed to be good on wet pavement and, well, it is Gotham.”

“Oh.” Tim just blinked at Dick, like he’d never been given a ‘just because’ present and didn’t know what to do, before he finally reached out and took the box. He peered at the green, wavey shaped wheels curiously. “These are great. I’ll put them on before I go out next time.”

“Yeah?” Disk smiled. “Cool. Let me know how they do, okay?”

Tim smiled shyly back. “Yeah.”

“Okay, right.” Dick gave his hands a clap. “Meet me in the living room? I’ve got to track down Jason still.”

“Try the library,” Tim suggested.

Dick gave a little salute as he set off that way. It was his first guess too. Jason always spent time in the library when he was trying to avoid big emotions and right then there were a lot of big emotions. Dick got it. He wanted to be back at the Tower curled up with Phantom. Instead he was rapping his knuckles against the door frame of the library as he entered it.

Jason was in ‘his’ seat—a seat that had remained empty since… since Jason’s death. Now that Jason was back, miraculously alive, the seat was finally be used again. It made Dick’s heart full to see it and he couldn’t help the smile that lit up his face.

“Hey, little wing.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jason growled.

Well, he wasn’t so little any more, Dick supposed. He tried not to let the response ruin his happiness.

“Sorry, Jay. I’ve got something for you!” Dick pulled out the paper wrapped package and bounced over to Jason.

Jason just eyed it warily, like it would bite. “What is it?”

“Just open it.”

“Tell me what it is.”

Dick held back a sigh. “It’s just books, Jason.”

Finally Jason reached out and took the package. He was still cautious as he pealed back the paper. Then he got that confused look on the face he had a lot since coming back.

“I figured while you were… gone,” Dick said. Jason snorted sourly, “that you wouldn’t have been able to finish the series. I know that you were reading it before.”

“You mean before I was killed,” Jason said. He threw the words out so casually, tossed between them like a bear trap. “I’m not a fucking kid anymore.”

Dick held back saying that eighteen was still basically a kid, he remembered how he had been at eighteen. He had thought himself such an adult.

Breathe. “I know you’re not. But I just… I thought you’d still like to see how the series ended. If I’m wrong, that’s okay. Maybe Damian would like to read them someday. It doesn’t hurt the library to have more books.”

“…yeah, doesn’t hurt,” Jason said. He brushed his fingers over the cover.

[wibben]

Occupational Hazards

Friends Nanami and Higuruma go on a duo mission together... and fall victim to some unexpected effects.

↳ pairing: hiromi higuruma x kento nanami

↳ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, bottom!higuruma, top!nanami, sexual tension, sex pollen, forced proximity, friends to enemies to lovers, rough anal sex, fighting, cum is lube, both a bit OOC but we can blame the pollen, generally feral behavior

↳ wc: 13,675

↳ notes: nanami art by @ hikonom on twitter, higuruma art by @ saksak_kazz on twitter. i hope you enjoy <3

“Ah, good, you’re here too!” Higuruma greeted amiably, sauntering into the meeting room with steaming coffee in hand, the kind of shitty, bitter stuff the staff room machine spit out. But at least it woke him up, so maybe that was by design. Sleepy sorcerers were more often than not dead ones. Sinking into the cushioned couch with an early morning groan, arm draped lazily across the backrest, he sighed into the steam.

He tapped, tapped, tapped his paper cup with dancing fingers. “Actually… any idea why we’re here?”

Smack!

Nanami dropped a manila folder onto the table between them with a sharp flick, his expression tight with irritation. “This.” He muttered, the frustration clear in his voice, offering no further explanation.

Higuruma raised a sloping brow and lifted his coffee to his lips, peering pityingly over the warped plastic lid. He is not as bothered by this intrusion to the beginning of his weekend, years spent tethered to work had numbed him to the inconvenience.

Unlike Nanami, who needed it pried away and leaves it with claw marks, spitting smoke like a raging dragon, he is not as jealously possessive of his freetime. Higuruma had long since learned to surrender it with little more than a resigned sigh and a wave in the rearview mirror.

Higuruma bent forward, placing his coffee on the table and knuckled it slowly across to Nanami, the way one might endear oneself to a stray animal. He needed it more, Higuruma thought.

The silence in the room turned meditative, broken by a deep grounding breath from the other man as he watched his plans of baking, and reading, and relaxing and no responsibility turn to dust. Deep breath in… he could bake next weekend and perhaps treat himself to a new book,  luck permitting maybe he would even start it… and breathe out. It gave Nanami a moment to cool, to steady himself before—

Gojo burst into the room, all gale-force energy and unfiltered exuberance, with a complete disregard for any semblance of professionalism and ignorant of the air of resentment stewing from the rigid blonde-turned-gargoyle sitting in the chair across from him.

“Great, you’re both here!” Gojo’s voice was far too chipper for the hour. “Perfect timing. I’ve got a fun little job for you two.”

Nanami looked up, unimpressed, maybe a little murderous. “Are you well aware that it’s a Friday afternoon? Which means that tomorrow is Saturday , which is the weekend and I absolutely will not—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Gojo flapped a dismissive hand as he flopped into the chair opposite them, leaning back with an air of nonchalance that had a vein pulsing in Nanami’s temple. Higuruma watched on with warring amusement and pity, both hidden surreptitiously behind steepled fingers where he kissed his teeth, resisting the overtaking urge to laugh.

“Anyway, there’s this small issue out in the middle of nowhere. Some cursed incidents, blah blah blah, you know the drill. Strange happenings, couples murdering each other nearby— you get the picture, right? Easy peasy. Easy enough to send one of the students really, they could do it in their sleep! I really can’t stress enough how easy it’s gonna be.”

Higuruma raised an eyebrow, finally speaking. “You were supposed to handle this one, weren’t you?”

“Yes, technically,” Gojo grinned, not at all sheepish and wholly unapologetic. “But there’s this festival I’ve been dying to check out. They’ve got all sorts of sweets—mochi, taiyaki, ice cream, you name it! I mean, why waste my time on some low-grade curse when my time is better spent there?”

Nanami’s frown deepened, if that were possible. “This is below our paygrade, then.”

“Exactly! Very astute, Nanamin!” Gojo cheered, completely missing—or more likely ignoring —Nanami’s tone. “Which is why you two are perfect for the job. You can handle it in no time and be back before the weekend’s over. Unless you’d rather join me at the festival? But fair warning, you’ll have to keep up with me while I sample everything. ”

He leaned forward, blinding smile growing wider as if offering the deal of a lifetime complete with spread open palms. But to both Nanami and Higuruma who glanced at each other, reading, it looked much closer to a threat. “So, what do you say? Curse or confections?”

Nanami didn’t even hesitate. “Tell Ijichi to prepare the car.”

Gojo sighed dramatically, as if truly disappointed they weren’t taking him up on his generous offer. “You two are no fun. But alright! You’ll be staying up there, got a place all set up for you. Should be a walk in the park—” he clapped his hands, standing and swaying forward—then back—on mile-long legs.

“Anything else we should know?” Higuruma asked, leaning back in his seat with clinical consideration. Details, details, details —

Gojo shrugged, already halfway out the door with a flippant wave over his shoulder. “Nothing you can’t handle. Just try not to kill each other before the curse does, yeah? Oh, and if you change your mind—”

“We won’t,” Nanami cut him off, already gathering his things.

Higuruma blinked, leaning forward now. Where were the details?

Gojo’s laugh echoed down the hallway as he disappeared, leaving the two men to contemplate the unfortunate turn their day had taken. Higuruma sighed. “He really has a way with words, doesn’t he?”

Nanami simply scowled. “Inconsiderate… incorrigible… no work ethic— ” he muttered, brushing his hands over a wrinkleless suit as he stood. “Let’s get this over with.”

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Sleek black wheels hummed along winding woodland backroads, the thick forest outside morphed into a smudgy, dark green blur. Ijichi was laser-focused on the drive, his hands gripping the wheel with his usual sweaty-palmed intensity.

Higuruma gazed out the window and traced the endless stretch of trees with his eyes until they swam with dizzy shapes. He watched until his head felt uncomfortably light, swooping his attention down to his stationary lap for a reprieve. This place was really out there… strange location for a curse.  

“You know,” Higuruma's voice slipped through the quiet, “it could be worse.” He leaned back, letting the car seat handle him as he let out a slow breath. “At least this should be simple. We like simple.”

Beside him, Nanami was the picture of calm, a book delicately cradled in one long-fingered hand. He’d had enough time to calm down, to temper his frustration with resignation; it couldn’t be helped… and this was somehow still better than the alternative of a day stuck with Gojo.

He gave a small, noncommittal hum, flipping a page. He’d long ago trained himself out of car sickness, these drives now offering a rare slice of interim peace—a chance to slowly make dents in his ever-growing reading list. 

“True,” he murmured, eyes never leaving the lines of text. “And I suppose the company could be worse, hm?”

Higuruma turned his head and the beginning of a smile swept over his mouth. “Oh, so much worse,” he agreed, letting his temple knock against the cool glass of the window. “We’ve been through enough to appreciate these quiet ones. In and out.”

Nanami’s eyes remained trained on his book, but there was the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“In and out,” he repeated.

“Maybe we can unwind after this. Grab a drink, like last time.” Nanami's offer slipped out off-hand as he flipped the page, more a passing thought than a concrete plan. If his weekend was going to be hijacked, he might as well make the most of it. And really, drinking with the person he'd be spending it with anyway didn’t seem like the worst idea. Higuruma was good company, always had been.

Higuruma’s grin was immediate, approval reflected briefly in the window’s glass. “I like the way you think!”

As the forest thickened and the road ahead narrowed, their destination creeping closer, there was no tension, no unease. Nanami was not so foolish to ever feel safe on the job, but with Higuruma, he felt something suspiciously close to it.

It was just a simple in-and-out mission—nothing they hadn’t dealt with before.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

The sun dipped low on the horizon by the time they arrived, splashing the sky with dramatic strokes of orange and pink that belonged more in an ornately framed and hung painting rather than on the front lines of the job.

As Ijichi brought the car to a crunchy halt on the gravel drive, the sound felt louder than it should have—like the world itself held its breath the same as the three men wrapped in the security of their vehicle. Three heads cranked towards windows and their cheeks squished against fogged glass as they took in their lodgings with the sort of veneration of stumbling upon the carcass of a dead god.

This place felt lost.

Old and rotted wood, planks speared from the sides like splintering teeth, green with creeping lichen and constricting vines that curled around every corner and nook and cranny like veins; pumping life into that which is lifeless, keeping alive that which should’ve long been dead.

Nanami was the first out after a brief moment's hesitation, smoothing his hands down his front and looking prepared to walk into a boardroom rather than the mouth of potential doom. It served to swipe away the sudden sweat on his palms.

The cabin that stood before them looked deceptively quaint, even in its disrepair, like something he’d find on a postcard if he ignored the way it crouched amidst the trees like it was prepared to pounce on them. He also ignored the way it made him want to twist his neck in submission, the instinct to drop to his knees in dogeza and scrape his forehead against the gravel before the steps.

Silence blanketed thick, the kind that makes you strain your ears for something—anything—to break it. But there was nothing. No birdsong, no chirping crickets, no croaking frogs or snapping branches of unseen wildlife. Too quiet, even for somewhere this remote. Like this space existed in its own bubble.

His face remained neutral as he swept the area, taking in the unsettling stillness with a mild frown. He couldn’t sense anything—no curse, no cursed energy, none of the obvious residuals Gojo mentioned.

Quirky little cabin, quirky little mission—Nanami would’ve preferred to be at home with a quirky glass of whiskey instead… not here swallowing nerves like a knock-kneed boy.

Higuruma stepped up beside Nanami, tracing the lines of the cabin’s exterior. It was a shithole. He didn’t see the dissonant charm in it that Nanami did, however faint. It was falling apart, the roof looked a good wind away from caving, and somehow it looked designed that way, because surely it would’ve fallen by now if it was ruined by time.

Something about it felt too perfect, too staged, like it was posing for a picture it knew would be taken—just waiting for someone to notice the way the door seemed to yawn like a hungry mouth, welcoming them to step inside its belly.

He allowed himself a moment of frankly healthy mortal terror before he shook it off.

They were professionals, after all. There was no room for jitters before they’d even crossed the threshold. Especially not because of a house.

Ijichi, meanwhile, looked like he might bolt if given half a chance. His hand shook a little as he passed over their overnight carry ons, eyes darting around like he expected the trees to start whispering or something equally unnerving. Not somewhere he wanted to be at night.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to pick you up. Call if you need anything sooner,” he said, trying to sound official, though there was an unmistakable thread of relief that unraveled his voice that he at least gets to leave. He was already halfway back into the car as the last words left his mouth, and Higuruma had to check an eyeroll.

They all felt it, which made him feel marginally better… but that couldn’t be a good sign.

With a final nod, Ijichi took off, the crunch of gravel beneath his tires fading into the distance all too quickly as the sun dipped behind the trees.

Nanami took point after a few seconds more of silent calculation, leading the way up the short, gravelly path toward the door. The wooden door creaked as he nudged it open, a slow, ominous drone that echoed the wrapped hilt of his blade in his closing palm, the sound hung in the air as a sword of damocles—the whole scene balanced on the edge of a razor, expectant and waiting for something to tip it over.

The floors beneath their feet groaned, clearly unimpressed with the sudden intrusion. Nanami was certain the whole place would feel just as unsettling as the outside had, but when they stepped fully into the cabin, they both paused. It was… beautiful.

The room basked in golden light, courtesy of old-fashioned lamps that dotted the space with a gentle, inviting glow. Each piece of furniture advertised rustic charm, worn edges and sturdy frames that practically begged to be sat on. The walls, too, adorned with an array of knickknacks and decorations—each item meticulously arranged.

It was the kind of obviously lived-in space that could lull you into a sense of comfort if you weren’t careful, the kind of place where you could almost forget about the string of suspicious mariticides that had brought them here in the first place.

It was strange, but it was also nice. And in their line of work, nice was a luxury.

Higuruma twisted around Nanami’s back, breathing out a small surprised huh! as he took in the unexpectedly charming interior.

“Not bad,” he remarked, the tension in his shoulders finally easing as he set his bag down on the worn wooden floor. His fingers slowly uncurled from his gavel, knuckles no longer white. “Looks like someone put some thought into the inside, at least.”

“Seems that way,” Nanami agreed, and he was already moving toward the heavy wooden table at the center of the room. He rummaged through his bag—though there wasn’t much to unpack, given the brevity of their planned stay.

Meanwhile, Higuruma allowed himself a moment to wander, not quite settled and seeking to stake out each and every corner of their accommodations, taking in the small details that made the place feel oddly inviting, idly picking up decorations from shelves with an appraising eye—

—and behind them, the door slowly hushed shut, the lock slipping into place with a soft click. Neither man noticed.

Higuruma plucked a ceramic owl from the mantle, his nose wrinkling; not at the decor, which really he found rather charming, but at the streaky, off-yellow trail of dust left in the wake of its removal. He huffed, mentally filing the complaint away.

It wouldn’t do to bring it up to Nanami, not when he was already less than thrilled about being out here at all.

He swiped a finger through the dust, rubbing it between his thumb and index finger, eyes narrowing in distaste. Filthy.

His nose twitched, and before he could stop it, a great inhale heralded the inevitable. Higuruma sneezed, the force of it sending up a poof of air that stirred the greater nest of dust bunnies, erupting the mantle into a cloud of yellow powder.

Coughing and cursing, Higuruma hastily set the owl back down and waved a hand in front of his face, stumbling back in a desperate attempt to escape the dusty assault.

Nanami only snorted, amused, offering a polite albeit unconcerned “bless you” over his shoulder. He only looked up when Higuruma continued to cough, bent at the waist and hands planted firmly on cocked knees.

“Are you alright?” He asked, already side-stepping the table to get to him.

“No,” Higuruma spat, straightening with watery eyes and a yellow dusted face. Nanami tried not to laugh at his misfortune.

“Gojo is a filthy, good for nothing liar,” he continued, and at that Nanami could only hum in sympathetic agreement.

“Got a place set up for us my ass, it’s not even clean—what if I had a dust allergy, huh? I could’ve died, right then and there!”

Nanami turned to the sink, wetting a sheet of paper towel and returning to Higuruma with a frown, handing it over. “Well it’s a good thing you don’t, then.”

“But if I did—”

“You don’t.”

Higuruma growled, mulish, but accepted the towel and scrubbed it over his face. Nanami, in an effort to be helpful, patted down Higuruma’s shoulders. But the dust was stubborn, it clung to his hands like childrens chalk, and it was already coating his own suit from how the dust was roused into the air, catching sunbeams as it swirled and resettled.

Beige was a forgiving color, and he found himself grateful for his preference of the shade over Higuruma’s black suits. Too easy to ruin. Impractical, really.

The more he cleaned, the more Higuruma’s initial anger waned, though a faint prickle remained—a persistent itch beneath his skin, in his nose, his hair, and even his mouth. It made him feel twitchy, uncomfortable, but nothing a hot shower couldn’t fix. He sighed, shaking off the lingering disgust with a few quick flaps of his hands.

“What do you think the odds are that we could get takeout delivered all the way out here? I’m starving.”

Nanami paused in his idle, and admittedly futile, attempts to brush the dust from Higuruma’s suit and sighed. “I wouldn’t count on it. No delivery driver would venture this deep into the woods for us. And if they did, by the time the food arrived, it would be cold and hardly worth the effort.”

“Hm.” Higuruma’s responding grunt was vaguely agreeable. Eyes slipped a longing look at the cabin’s surprisingly well-equipped kitchen. “Guess we’re on our own. I can whip up something decent.”

Nanami raised an eyebrow. “... Since when do you cook?”

“Hey,” Higuruma retorted, hands on his hips with offense and leaving yellow smudgy prints in the fabric. “I’m more than capable in the kitchen, thank you.”

Nanami couldn’t suppress a small smile at that. “I enjoy cooking, but if you insist.”

“Oh, I do,” Higuruma declared with exaggerated seriousness, though the competitively playful glint in his eyes betrayed him. “Just sit back and relax. Or sweep up some dust if you really need to be helpful. Now, shoo—out of my kitchen—”

Nanami laughed, allowing himself to be fluttered and pushed out of the room, shuffling along and casting a quietly fond look over his shoulder.

“Please refrain from setting off smoke alarms.”

Higuruma rolled his eyes, already moving back towards the kitchen. “Just watch. You’ll be begging me to cook more often after this.”

Higuruma started by rifling through the fridge, the pantry, and the cabinets above the sink; rattling glass jars and shuffling cardboard boxes. Gojo wasn't lying about this part at least: the kitchen was set up for them. Fully stocked, and Higuruma reckoned he might actually be able to make something of it. He grinned, feeling pretty confident about his odds. “Beef curry?”

“...mmm.”

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

The cabin was all warm, sappy hues as the sun sank fully behind the trees, painting shadows that reminded Nanami of hot cocoa and knitted blankets, the kind of coziness that comes with soft lamps and fairy lights strung along high beamed ceilings. Outside, the dark now released from the creeping treeline pressed inky hands against the windows.

Nanami leaned back in his chair, eyeing the remnants of his meal on the plate with a neutral stare.

There was something off about it.

His desire not to discourage Hiromi’s good intentions naively outweighed his logic though, because he still ate it all, and maybe he would regret that decision later. It wasn’t bad , not even close—there was no taste of rot or spoil, but something that made his mouth tingle and heart thud unlike any curry seasoning he’d ever had.

“Not bad,” he said, setting his fork down with a measured nod. “Your choice in spices was a bit odd… but not bad at all.”

Higuruma felt awful.

He’d stomached it well, with pinched temples he quietly nursed the headache that crept up during the meal like a bad aftertaste, but stiffened ramrod straight at Nanami’s comment.

His brain thudded, thudded, thudded , each beat a jagged staccato as the words sank in, scraping like sandpaper against his nerves. “Not bad?” he echoed, biting through the cozy atmosphere with a bare-tooth grimace. “What do you mean not bad? It was delicious.”

Nanami blinked, surprised by the sudden sharpness and delicately ran a napkin over his mouth. He coughed awkwardly. “I was just offering feedback. It really wasn’t bad.”

The room suddenly felt warmer—too warm. Nanami dismissed it as the lingering heat from the stove, or maybe the spices from the curry, now irritatingly intense as he felt sweat gathering under his collar like humid, panting breaths against his nape.

Higuruma dug his fingers into his temples again, trying to rub away the tension that settled there like a thick fog. It made him woozy, he felt off balance. “Well, I didn’t ask for feedback,” he snapped, the words tumbling out with more venom than he’d intended. He wasn’t usually one to snap so quickly, but something about Nanami’s mild criticism was needling him tonight like a splinter under his skin.

Nanami’s frown deepened. “There’s no need to get so worked up; I apologize for my comment—”

“Worked up?” Higuruma’s dark eyes sparked like lit kindling with a sudden flash of anger. He shoved his chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the wooden floor. “You’re the one who started nitpicking. If your standards are so damn high, maybe you should’ve cooked!”

The air between them was heavy with ozone, tension slithered in, curling around the edges of their fraying tempers like blotting vines feasting on their discomfort. The silence that followed was heavy, anticipatory, and those vines grew roots and then fingers, curling into Nanami’s limbs and tightening the muscles on his face into a silent glare.

Nanami gathered up the dishes with a little too much force, the plates clattering together in a way that made the small space shrink smaller, the echoes bouncing off the walls and settling in the corners like something dark and brooding. The darkness that licked at the windows oozed its way inside.

Higuruma crossed his arms, feeling his irritation spike when Nanami turned his shoulder, hot and irrational, a screeching tea kettle in very real danger of boiling over completely. Don’t you dare ignore me.

“ Honestly, if your standards are so high, I’m surprised you tolerated it at all. My apologies for displeasing your precious palate.”

Nanami’s hands tightened around the sink basin, his knuckles paling as the metal dug into his skin. Slowly—deliberately—he turned to face Higuruma, meeting his glare head-on. Their eyes snapped together like flint striking steel, cold, unyielding, sparks flying. “Fine. Next time, I’ll cook. That way, we won’t have to worry about your thin skin getting in the way.”

Higuruma’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t answer. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms as he held his ground, the air between them thickening, charged, shimmering with a tension that hovered like static in the room.

If either of them had been of their right mind, they might have noticed the air almost gleaming—an iridescent shimmer, like the heat rising off the hood of a car on a scorching day, or the sheer coat of yellow that coated nearly every surface, the cutlery, the plates .

Every small movement—an impatient twitch of Nanami’s finger, the brief flare of Higuruma’s nostrils—crackled with a heat that wasn’t entirely their own. Something crept between them, feeding off their frustration, stoking and bolstering the growing fire with every passing second.

Nanami’s glare shifted to the dishes in the sink, smeared plates and bits of rice clinging to the edges. The food had been good—damn good, really—and he hadn’t planned on nitpicking. He’d all but decided not to, but the words grew legs and clawed out of his mouth of their own volition.

Cleaning the dishes was out of the question—his mood was too foul to even consider it.

Higuruma scoffed and turned on his heel, retreating to the living room, his footsteps heavy and banging against the old wooden floorboards. Each footfall landed like the gavel he wields and felt every bit as damning.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

As the night dragged on, the cabin’s cozy charm unraveled at its rotted edges. The soft lights, once warm and inviting, were both too dim to read by and too bright to relax under, casting shadows that twisted nauseatingly on the walls. The couch, which looked so inviting before, might as well have been carved from stone for all the comfort it offered.

And though the house was deceptively spacious, the walls inched closer, closer, closer; tightening the noose around Nanami and Higuruma and forcing them into needless confrontations—over the lights, over which room to claim, over the correct way to handle the fire poker by the chimney.

Higuruma, by this point, had a few creative ideas for its use that had nothing to do with stoking a fire.

Nanami needed distance. A breath. Something to stop the heat crawling up his spine like a fever. He planted himself back at the sink, hands plunging into the soapy water with the kind of force that turned a gentle rinse into an act of war. The clatter of utensils against the porcelain screeched through the small kitchen, each metallic scrape a little too loud, a little too sharp. Water splashed up and soaked into his rolled-up sleeves, each drop that seeped into the fabric felt like a personal insult. He felt positively unmoored.

Every squeak of wet porcelain seemed to mock him, irritation climbing with each stubborn stain he scrubbed that just wouldn’t come out—his sanity hung by gossamer threads.

From the living room, Higuruma’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and loaded with an eye-roll Nanami could picture without even turning. “You don’t have to murder the plates, you know,” Higuruma jeered. “I can hear you all the way in here—that’s how you ruin them.”

Nanami’s grip tightened on the dish, his knuckles blanching white. It was stupid—petty. They never bickered like this, never fell into the brand of mundane sniping reserved for divorcing couples or other miserable types.

He prided himself on keeping calm. Unshakeable. Especially around Higuruma, whose dry wit and effortless ability to slip under his skin kept things lively and interesting. Fun, even.

But tonight? Tonight, everything grated on him. Every word, every sound—the scratch of ceramic, the way Higuruma's voice seemed to curl around the walls and echo back, each bounce sharper than the last. It shredded through the quiet, gnawing at his nerves, leaving them raw and exposed to the stifling air that compressed from every direction like a vacuum.

Nanami thinks he must be sick and Higuruma must be too, because he has just enough clarity to recognize that he doesn’t recognize them at all.

Nanami’s fingers skimmed beneath the sudsy water, brushing against something solid. The unexpected chill of metal met his skin, and his hand stilled as he recognized the shape of the knife buried there. For a moment, it grounded him—quenched the fire licking at his palms, made him feel in control again. He let his fingers curl around the handle, the coolness radiating through his hand and sending a shiver up his spine that felt blessedly soothing.

The blade could make it all stop. Take it. Walk into the living room where Higuruma stands and—

Nanami blinked. The thought dissolved, evaporating as fast as it came back to the void it came from and leaving a sick churn in its wake. He gritted his teeth and dropped the knife back into the sink with a harsh clatter, the sound sharp and final. He wanted to throw it out the window.

Absurd. He was absurd. He’s sick. Surely he must be sick, because he would never think that. Not over something so… nothing.

His thoughts felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else. He wasn’t a beast. He wasn’t a murderer. He’d seen enough bloodshed to know better—he knew better.

The fact that it entered his mind at all almost made him retch.

He wiped his hands on the hanging towel, the rough fabric scraping against his skin and pulling him back from the irrecoverable edge he’d almost stumbled over. Without a word, he turned on his heel, leaving the dishes half-done and the knife abandoned in the sink, as if he could walk away from the sick impulse the kitchen inspired.

The hallway felt longer than it should’ve as he stalked back into the living room, each step heavy, ball-and-chained to his fracturing mind. And there was Higuruma—standing in the small living area, arms crossed, his expression unreadable, half-lit by both lamp and fire and waiting for him.

The shadows carved deep lines into his face, the hooked curve of his nose sharpened by the light, casting him as something almost predatory.

When Nanami stepped into the room, the tension between them snapped taut, a thread wound too tight and ready to break, pulling them closer, reeling them into each other's orbit. It was like standing on the edge of a flame, the heat unbearable and the burn inevitable. They were drawn to each other’s fury, like moths with no choice but to dance in the fire until they turned to ash.

“So rather than be gentler with the dishes, you’re just going to leave them? I suppose you expect me to clean as well as cook?” Higuruma’s voice carved through the room like shattered glass skittering across stone. He didn’t move, didn’t uncross his arms, but his entire stance was a challenge, daring Nanami to step closer, to meet his gaze head-on.

The way his eyes narrowed, locking onto Nanami with stripping intensity sent a fresh wave of anger surging through him, hotter, more vicious.

Nanami froze.

Just keep walking. Ignore him. Keep moving. Bathe and go to bed.

“I’m taking a break,” he said instead, each low word a bullet added to the smoking gun, the calm before a storm that could level mountains. It was a voice that should’ve sent alarms blaring in Higuruma’s mind and made his instincts urge him to back off. It promised reckoning.

If Higuruma weren’t so festered in the pit of his own irrational anger, he might’ve retreated—might’ve backed away from the brewing tempest in Nanami’s eyes.

If he knew that moments ago, Nanami had gripped a knife and entertained thoughts of plunging it deep between his ribs, he might’ve put distance between them.

But if Nanami was sick, Higuruma was sicker. His skin twitched beneath the tight fabric of his dress shirt, shoulders rolling and shuddering in a futile bid to relieve the tension that knotted between them. Sweat slicked his body, glistening in the firelight that painted him in violent hues of orange and red, setting him ablaze from the outside in. He was burning.

His vision dimmed, draining of color until the world was a muted blur—all except for Nanami. Nanami snapped into focus, vivid and pulsing with life, a beacon through the haze of Higuruma’s dilated eyes. He panted, breaths heavy and ragged like a slathering dog, muscles twitching with the need to lunge, to close the distance between them. Restraint frayed at the edges, but all he could think about, all that consumed him, was Nanami. Going to him. Tearing into him.

"Can’t ever—" Higuruma’s voice cracked, struggling to force the words out between teeth clenched so tight he felt a pop in his jaw. "Ask for help, can you?"

A bitter scoff slipped, choked off as his throat seized, the dry walls of his airway sticking together and making his vision swim that much more as he missed another heaving breath. "Always have to be—"

He turned away sharply, a shudder running through him, the effort to keep speaking almost painful; and with it, he hoped to hide his shame at the grossly obvious erection snaking down the seam of his thigh, just as it had been for the past fifteen minutes. "—the lone wolf, thinking you’re so… so independent and fucking cool—"

His breath hissed, a harsh sound that scraped the back of his throat raw down to the bitter copper tang beneath. "So fucking cool—"

Nanami resisted with everything he had, every muscle tensed against the invisible binds that drew him in, demanding he act on impulses that should never see light; should never have been conceived at all.

His fingers twitched at his sides with the urge to act. To do something he’d regret. Wrap them around Higuruma’s throat, maybe, and squeeze until the hate drained out of them both.

He watched as Higuruma began to unravel, each tremor, recognizing the succumbing happening before his eyes as what he felt incubating within himself. It was like staring into a mirror, seeing his own fate playing out in front of him, knowing that it was only a matter of minutes—if he was lucky—before he would break too.

His pulse pounded in his temples, each beat syncing with that silent, relentless pull, dragging him recklessly toward oblivion.

Nanami stalked forward.

Higuruma whirled back around, a sharp animal snap of his neck with teeth bared like a cornered beast. His body jolted upright, spine straightening and meeting Nanami’s advance with a challenge that was all raw instinct—no hesitation, no retreat, only the need to assert dominance.

“What the hell are we really fighting about here? Dishes? Dinner?” Higuruma’s laugh was cold, a bitter thing that didn’t suit him at all. “Or are we dodging the real issue, Nanami? Because I’m begging for an excuse. Give me one, and I swear—” he leaned in as close as he dared, eyelids fluttering at the smell of him even at this distance. “I’ll fight you.”

Nanami didn’t know why they were fighting. Only that they were. And that the scorching compulsion inside him demanded it, devoured him and any dissent whole, certain he would be reduced to ash and hollowed to a bitter husk if he so much as raised a finger against it.

He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. The need to push this until something snapped was compulsive. The only end was cremation in this hellfire, one or both, and his desperation for it ripped him apart from the inside out.

“This isn’t about dinner,” Nanami growled, his voice thick with hot coals. His chest felt tight, air scorched by the words he could barely spit out. “Or losing my weekend to be here.” His fists clenched, nails biting so deeply into his palms that blood welled in the half moons, but the sting was nothing compared to the flames ravaging his veins. He’s in hell—he must be.

“This is about you.” Nanami spat the fever in his mouth, callous and cruel. His shoulders quivered and betrayed him, frenetic pulse having him swooping down towards Higuruma’s face a little too fast, a little close, nearly eye to eye now before he could reel himself back upright; drunk on the heat of it all.

“About how you are a burden. A constant, incessant, mind-numbing waste that I’d be better off without.” He wanted this. The confrontation and the catharsis that vitriol promised, even if it meant sinking deeper into the hell he was creating.

The space between them nearly evaporated, the air growing so thick they were both choking on it. Nanami could feel Higuruma’s breath ghosting over his skin, gulping for air, his throat bobbing, warm, uneven, alive—a siren call, seductive and dangerous and ruinous.

Break him. Rip, tear, flay—spill blood into the floorboards, let the cellar drink from him.

The thought scorched through Nanami's mind, twisted and raw, and for a moment, neither dared moved, both possessing an instinctive knowing it might provoke the other to pounce. The only sound was their breath, ragged, and the ratcheting pound of the other's heart, both animalistically attuned and tracing bulging arteries up their throats.

Hurt him. The insidious whispers slithered through Higuruma’s mind like smoke, curling around his thoughts, sick with rabid infection. Hit him. You’ve done it before. He despises you. Use the gavel. End it.

Sweat gleamed on Higuruma’s forehead, mirroring the dampness on Nanami’s neck. The air was suffocating, clinging like napalm, thick and oppressive. It was rage—pure, unadulterated rage—but something else too. Something that begged for pain, for release, for an end.

And then Nanami hit the wall.

The impact was savage, brutal. No time to brace. Higuruma slammed him back, the force sending picture frames clattering to the floor. The walls groaned, the very bones of the cabin trembling under the weight of their collision.

Higuruma didn’t hesitate. He was on Nanami in an instant, hands lashing out, cold fingers like steel vices around Nanami’s throat. The pressure was immediate and crushing—but Nanami didn’t flinch. His eyes gored Higuruma with deadly resolve, steel against steel, waiting for the other to break.

Nanami’s eyes narrowed, excitement seeping through his gaze as heat furnaced low in his belly, his breath coming out ragged. Higuruma’s fingers were still wrapped tight around his neck, but Nanami could feel something else—a thrum, a pulse. His cock strained painfully against his slacks, pre-cum already staining the fabric; the matting feel of his hair both enraged and delighted him.

He wasn’t sure when that happened.

He wasn’t sure he cared,

His hand slid up to Higuruma’s wrist, and with the deliberate force of bending iron, began to pry those vice-like fingers from his throat. Higuruma clawed for him, fist shaking with resistance, and every inch of fight only fueled the arousal that snapped sudden through them both like rubber bands.

A cold, metallic chuckle thundered in Nanami’s red throat, mocking with threat. "... Idiot."

He didn't waste another breath—there was no time. With a sharp twist and a powerful surge of his shoulder, Nanami shoved Higuruma back with enough force to send them both crashing into the floorboards.

They thrashed, clawing and bodying into furniture and light fixtures. Higuruma’s knee shot up, slamming into Nanami’s stomach, sending a shockwave of force that knocked the air from his lungs and his cock twitched, pre-cum seeping in thick rivulets down his thigh. Nanami grunted, but the ache only sharpened the edge of his need. Higuruma, too, felt the burn.

In one fluid, desperate motion, Higuruma rolled them over, breaking free from the hold, chest heaving with exertion, straining and throbbing in his pants with every ragged breath. His eyes blazed with fury, but beneath the rage there was something raw and ruinous. His gaze raked over Nanami, lips curled into a snarl, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to rip him apart—and fuck him into the floor. How much he needed to do one or the other or both.

Yellow clouds shaken from surfaces whirlpooled in the humid air. With each breath, Higuruma felt it more acutely—his clothes clung to his skin, and heat laid siege to his body, unbearable, searing. The pollen, the fucking pollen—he could feel it now, twisting his thoughts, his body, and all he wanted was Nanami beneath him, writhing and begging.

Nanami roared and lunged at Higuruma again, throwing him back into the wall with enough force to crack the old oak paneling. The cabin rumbled, books toppled from shelves, and somewhere in another room something glass shattered.

But all Nanami could see was the way Higuruma’s body shuddered at the impact, the way his pupils dilated, his lips parting in a wet gasp—so fucking pretty.

Higuruma choked, the breath knocked from his lungs, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His vision blurred, but the moment it cleared, he saw Nanami standing over him—panting, chest heaving, cock straining visibly against his pants, fabric stained dark and dripping. The visual sent a shiver through him, his stomach clenching hungrily and own body desperately reciprocating.

Each thrash and bit of fight only compelled the other to fight back harder. A cyclical prey-drive, hammering and hammering in the forge until someone broke into the coals.

In the charged, suffocating space between them, the air thickened, pulsing with a desperate craving that bordered on madness. Nanami’s grip tightened, punishing hands clasped around Higuruma’s shoulder and the fine bones of his neck. His fingers curled with creaking slowness against the soft skin and fabric, teasing the promise of bruises and ripped clothes.

Higuruma scrabbled for purchase against Nanami’s arm, spitting and clawing, nails raking down skin and leaving red lines that did nothing to deter the iron-grip on his neck; like the bite of a flea for all the attention Nanami paid it.

Their faces were inches apart, close enough that Nanami could see the fine particles of dust chalking Higuruma’s flushed skin, could feel the heat radiating off him in molten waves. Everywhere they touched the yellow mist was spread to him too, and where it was spread Nanami burned.

His breath juddered in his throat, billowing against Higuruma’s cheek his nostrils flared bullishly. Cologne, sweat, and dust that smelt oddly floral… pollen. Not dust at all.

It was the pollen. It had to be. But there was no time to think about that, not when every nerve in his body was on fire, every muscle twitching with the need to lay claim and consume, because Nanami is certain, so certain, of only one thing: the hellfire raging in his bones was going to kill him if he doesn’t whet it.

The muscles in Nanami’s back convulsed, rippling beneath his shirt as he bent lower, his breath ghosting over Higuruma’s throat. “You smell so good,” he groaned, voice rough and fractured and barely coherent. Had Higuruma always smelled like this? It was intoxicating and overwhelming and Nanami needed him.

He smelled too good. Too irresistible. Too much.

Nanami groaned and pushed Higuruma harder against the wall, the force of it rattling the entire cabin as if trying to shake loose whatever wild thing had taken hold of them both. But it was lodged too deep, its hooks set and curved too permanently.

His knee shoved between Higuruma’s legs, pressing up—hard—right against the throbbing bulge in Higuruma’s pants. Nanami felt the way it pulsed, wet and leaking, pre-cum staining the crotch of Higuruma’s pants so thickly that he felt it through the layers on his knee. And with the way his hips jerked forward, rutting against Nanami’s leg—he liked it.

Higuruma writhed, his body twisting and turning, but it wasn’t rage anymore. The way Nanami’s breath hitched, the way his muscles tensed and twitched—Higuruma felt it all, and it was driving him insane, breaking him down until all he could think about was the way Nanami had him pinned to the wall, how Nanami’s knee ground into his weeping cock, Nanami, Nanami, Nanami.

The clawing desperation to peel himself away was tossed in favor of frantic tugging, nails catching on rolled sleeves to yank Nanami closer.

Nanami’s world narrowed, everything outside the two of them fading into a tunnel of pulsing, seething hunger. Irreversibly dialed to the slick heat of Higuruma’s body pressed against his, the frantic beat of his pulse beneath Nanami’s hand, the sweat that trickled down Higuruma’s temple. He wanted to taste it, drag his tongue across that feverish skin, feel Higuruma’s pulse in his mouth and swallow it down gluttonously.

He leaned in closer, breath scalding against Higuruma’s ear as he gritted out the words, each one clawing its way from the depths of his chest and leaving the cavity bloody. He was gone—too far gone to reel himself back, yet somehow, impossibly, not quite lost. There was just enough of him left, clinging by a thread, enough to ask—beg, really—and pray that if the answer was no, he could resist just long enough for Higuruma to hit him and knock him blissfully unconscious.

Even if it killed him. Even if he were to self-immolate. It would be better.

“Tell me you feel it too… shit, I—” His voice broke, shivering, “I need you—”

The words barely left his mouth before Higuruma lunged, crashing his mouth against Nanami’s in a collision of lips and teeth. It wasn’t a kiss—it was raw, violent, a clash of urgency and rage. Their teeth clacked, tongues desperate and frantic, and Nanami groaned, low and deep, as he shoved Higuruma harder against the wall, hips grinding forward in a furious effort to fuse them together.

There was no room for dignity or restraint—just the unbearable need to fuck, to tear each other apart until they were satisfied.

Nanami’s breath hitched, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he gripped Higuruma tighter, fingers digging into the muscle beneath his shirt. The fabric tore beneath his grasp, threads snapping, and Nanami relished in the sound of buttons skittering somewhere across the room and lost to corners, the sensation of skin bared to him.

Higuruma’s hands clawed at Nanami’s back, fingers digging into tense and quivering muscles. Every nerve in his body was on fire, skin too sensitive, cock hardened to the point of pain with every desperate twitch of his hips. “Nanami—” The sound that came from his throat was jagged, agonized and barely comprehensible.

“I know—fuck—I know,” Nanami rasped, shushing and pacifying in a way suddenly tender in his understanding, each word dragging as if ground over sandpaper. He leaned closer, lips brushing Higuruma’s ear, his breath billowing and hot.

“You’re going to take it. Every inch, every bit of me until you can’t think straight—” nevermind that they already can’t think at all. Nanami hardly recognized himself. “—can you do that for me?”

Higuruma’s nails raked down Nanami’s back, whining and blinkered by lust to the point of muteness. Nanami could’ve asked him to peel his nails off and he would’ve if he thought it would feel good.

It spurred Nanami on, feeling his heart drop to his diaphragm to instead beat between his thighs. He didn’t waste another second, his hand shooting down between them, fingers trembling as he fumbled with the waistband of Higuruma’s pants. The button snapped free with a sharp pop, and Nanami tore the fabric apart, shoving his hand into Higuruma’s boxers without finesse.

His hand wrapped around the base of Higuruma’s cock, and the slick, hot pulse of it was almost enough to send Nanami over the edge right there. It was drenched, pre-cum spilling in obscene amounts, leaking down his hand, coating his palm in slippery warmth that dripped between his fingers. Fuck, he’s soaked. Higuruma was trembling, hips jerking into Nanami’s grip, chasing the friction with desperate, needy little thrusts.

“Fuck—Nanami, it hurts—” Higuruma gasped, voice cracking and jumping in Nanami’s fist, dripping onto the floor in the beginnings of a milky puddle.

“I know, I know,” Nanami groaned, voice low and wrecked, half-mad. He released Higuruma’s cock only long enough to yank his own pants down, fingers catching on the waistband in his rush to bare himself. He sprang free, and the sight of himself—hard as steel, already oozing to mat the honey blonde curls of hair on his belly—made him groan, muscles twitching with the need to bury himself inside Higuruma now. “I’ve… I’ve got you. Gonna help—”

There was no time for slow, no time for careful. None of the things he would’ve liked to do. No courtship, no gentle touches, no wining and dining, no chance to savor the feeling of peeling Higuruma away from the realm of friendship.

Nanami’s thoughts scattered like fractals, catching briefly on things like sunflowers—would Higuruma like if he bought them?—but the descending fog swallowed them whole.

Nanami groaned, he spun Higuruma around, slamming him chest-first into the wall with a force that rattled the entire cabin. The sharp sound of breath leaving Higuruma’s lungs was like gasoline on an open flame, and Nanami felt his erection twitch painfully, expanding more, oozing in a steady drip from the swollen tip. So much it felt like he might’ve cum already, but the ache in his balls told him otherwise—he hadn’t even begun.

Higuruma braced his hands against the wall, panting, his whole body trembling under Nanami’s weight. “Do it,” Higuruma snarled, thick with desperation and edged with defiance… or maybe just bravery in the face of what he knew was coming; both were equally admirable. “Please fuck me—I need it… it hurts—”

Nanami whimpered low in his throat, his hands gripping Higuruma’s hips, yanking him back roughly, aligning his pelvis with Higuruma’s ass. The head of his cock was so swollen it raged purple, slit weeping a thick coat that dripped down his length, soaking the base of Higuruma’s spine. It wasn’t normal—none of this was normal—but Nanami couldn’t bring himself to care.

He pressed the tip of his cock against Higuruma’s rim, smearing pre-cum over the tight ring of muscle and creating a slick runway as he dragged the head up and down, coating Higuruma in it. A small mercy, all things considered.

Higuruma’s body tensed, muscles bunching up beneath his skin as Nanami pushed against him, testing the resistance and hissed  at the stars that blew across his eyes. The pressure built, intense, unrelenting, until Nanami thrust forward in one hard, savage motion, burying himself to the hilt in a single stroke.

Higuruma howled, fingers gouging into the wall, tearing the lacquer as his body arched violently, breath coming in jagged, broken rasps. It was too much—too intense, too fast—but exactly what he needed and Nanami knew it.

Pain blurred into pleasure, the overwhelming fullness inside him, the brutal stretch—until there was no distinction left between agony and ecstasy. It all melted, streaming him into a state beyond either. He was euphoric, and the way he immediately shoved back into Nanami made it abundantly obvious.

Nanami froze, eyes rolling to their whites in a way that obliterated any semblance of dignity, the scalding heat inside Hiromi nearly buckling his legs. The way Hiromi squeezed, quivered, and trembled around him had Nanami teetering, hand lashing out to the wall for support and crushing over Higuruma’s knuckles instead.

“Fuu-haah—” The curse fizzled and died on his tongue, useless and defunct. And then Nanami moved, a brutal, unrelenting force, each thrust shaking them both to their very foundations. Flesh pounded against sticky flesh, echoing in the space in a way so pornographic that it might’ve made Nanami blush under regular circumstances.

But this wasn’t regular. His fingers slipped between Higuruma’s pinning them both to the wall.

Dinner and sunflowers.

Nanami’s mind flickered with a different fantasy altogether—far sweeter than the damnable pollen on his tongue, the softness he had wanted to offer Hiromi. That calm domesticity, the gentleness Nanami thought he should’ve given. But here they were, drowning and clawing at each other to stay afloat.

Higuruma’s body rocked with every thrust, his own cock dripping against the wall, smearing in gooey, messy trails. He was completely lost, undone by the feeling of Nanami inside him—stretching him, molding him. Every stroke sent a wave of pleasure-pain through his body, chipping moans from his throat, making him claw at the wall, desperate for more, desperate for anything and everything, and he took it greedily.

Nanami’s free hand slid around, wrapping firmly around Higuruma’s length. He squeezed, stroking in time with the thrusts that had Higuruma corseted to the wall. “You’re mine,” Nanami murmured, voice thick and tongue useless in his mouth, far better suited for lapping at Higuruma’s neck than talking, and so he does.

If Higuruma was his, Nanami would spend the rest of his life making it up to him. He’d worship him. Take him out for dinners, make sure he laughed, filled his life with comfort, and this—this would be a secret they’d share. A private thing to laugh about and remember rather than the source of shame Nanami feared. He’d—fuck, he’d get him sunflowers everyday. During the winter he’d grow them himself if he had to—

“Please say it,” he crackled, desperate, impeaching. Suddenly this mattered to him.

Higuruma’s breath caught, quivering with each brutal batter into his body, already cracking like pressured glass. “Yours,” he gasped, his voice staticky with gravel, shredded from the moans that never once stopped dripping helplessly from spit-slick lips.

“Fuck, Nanami, I’m yours—”

That was all Nanami needed.

Higuruma’s submission wasn’t just some indulgence of lust. It was deeper than that, something in his very bones. Nanami saw it clearly now—the dormant part of Higuruma that craved being tethered, the wolf who wanted to be collared, domesticated into a dog. And Nanami was more than willing to bear the leash, to hold it firm and tender in his grip, to guide Higuruma through his surrender.

Nanami possessed Higuruma so beautifully, so thoroughly responsible for him, that it inspired nothing but heart-stopping adoration in the delirious mess of a man beneath him.

The thought shot through Nanami like a bullet, inspiring furious determination to do away with the awful edges where Higuruma ended and he began. His hips snapped forward, thrusting with brutal purpose, hammering into Higuruma with a force that sought to unmake them both, return them to stardust or whatever primordial pool they crawled out of. And Higuruma, with every ragged moan, took it. No, more than that, he welcomed it.

Drool slid unashamedly down Higuruma’s chin, cheek squished to the wall, his throat convulsing with every slam of Nanami’s cock inside him so deep he swears he feels him in his ribs. His voice was nothing but a mess of broken syllables now— “Na-na-mi—!”—barely managing his lover’s name in the mess of spit and pathetic mewling.

“Harder,” Higuruma gasped, voice shredded beyond recognition, hips rutting desperately into Nanami’s hand, chasing that final bit of friction, that last agonizing piece just at the tip of his tongue. “Fu–uu–uu-ck, please—m’gonna—”

Ever his servant Nanami’s fist tightened around Higuruma’s cock, knuckles white with the force of his grip as he stroked him, rougher than he liked it himself, but exactly how he thought Higuruma needed it because he thought he might appreciate a firm hand. So salaciously determined is he to milk every drop of pleasure from him, to exorcize this feralness from their bodies.

That’s all it took. Higuruma’s entire body went rigid before shattering gloriously—

He convulsed, spine arching violently off the wall as his orgasm tore through him, ripping a raw, choked cry from his throat. Hot, thick ropes spilled over Nanami’s fingers, and the rest splattered messily against the wall. His breath hitched, caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp as the overwhelming mix of pain and relief threatened to drown him. His legs buckled, but Nanami held him upright, speared by Nanami’s cock and the firm grip that kept him from crumbling entirely.

Nanami slowed just for a moment, enraptured by the ruin beneath him, feeling the others' orgasm with ferocious synchronicity like a punch to the gut.

Higuruma was still trembling, breath uneven, each gasp shaky and erratic. “Please, just—” Nanami gripped his hips, dragging him back into place, and with a breathless choke, “—please don’t stop me—I can’t… I still need—”

Nanami bent him, his forearms flexing in a restraining pin around his chest and waist; Higuruma curled and arched back, and back, and back into him like some lewd figurehead of a ship.

“Fuck, Nanami… please—more.” Higuruma’s voice was impoverished, hands clawing at the walls until wood splintered beneath the blunt bite of his nails, desperate to hold onto something, anything, as Nanami drove into him, the force of it pushing him further up the wall with each sloppy thrust as his cock continued to sputter against frayed and scratched wood—impossibly unspent.

The tension in Nanami’s gut coiled tighter and tighter, a spring wound to its breaking point before finally—

It snapped with a final, brutal thrust, and he met his first orgasm with an embarrassing cry—raw, desperate, echoing through each fierce contraction that tore through him. His grip on Higuruma’s hand tightened as he whined against the damp skin of his neck, shuddering with every hot, thick pulse that spilled deep inside his lover. He gasped raggedly, gulping for air over flushed, bitten skin as he rode out the last shivers of release, clinging to Higuruma as if the world would fall away without him.

Their bodies slumped together, breaths mingling. Higuruma’s forehead pressed against the wall, and for a moment, everything was still except for the lingering tremors that juddered them both. Nanami’s breath was hot against his neck; his lips dragged over the skin, pressing kisses of apology, gratitude, pleading.

But it wasn’t enough. The insistent burn beneath their skin, the gnawing ache, still simmered. They could both feel it—this madness that refused to release its grip, no matter how hard they tried to bury it.

“Nanami,” Higuruma panted. His hands, now trembling, scraped roughly against the splintered wood. He forced himself to turn, just enough to catch a glimpse of Nanami’s face—flushed, tense, eyes squeezed shut in agony. “Are you… are you okay?”

Nanami’s answer was a slow shake of his head, breath bitten between clenched teeth.

“I… still feel it,” he confessed, voice rough, strained, composure stripped and leaving him shamelessly wanton. He swallowed, trying to regain some control of only his voice, but it was useless. A frustrated groan slipped out, his hips twitching forward unconsciously, still buried deep inside Higuruma, hard as iron and showing no sign of letting up. “It’s not enough… fuck, it’s not enough.”

Higuruma’s heart pounded, the reality of their situation sinking in. He should be sated, exhausted even, but his body was already responding to Nanami’s words, the fire rekindling with a vengeance—the refractory period of some debauched god, not the exhausted thirty six year old man he knows himself to be. He’s never been so hard in his life.

Without another word, Nanami tightened his hold on Higuruma, stumbling back on shaky legs until they sank to the floor. There was a brief, fleeting moment of tenderness as Nanami held Higuruma close, twisting him around so they could face each other.

Higuruma was ruined. Spit wet his chin and cheek, his hair spiked in all directions beyond repair, and eyes dilated so eclipsing of their pupils that Nanami can barely see the whites either.

Supple, pliant, and so beautiful.

“Higuruma…” Nanami’s voice was breathless and heavy, but there was a new softness to it—a plea woven through the desperation like wicker baskets, only hoping they’d hold the weight of emotions he was too addled to carry.

His hands found Higuruma’s, guiding them to his broad shoulders with a gentle insistence. He yearned for him with a presence of mind he lacked before. He’d needed a body, that was all, and that hadn’t changed… but Nanami wanted him.

“Please—”

The word broke from him, cracked and vulnerable, as his fingers tightened around Higuruma’s hip, trembling with the effort to stay anchored. He slid his hand down, cupping the curve of Higuruma’s ass and giving a firm, urging push, his wide, desperate eyes locking onto Higuruma’s, beseeching and pained.

Higuruma cupped Nanami’s face in his hands, the same hands that ruined a wooden wall possessed with something more gentle now, he cradled him like something fragile.

He looked at Nanami like he’d never seen him before, and in a way, he hadn’t. Not like this—not so ruined.

He leaned in, capturing Nanami’s lips in a slow, deliberate kiss, pouring every ounce of weight and nebulous bit of emotion into it. His thighs tightened around Nanami’s hips as he lifted himself up and then dropped back down onto Nanami’s cock. Fire met with the gasoline in his blood, reigniting anew.

He was always meant to be burned by Nanami.

He would give and take until there was nothing left.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

When the sun rose it did so sluggishly.

Like it too was afraid of what it might find inside the unassuming little cottage. Its eye rose hesitant over the trees, golden spears shot through windows and sheer curtains, illuminating the carnage strewn about the floors.

Anything not nailed down was toppled, the knick-knacks so meticulously arranged knocked to the floor or shattered, books indecently fluttered their pages in dead air, and the floors, the walls, and the upholstered leather of the couch were thoroughly destroyed.

Claw marks and stuffing, the odd bite taken out of the arm of a chair and left punctured with teeth—but no blood, no murder, no bodies—except for two, very much alive and tangled in a mess of limbs and sticky flesh on what remained of the couch.

Nanami’s leg dangled off the edge, one arm limp against the floor, while the other curled a cradle around Higuruma’s back where he slumped on his shoulder—drooling, snoring, and finally sated .

The man was peaceful—vulnerable in a way that tugged something deep in Nanami’s chest.

Nanami didn’t sleep.

Not much, at least.

He stayed vigilant, his thoughts churning like a storm at sea. Once they were both… “well” … he’d agonized, he’d thought, he’d theorized. He’d seethed and spat in his head like a rabid animal, every part of him on edge, because he knew this wasn’t right. This wasn’t simply an explosive culmination of little repressed desires—though he did take some time to consider the implications of what this would mean for his relationship with Higuruma tomorrow. No, this was something done to them.

He remembered reading the report about a curse Gojo exorcized once—one that could induce euphoria, passivity, bending the mind to its will through flower fields. If a curse could do that, then why not something more sinister? Something that could twist emotions, heighten them to the point of madness. Rage, hate, lust… such a curse wouldn’t need to act violently itself; it could simply turn its victims into weapons, feeding off the very emotions it created. The implications set a chill in his gut, heavy and unsettling.

Couple murders. One survivor. Confusion. The details were sparse in the file, but Nanami recalled those morbid little highlights, and with a new day dawning he knew he had to settle the theory that stewed in his head all night.

With a careful touch Nanami’s arm tightened around Higuruma’s shoulders, supporting his back as he rolled them over as gently as he could manage.

Higuruma grumbled inarticulately, Nanami inhaled and froze, hovering… the snoring resumed, and so too did Nanami exhale. He arranged Higuruma’s limbs so he’d be more comfortable, making sure long legs and bruised arms were tucked properly onto the fluff-bleeding cushions. His hand lingered a moment longer as he lifted Higuruma’s head to place on a pillow, fingers dipped in inky hair with soft consideration.

His palm brushed once, easing the tufted cowlicks on his head before he withdrew.

Nanami stood, his chiseled jaw clenched, determination hardening his features as he turned away from the couch. Without a backward glance, he marched to the front door, each step measured and purposeful.

Nanami didn’t bother with clothes as his feet pounded the floor, the cool wood unforgiving against his bare skin. He gripped the door knob like it was the throat of an enemy, twisting and flinging it with a force that should’ve sent the door flying—yet it didn’t budge. “ Hah… ” he chuckled, darkly amused. He tried again, muscles flexing, veins bulging with effort— how embarrassing, he mused, only if he hadn’t expected exactly this.

He moved to the kitchen. The window above the sink brightly lit with cheerful morning gold, dripping jewels from dewy grass on the gravel drive. He reached for the small metal latch, hope flickering in his chest like a dying ember—sealed.

“I fucking knew it,” he laughed despite himself, near hysterical at his idiocy. His hand found its way to his hip, the other raking through irreversibly tousled wheat hair.

“Knew what?”

Nanami’s flinched to hear Higuruma speak. He whirled around, finding him propped up on the couch, one arm slung over the torn and fuzzy backrest, his expression groggy but attentive.

“The door won’t open,” Nanami said with a derisive snort.

“—and you wanted to go outside naked because—?”

“The windows too. I can’t open them.”

Higuruma’s brow furrowed, sleep slowly ebbing away as he propped one knee up, hooking an elbow around it while resting his head atop the makeshift pillow. “And…?”

“They’re not real, Higuruma.”

Oh, so he’s lost it, Higuruma thought.

Higuruma blinked, a moment of confusion flashing in his eyes before he smothered it beneath a well-practiced mask of calm. His lips curled into a placating smile, the kind one gives to a person on the verge of breaking. “I see…” he didn’t.

“... are you feeling alright?” His voice was steady, honed by decades of smothering nerves beneath layers of practiced indifference. But he could feel the exhaustion pulling at his edges, the dregs of whatever had been in his system finally clearing. If Nanami wasn’t good, if he had truly lost it, then…

Nanami groaned, shaking his head as he strode back to the couch. “We’re in a domain, Higuruma. We probably have been since we walked through the door.”

That pulled Higuruma out of his spiraling thoughts. He scoffed, disbelieving that that was the conclusion Nanami arrived at. “No—no, we would’ve noticed.”

Nanami grunted in response, his focus on the rubble scattered across the floor. He crouched down, rifling through the mess with a single-minded determination until he found his boxers. He stepped into them with the kind of force that spoke volumes about the rage simmering beneath his skin. “Mess with my fucking head —my fucking body …I don’t fucking think so.”

“Wouldn’t we have noticed?” Higuruma insisted. He scrambled off the couch, the cool air biting at his skin as he tried the door, then the windows—no dice. He blinked owlishly. How hadn’t they noticed?

“Wait, where are you going?”

Higuruma watched, a mix of awe and concern tightening his chest, as Nanami, clad only in his boxers and wielding his signature black-and-white blade, stormed across the living room. The destruction underfoot crunched with each step, like the ground itself was trembling beneath his ire. He moved with the purpose of an angry deity, his eyes narrowed in determination. “I’m going to find it, of course.” The rest of his ensemble seemed irrelevant, the sheer force of his anger making everything else redundant. At the very least, Nanami refused to face his quarry with his dick out.

Higuruma scrambled for his clothes, now little more than torn scraps, but managed to yank on a pair of boxers, matching Nanami’s hurried attire. “Try going up,” he suggested, breathless, hopping in place to work an uncooperative leg through the leg hole.

“Is there an attic?” Nanami’s voice was sharp, all business as they moved in unison down the hallway, weapons gripped with white-knuckled determination, intent on receiving their pound of flesh in return for their dignity.

Higuruma nodded, still catching his breath. “I believe so. The house looked taller from the outside.”

Heat rises. The thought flashed between them, unspoken yet understood. The sweltering flames that burned them from the night before would have naturally ascended, carrying with it the intoxicating miasma that fueled whatever twisted curse that ensnared them, up to the highest point. Simple physics.

Nanami for all of his composure (last night notwithstanding) was always careful on the job. You would not know this by how he kicked down the door at the top of the stairs, blowing it clear of its hinges and obliterating it with a violent explosion of splintered wood.

“Where are you…”

The thing skittered down from the rafters, a grotesque, spider-like abomination with far too many limbs that clicked and chittered as it descended. Its body was an obscene, fleshy mass, swollen and pulsing as if ready to burst, its skin stretched thin over the bloated form beneath. It laughed in that eerie, tinny way curses do, mandibles clicking and many eyes rolling to devour the two men in the doorway.

It was slow, fat and sluggish, engorged on the feast they’d unwittingly provided, dragging itself across the floor with an unnatural, bone-crunching crawl. Its limbs twitched sporadically, like it couldn’t quite control them, its movements erratic and nauseating to watch.

Nanami liked to take his time, usually. Liked to assess his enemy and make sure there were no nasty surprises waiting for him once he engaged. Because Nanami was a careful man, even moreso when he isn’t alone. But not this time. There was no patience left in him.

Nanami’s eyes blazed with the cold, righteous fury of a vengeful god. Ratios lined his vision, spinning and locking into place with terrifying clarity. He swung his blade in a wide, brutal arc.

The strike was perfect.

Wooden boards shattered beneath the force of his blade as it sliced through bloated curse flesh, spewing rotten blood across Nanami’s bare skin. The creature shrieked and twitched violently, its many legs flailing in a grotesque, desperate dance before it seized up and fell still. The curse evaporated into dust… but not the usual gray ash he’d come to expect.

Yellow spores billowed into the air, and Nanami immediately hurled himself backward, instinctively bodying Higuruma aside and away from the cloud. The panic was swift and visceral, propelling him out of harm’s way as he crowded Higuruma into a safer corner.

Higuruma staggered slightly from the force but quickly steadied himself, feeling the air around them clear, becoming lighter, easier to breathe. The light filtering through the dusty old window seemed a little brighter now, cutting through the gloom with a newfound sharpness.

Nanami’s shoulders were tense, muscles flexing as he adjusted his grip on the blade’s fabric-bound handle. Higuruma couldn’t see Nanami’s ratio lines, but he could see the red welts and scratches marring his back, the way the skin stretched taut over them and surely must sting—but Nanami didn’t flinch.

Higuruma is silent for a moment, neither of them speak, letting the feeling of closure dawn well and truly over them before finally Higuruma sighed and relaxed his grip on his own weapon, raking a hand through his disheveled hair. “Well… I suppose that’s taken care of.”

Nanami straightened, his exhale feeling every bit the exorcism he’d just performed. His hand reflexively reached for his throat, adjusting a tie that wasn’t there, on a suit he wasn’t wearing. He grimaced, prickling.

“...It would seem so.”

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Scalding shower water and floral-scented soap that made Nanami’s stomach churn and skin shiver with thoughts of flowers, and petals, and pollen, and Higuruma—they took turns cleaning themselves one after the other. Nanami first, scrubbing his skin with a fervor that bordered on obsession, as if the force of his hands could erase not just the icy streaks of purple curse blood, but the memory of how it got there and every other substance that clung to his weary body.

After him, Higuruma took his place in the steamy room, letting water pound against his bruised and aching back, head bowed under the spray and washing away far more than dust and grime. It was a baptism, a cleansing, until the water that swirled down the drain ran clear and took with it the last bit of curse-induced grit and fucked dumb-ness from his brain.

The house invented its own gravity well, warping all sounds and emotions, all feelings except for what it wanted them to feel. But now that pull was gone. Their feet were no longer nailed down by that otherworldly weight; they were grounded once again by the earth's natural pull, back in the same plane as everyone else, free from the almost-world of the domain.

Nanami had already called Ijichi, arranging their extraction with the kind of professional detachment that belied everything that transpired within these walls. “We’re both fine,” and “it’s been dealt with,” and “yes, at your earliest convenience, thank you.”

Now, with nothing left to do but wait, Higuruma and Nanami moved around each other with dancing steps, choreographed avoidance and refusal to so much as bump into each other—because what if one thing led to another, and what if they weren’t quite right yet and it started again, and what if they said something stupid—

Higuruma ran a hand through his still-damp hair, grimacing at his inability to bridge the gap. There was no precedent for what they’d done, no documentation for him to point at and say “hey, here’s what we do now”.

Things had never been tense with Nanami. Their connection had always been easy, natural—colleagues by circumstance, friends by choice. They shared the same burden, the same grim determination to do what needed to be done and the understanding that someone had to do it. Misery loves company, and theirs had always been more than just a shared duty.

But that was before they’d fucked like their lives depended on it.

Funny how that changes things.

There was a carefulness in the way they moved now, an awareness that hadn’t been there before. Nanami was stiff and brittle, seeming almost afraid to get too close, like he couldn’t quite reconcile what he’d done with who he thought he was.

Higuruma, perceptive as always, kept his distance; not wanting to push too hard and break whatever fragile equilibrium they’d managed to find; because this wretched silence was still preferable to the breakup of their friendship.

It was almost comical, really, how they could teeter so close to the precipice of something meaningful and yet Higuruma found himself holding back. Like a cat eyeing a fishbowl, the temptation there, the desire to reach out and take the leap, but deciding against the jump because he was afraid he wouldn’t stick the landing.

But Higuruma had never been one to shy away from the truth. He’d made a career out of cutting through bullshit, and he wasn’t about to stop now even with potentially catastrophic consequences. So, with a resolve that brooked no argument, he weed-wacked the silence and leveled Nanami’s turned back with a look that would’ve dismantled a lesser man.

“We don’t have to talk about it.” He began abruptly. “But you’re a good friend of mine, Nanami—and if it’s up to me, that won’t change. So if we’re going to forget that this happened, just tell me so I can do the same. We need to be on the same page at the very least.”

Nanami surveyed the world outside the wide open living room window as if it were his kingdom. Quietly and greedily inhaling the fresh air that swept in, and with it went out the sordid smog that clung like film wrap to his brain. He’d been eager to confirm the windows would indeed open now with the curse exorcized—they did. He also wanted an excuse to silently gather himself—the window provided.

Nanami didn’t turn to face him, but the way his head lifted just so made it clear he was listening intently.

His gaze stayed riveted on the horizon outside, where the morning sun bled gold into the sky. Wishing that same light would illuminate the jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings he’d agonized over while Higuruma slept and highlight the way forward.

He thought he could handle it—both the mission and the man with him—but the pollen stripped him raw, naked to the soul. It was ugly and far from what Higuruma deserved; both physically and the cold words traded before it.

If Higuruma was his…

The thought alone made his stomach knot, a quiet yearning twisting inside him like hemlock. Nanami wanted so much more than what they’d been forced into—wanted to take his time, to show Higuruma the care and consideration he was worth. There should have been dinners, quiet conversations over wine, the slow unfolding of something deeper than friendship. It should’ve been a courtship, not a violent collision of hunger and curse-driven madness.

But what was done was done. No amount of wishing could undo it, and now, standing on the other side of the night, Nanami knew he had to make it right. He wanted to with a sincerity that bordered on desperation.

Because if Higuruma was his…

Nanami felt the longing bloom again, a poison that seeps closer and closer to his heart. He would give him everything. Anything he wanted—days filled with small comforts and nights spent wrapped in the quiet intimacy of just being together. He would repair Higuruma’s suit, take him out for the best meals, buy him flowers, and pour his drinks. He would worship him in every way a man could be worshiped, not just in moments of passion but in all the mundane, unspoken ways that truly mattered.

He indulged those thoughts while Higuruma slept, when the yearning of the body surrendered to the yearning of the heart. Nanami allowed his brutally thick arms to hold him just a little tighter, relishing those small hours of peace before he knew everything would change. It was as inevitable as watching the sun slowly rise through the windows, shedding light on the destruction they’d wrought; change would come, and he didn’t know from which direction he should protect himself when the path diverged.

But those hours of clandestine coveting seemed a lifetime ago, more a fantasy than a possibility. Higuruma’s voice was firm, almost clinical, as he tried to set the parameters of their future interactions. We need to be on the same page, he said, and Nanami felt a stab of regret that they weren’t already.

We don’t have to talk about it.

Nanami knew that was true, but it was the very thing that gnawed at him. They could sweep it under the rug, pretend it hadn’t happened, and go back to the way things were—but Nanami wasn’t sure he could. Not when he thought he felt something, saw something, in Higuruma. The path split before him now—safety and risk, retreating back or shouldering forward. Maybe he’d lost his mind a mile or so back.

Nanami finally turned to face him, the morning light catching whiskey eyes and flambéing them with ardent certainty. He didn’t know how to say it. He’d always been good with words but never this kind, but words didn’t know that when they tumbled out anyway.

“I don’t want to forget,” he confessed.

It was a start.

“I will not just brush this aside, Higuruma. You… mean a great deal to me.” What a pisspoor excuse of a confession, he thought bitterly.

He cleared his throat, met Higuruma’s shrewd eyes and fought against every impulse to look away. He forged ahead.

“Last night… wasn’t us. And I know that that is not how I would’ve wanted things to go if ever we were to…” he trailed off, waving his hand vaguely. But Higuruma nodded, understanding the words in the silence and encouraged him on.

“But it felt like—to me, at least, like maybe there was something there. Something worth doing differently, if you feel the same way.”

“I want to make it right. In fact, I insist on making it right, if you’ll let me.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken truths, the kind that couldn’t be easily unpacked in the span of a few seconds or weakly uttered confessions and pleas. Nanami’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat a tolling bell with the hope that maybe, just maybe, Higuruma would understand—that he’d see through the mess of it all to the sincerity underneath.

Because for all his equanimity, Nanami couldn’t shake the truth he’d arrived at while Higuruma slept that seeded itself in his chest: If Higuruma was his, he’d never stop trying to make him happy. He’d never stop wanting this.

“And I’d like to start with that drink… if you’re still amenable to that.”

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

The first tentative days turned to months, and then years.

Work-related dinners with the occasional bar visit to unwind effortlessly transitioned into intimate date nights. A strange bond formed in the crucible of something neither of them could ever explain, tempered with time and the endless patience of two men lucky enough to know what they have. Higuruma and Nanami repaired their relationship with gold, filigree filling the cracks and turning it far more beautiful than it began.

Now, when the two found themselves on the sun-drowned beaches of Malaysia, toes buried in hot sand with matching skin-warmed gold bands clasped in woven hands, they might mention that one time and laugh.

A humorous anecdote from a lifetime ago where Higuruma insists that that one time is the cause of his persisting back pains, and Nanami asserts that the scars that litter his back and arms are not from a curse at all but from that one time.

And when Nanami glanced at Higuruma, face turned toward the sun with a blissful smile on his face, Nanami allowed himself to smile too. He’d made up for it in every way that mattered so long as he could see Higuruma smile like that, and he would keep doing so for the rest of their lives.

[penebui]

It finally arrived! This a limited edition official clear folder of the 4th volume cover art. Since I own this now, it is very high quality. It feels like its made of plastic silicone(??), the button clasp is metal, and the cover is actually transparent, so you can see the lustrous laying on your documents.

There are several official clear files/folders of houseki no kuni (the manga, not the anime) floating around, yet there is barely any information I can find on them.

Note: photo is badly edited to show the colors more because my entire house has bad lighting, the colors on the folder match the actual colors on the artwork.

[smoshyourheadin]

spencer’s funeral and his partner is the special guest and roasts spencer so hard and than revels that they are getting a cat together but everyone thinks it’d a baby announcement lmaoooo or however you wanna end it

Special News

pairing: spencer agnew x f! reader

a/n: anon i love this idea so much!! guys please don’t come at me for these terrible jokes i’m just a girl really 😜 also i’m posting sm rn go me

requests are open <33

“lebron james inspired us with his baller moves. steph curry inspired us with his words. spencer agnew inspired us by being a piece of shit, so we would never follow in his footsteps.”

you’re stood at the podium of the funeral, spencer in the coffin next to you holding a bouquet of plastic flowers as he tries not to laugh.

“spencer is a gamer, and we all know that. but if he spent as much time with me as he does on world of warcraft, i’d be the happiest girl on earth, but hey, at least he has a high gear score to keep him company whilst i cook.”

you see everyone laugh as you switch the paper, angela cackling over what you thought was a pretty shit joke.

as the laughter dies down, you continue on. “spencer and me only ever disagree over stupid things, and i think to myself, he must know he’s short when he has to look up to see eye-to-eye with someone who's shorter than him, because i’m always right. i’m sure courtney feels the same about shayne.”

at this, courtney yells “FACTS!” from behind one of the cameras, and you shoot her a wink.

shayne then stares you down, and all you say is “shayne don’t worry, i’m a short king ally!” which he just smirks at.

“i have some pretty bad jokes here, so let’s quickfire some.“ you mutter to everyone.

“if sleeping on my arm were an olympic sport, he’d have more gold than michael phelps.” this earns a giggle from spencer, as you have a folder on your phone of him asleep in the most awkward ways possible, always lying on your arm somehow.

“he’s so obsessed with video games, even his posture looks like it's from a character model that hasn't loaded properly yet.“ this makes everyone cackle, spencer opening one eye to glare at you, and you just laugh him off.

“your gamer boy posture is so bad, chiropractors have your picture on their vision boards on what to improve on.”

“do you guys think that,” you exhale through your nose at what patrick has written on your prompt card. “spencer’s idea of sitting normally the same as a pretzel’s idea of being straight?” which is so bad it’s good, making you crouch down to laugh.

you stand back up after a moment, your stomach twisting over what you’re about to do. it’s going to be so worth it, but gosh you feel bad.

“spencer, my lovely boyfriend, is a mt dew kickstart addict, certified gamer girl, and a soon to be father” and at this last statement, everyone gasps, and spencer’s eyes shoot open and he sits up. he looks at you intently, and you see him experience about a hundred emotions at once

you smile at everyone, turning to a camera, pulling out a printed off certificate of adoption, a picture of a tiny ginger cat taped to it.

“we got a cat!” you say, almost proud of how shocked everyone is

as you turn to look at spencer, you hear shayne’s laugh, and you look at spencer with sympathetic eyes, mouthing ‘i love you’ to him over all the laughter. he just smiles, knowing that this cat is going to be so loved by you both. especially you. because you love him so much.

as you sit back down, spencer sits up. having come back from the dead, he has some things to say. he goes through everyone at his funeral; alex, shayne, damien, tommy, selina, and then, you.

“and finally, my beautiful girlfriend, y/n. my bundle of sunshine, blinding and hard to look at directly.” you scoff at this, and he looks at you with a look that says this is a joke please don’t kill me when we’re home.

“i mean, come on, you cry at surf's up? i guess even animated penguins have higher emotional intelligence than you.” he manages to say through a fit if giggles. spencer always teases you for this, even though he cries at the NGE film. loser.

after wrap, courtney comes over to congratulate you on your cat, and just catch up generally.

“so, cat parents hey? proud of you girl” she says with a grin.

“yeah, i kinda feel bad scaring everyone into thinking spencer gets game in bed.” you reply, earning a laugh from her.

“don’t be mean to me! i’m a player you know?” spencer says coming up behind you.

“okay, sure you are mr ‘i cry at anime’.” you snap back.

he throws his hands up in defeat, and you kiss his cheek, going off to see amanda.

“she’s so cool.” courtney says

“yeah,” spencer replies. “she’s not that bad.”

she elbows him in the ribs, and he clutches his side

“i mean, she’s the best!” he says through strained teeth, courtney doing a proud nod before catching you up.

[yunoteru4ever]

The rare Mirai Nikki Clear POSTER*

ETA: @sunniedesi has since clarified that this image is from a clear POSTER, not a clear file. So I was totally barking up the wrong tree in the post below, but I'll leave the explanation anyway.

I'm betting most people following this blog already know this, but just in case anyone isn't yet familiar with the phenomenon of "Clear Files"... these are a very common form of pop culture merchandise in Japan. These are folders typically made of semi-translucent plastic, and you can often find them adorned with all sorts of marketable characters.

I bring this up because there's a particular Mirai Nikki "Clear File" that contains a piece of anime artwork I've never seen elsewhere. And the only photos I found of this Clear File online are in incredibly poor quality.

LOW-QUALITY FUZZINESS INCOMING!

That's it right there. This isn't the only Clear File based on Future Diary that was made, mind you... but it's the only one I know of that contains artwork I've not seen elsewhere. I've never seen this one for sale in the wild, but I wouldn't be surprised if someone else in the fandom has.

So if anybody out there has come across this or (hopefully) already owns one... a better photo or a scan of the thing would be GREATLY appreciated. :)

ETA: Again, this turned out to actually be a semi-translucent POSTER. My bad.

[dustdeepsea]

Writer Interview

Tagged by @my-favourite-zhent nearly 3 weeks ago and I've entirely missed the wave.

I've enjoyed reading so many interesting ones by my mutuals! Tagging (only if you're keen) @graysparrowao3 @coreene @say-lene @luvwich @grossestjay —and if I've missed your interview somehow, tag me in the comments!

Q&A after the cut—

When did you start writing?

I wrote my first fanwork at age 12. It was self-insert fanfiction with me and 2 of my friends in the Slayers anime universe, which meant it was several comedic sketches strung together with with lots of actions denoted by asterisks and emoticons. You know the ones ^_^ ^____^ @_@ T_T *slaps you gently with a trout*

We printed it out on someone's home printer and bound copies in plastic school folders with a two-hole punch. I've lost the original file ages ago, but I would love to read it again.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

When I was younger, I actively sought out "difficult stories" because I wanted to experience things beyond my day to day life. I read Nabokov at 16 because everyone kept saying Lolita was a dangerous book. I also read a lot of Chuck Palahniuk and Bret Easton Ellis without really understanding them.

My pretentiousness definitely peaked in my university days. My dating profile at the time listed: Herman Hesse, Kazuo Ishiguro and Mikhail Bulgakov.

Now that I'm older, I read and write stories primarily to make myself happy.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

I'm not remotely at the level where I get compared to any published writers.

My favourite contemporary writer is David Mitchell (of Cloud Atlas fame), and my favourite book by him is The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.

My favourite "classic" novel is The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I type at my desk, in a study shared with my partner. Sometimes if the scene is particularly spicy or they are gaming too loudly, I take the laptop to the living room.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Bouncing plot bunnies off others on Discord, talking a walk or a long train ride, playing an immersive video game and rotating characters in my head for hours afterwards.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

According to my lovely readers:

"Romantic and sweaty"; "two silly sausages frying in a pan" (thanks to my long time beta-reader @littleplasticrat)

"Purity, temperance, glimpse of [the] ability for real love / real forgiveness" (thank you @tellmeallaboutit!)

These did surprise me a bit when they were first pointed out but it makes sense—I've been accidentally writing Regency romances and repressed idiots in love without setting out to do so explicitly.

What is your reason for writing?

I put aside hobbies for many years because of my work (no matter what advertisers want you to believe—doomscrolling is not a hobby). Started doing more creative things during my sabbatical last year, and writing was one of the things that saved my broken corpo soul.

Nowadays I'm really into bread making and cooking in general. I'm trying to balance work and creative pursuits and I'm much happier overall.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

Any and all comments are received with love <3 <3 <3 I really enjoy it when people let me know what lines really resonated with them or point out motifs I'd snuck in.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Friendly and approachable! Not entirely hyperfixated on That One NPC from a Video Game with Five Lines (that one might be harder now...!)

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

A fairly broad vocabulary, including anachronisms, which is useful for fantasy story settings. Writing characters who are actively lying to themselves (thinking one thing and saying/doing another).

My writing tends to be on the more contemplative side and a bit sadder and slower paced, so if you enjoy A Great Deal of Yearning along with your smut, then it would appeal to you :)

How do you feel about your own writing?

I'm pretty happy with it! I write very, very slowly, with constant edits as I go, and would probably starve if I ever had to rely on my fiction writing to be paid. Luckily, I get to do this as a hobby.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

I write for myself, but I am also super blessed to have a very small but vocal audience that I can interact with directly. I guess my best advice is: Write for yourself and your 10 friends who want to read your hand-bound home-printed self-insert fanfic <3

[awingedllama]

this is such an adorable idea omg, my mind started racing. there's not enough outdoor garden cc and this would be a perfect addition to my save file

the swingset clubhouse monkey bar thing could maybe be made from the kids pirate ship?? i'd have to look at the rig and animations but it's probably possible

i could clone the glass floor from island living to make wooden planks that you could see through, to the ground beneath. then the grill, sandbox, pool, plastic lawn furniture, a old sagging wooden fence. a sort of mildewed wooden tool shed. and lil red wagon with slots for flowers or toys. one of those plastic hose reels. piles of unraked leaves. a dirtier, grungier treehouse with a rope ladder

and i can't animate very well but i would give anything to be able to make a functional tire swing. like that one from ts2

i make no promises… but i am writing all of these ideas down in my wip folder. and all of my sets usually start in there with an unhinged collection of sentence fragments

[depravitycentral]

is the…cum jar…the reason why nobunaga is worse than shalnark…………

Tw: non-consensual recording, restriction of rights, smells (? natural body odor I guess?), implied non-con, if Shalnark could live with the smell of your pussy in his nose at all times then that smile of his would be genuine

The cum jar is the reason Nobunaga is worse than any of them.

(Including Feitan, so to the anon that asked why Nobunaga's darling is pitied more than Feitan's, that's the answer in simple, short terms.)

(But of course, aside from the jar, the excessive touching, referring to himself as Daddy, and the lack of consistent hygiene/showering certainly don't earn him any points, either.)

That's not to say that Shalnark doesn't have any issues or weird idiosyncrasies of his own, though. He's a little more subtle than Nobunaga, but not by too big of a margin.

Shalnark's penchant for recording you is really quite invasive. If the cameras he secretly placed in your apartment while he was still stalking you aren't enough proof of this, consider the fact that he's still recording you once he's kidnapped you, only he's less secretive about it now.

Now, instead of having small, discrete cameras placed into things like a stuffed animal, a book cover, or an unused outlet, they're just out in the open. The small, black cameras are clearly visible against the off-white walls of the apartment he keeps you in, standing out like a beacon. Plus, when the lights are off, the red flashing light on each is still on - taunting you from the corner of your vision, declaring that even while you're sleeping and he's not in the room, he's seeing everything.

They're everywhere, too - you've counted at least four in your bedroom space, one for each corner of the room. There's two in the bathroom; one covers the room at large, so he can see you brushing your teeth or drying yourself off or even using the toilet, and the other's angled to catch your every movement in the shower. (He's got an additional two waterproof ones in the shower that you don't know about yet - one sits in the center of the shower head (installed for the sole purpose of seeing and capturing everything should you decide to use the shower head for some stress relieving, personal activities), and one sits on the top of the plastic drain cover, so that he can get a nice view from below (when you drop your loofah or soap up your legs, the camera gets a nice, full view of your ass and cunt, a sight that Shalnark will always pause on and screenshot, the image being saved to the some dozens of photo folders he has dedicated to your nude body).

And he'll make you watch the footage with him, too - with a smile on his face and his fingers nearly trembling from his excitement and joy at seeing your horrified expression. He likes to narrate everything, too, prefacing with what you're about to do to show that he's already watched the footage multiple times - enough to be able to recite every action and move you make. He likes the way it makes you squirm, and he also just enjoys watching you, too.

Outside of that voyeuristic habit, Shalnark is certainly no saint when it comes to more risqué reasons why he might be placed lower on the desirability chart of Phantom Troupe yanderes. That is, he has this weird habit of limiting how often you can shower and bathe. At first, he uses this as a tactic to punish you or deter you from certain behaviors he deems undesirable. (Like avoiding his touch or ignoring him.) He figures that by letting you grow dirty and greasy and desperate to clean yourself, you'll be more likely to bend to his wishes, and frankly, it works - you feel disgusting with all the sweat caked into your skin, the sudden whiff of body order making you cringe when you move your arms (he won't provide you with deodorant, of course).

It'll drive you crazy, but no matter how complacent you are, or how receptive you are to his attempts at molding you into what he wants, Shalnark will become hesitant to give into your pleas to let you shower.

Because while he agrees that your skin feels better when it's freshly washed (softer, cleaner, more pure), there's something about the way you smell that gets him a little hot under the collar. It's your natural scent, something that's so you. It may be your body odor, sure, or just your pheromones (he likes to think that's what makes him want to rip off his pants and fuck you until you're crying nearly every time he sees you), but regardless, you'll find that he's much handsier and touchier when you haven't showered in a few days.

And frankly, that's saying a lot for Shalnark - he's already all over you, but now he's burying his face into your neck and inhaling, moaning at the way your skin smells. He's coming up behind you and pressing every inch of his body against yours, pinning your hips against the kitchen counter and letting his hands slip under your shirt to cup the undersides of your breasts, only to remove them and smell his hands because fuck your sweat smells good.

He's just weird, and it'll freak you out, making you both uncomfortable and self-conscious because there's absolutely no way he could enjoy the scents and odors that your body is producing. Why does he like the smell of your hair when it hasn't been washed in way too long? Why does he likes the smell of your cunt after it hasn't been washed in four days?

It's simple, really - because it's you, and Shalnark likes anything and everything that has to do with you. So he'll let you shower eventually, but he might only let you wash your hair (if you desire) or your armpits, perhaps. Areas he knows drive you crazy to have dirty. But other areas?

Well, if you know what's good for you, you won't touch your pretty little pussy without his explicit permission that you can wash it.

(Often, he'll throw you down onto the bed after you've exited the shower, forcing your legs apart and burying his face against your cunt, inhaling deeply and letting a smile sit comfortably on his lips, oddly genuine while a red flush sits high on his cheeks. You just smell too damn good, so don't be surprised when the smell of sex and musk and him get added to the mix, the cum dripping from your pretty little hole certainly not helping the smell.)

And really, that's what makes Shalnark so horrible - he's so omnipresent, worming his way into every aspect of your life, until you're asking him permission for anything and everything. And if you choose to disobey, all those cameras and recording devices will showcase the truth. (And even if they don't, he's got enough photoshopping and editing experience to make it look like you did whatever he wants.)

So while Nobunaga is ultimately the worst because you have to ingest his disgusting, rancid cum, Shalnark isn't too much of an upgrade. His humiliation and dehumanization is a different brand, yes, but it'll leave you feeling just as weak and incapable.

So really, pick your poison - I just happen to prefer greasy hair and constant surveillance over being forced to eat something made specially for me.

[oneesanmarket]

Osomatsu-san: Matsuno Osomatsu - Jumbo Carddass Clear File

Size: 210 x 148mm (A5)

Price:5€/10 USD

(Shipping price not included)

Units Available: 1

(Send us a message or comment if you’re interested)

[moonblossom7]

(Aged up) Percabeth as your parents headcanons

Genre:fluff/comfort

-reader is adopted

-gender neutral reader

A/N: this is rlly kinda stupid but it's cute I think.

🍼 Toddler years(~1-4)

- Percy is great with kids, obviously, but he's rlly worried that you'd get into something while his back was turned so he's CONSTANTLY watching you. Can't get away with anything.

-stay at home dad Percy is so real, actually

- Annabeth likes reading you bedtime stories, even though she struggles with it

- they're both of the opinion that Disney has gone down hill, but they take you to the cinema every time a new movie comes out.

- Annabeth gets stressed out a lot about whether or not they make you feel like you belong, since she knows how much it sucks to feel alone within your own family, and she thinks it's gotta be even worse since you're adopted (that worry never really went away)

-  Percy made "monster spray" for when you're scared of the dark.

🖍️ Little kid (5-8)

- Annabeth takes you on museum trips a lot. It's important for kids to experience things, and of course she has to pick something the both of you like

- Percy cried like an actual baby when you lost your first tooth. He didn't expect something like that to effect him, but how could it not? You're growing up and it's happening a lot faster than he thought it would.

- loyal customers at your imaginary restaurant. (Yk those play kitchens with the plastic food? Those.)

- very emotional about the little art projects you bring home from school. They can rarely bring themselves to throw any away,so they have a little tote to keep them in when the fridge gets too crowded.

-speaking of school, you are very much THAT kid. The one with the character pen cases and the sparkly folders and notebooks with that Lisa Frank dolphin on them. (I WANTED ONE SO BAD!!) Percy and Annabeth decided you could only have the absolute best stuff.

- around this time they explain the whole gods, monsters, demigods thing. You had already met Grover and Tyson and some of your parents' demigod friends,so you knew some of it, but up till now they'd never fully explained.

🎮big kid (9-12)

-at this point, Percy is officially banned from helping you with homework. He's one of those "math is math, that's still the right answer!" dads, so when you got to the age where you had to learn and use different methods he noped out. Annabeth takes over from that point.

- if you get into sports, obviously they're your biggest fans. They show up to every game, they give your friends a ride home from practice, they probably wear those cringey T-shirts with shit like "soccer mom/dad" printed across the front in mismatched fonts. Percy's probably even an assistant coach. (Bonus for my softball girlies: Annabeth is totally the type to give you cool braids with the team colors weaved in)

- Again Percy cried over you loosing teeth. But this is your last baby tooth! You aren't little at all anymore! (It's even worse for him if you don't believe in the tooth fairy anymore by then)

- alas,the time has come. The last Christmas you believe in Santa. You told them they didn't have to put the elf up that year, that's how they found out. It caught Annabeth totally off guard. She'd tried to be very sneaky and very clever about maintaining the Christmas magic.

- you're having a Minecraft phase rn(everyone does at this point, don't fight it) and Annabeth is THRILLED. she doesn't play many video games, but she does like Minecraft and Animal Crossing,so she was so excited to have that in common with you. She gets especially excited about all the houses you build even though they're really basic at first.

📱Teen (13-19)

-went very all out on your 13th,16th, and 18th birthday. So much food, and confetti and probably invited all of their friends on top of everyone you invited. (For my summer birthday friends: paid for you and your friends to go to the water park for at least one of those,on top of everything else they had planned)

- very chill about your first partner, actually. I know that a lot of parents aren't, but I honestly don't see Percy and Annabeth being the track your phone and shotgun prom pictures type. As long as your partner was respectful and treated you well, they had no reason to be upset.

-coming back to the sports thing, Percy would be upset if you got to be embarrassed by them going to your games and stuff now. It happens for some kids, obviously (and him and Annabeth have gotten a lot more excited and a little obnoxious about everything the better you got), but he'd be upset that he's not cool anymore.

- proms and homecoming dances are such a big deal. They never really went to any school dances, unless you count when they were trying to find Nico and Bianca, so they're super interested in yours. They want you to have a good time, but they definitely might be projecting a little bit.

- On that note, for my long haired friends, Annabeth totally does your hair for you for those events. I personally think most Athena kids are good at doing hair, since weaving is part of Athena's whole thing and like doing complex hairstyles definitely requires that, and  Annabeth would really enjoy that bonding experience.

- Percy originally wanted to be the one to teach you to drive, but you scared him so many times that he couldn't be alone in a car with you for a long time. Everyone makes mistakes while they're learning, and he's usually a brave guy, but it's a million times scarier now that it's you. Maybe he's just worried about you getting hurt.  Maybe he doesn't want to have to pay for any repairs. Could be both.

- your graduation was so emotionally devastating for them. Gods, they're just so damn proud of you. Highschool isn't as easy as some people make it seem,and even if it was, it's still such a big deal. And it was also so bittersweet because you really aren't a kid  anymore, and they're so excited for you to experience the adult world, but they also miss their little baby.

-also,if you go to a school that lets you decorate your cap,I just know they'd want to help. Obviously they'd follow whatever your idea was but I could see y'all being an arts and crafts family, y'know?

- I don't wanna say that Annabeth has earned a reputation that could get you into any colleges without much effort because I don't think she'd let you get away with not trying, but like...if she wasn't like that, you could.

-also, they'd be really chill if you didn't want to go to college,as long as you were doing something safe and that makes you happy. They know that extra school isn't for everyone and they also know there's a lot of jobs that don't need any degree that can make more money than jobs that do (not that money's all that matters, but it's a good motivator.)

A/N(number 2):Lord I love thinking about Percy and Annabeth getting to have a nice normal-ish life. Let me know if u guys have any specific scenarios you wanna see with parental Percabeth,I get such a hit of nostalgia and happiness from this dynamic

[hamsterbellbelle]

Additional CC list for 18 Culpepper House🎦:

Arch with curtain || Baking board/baking ingredients || Bathroom cabinet || Bathroom counter/pillow || Bathroom niche || Bathroom stool || Beaded curtain || Bed/nightstand || Blinds || Bottled drink box/iron basket || Bottles in basket || Broom and mop (hanging)/clothes rack || Broom || Bucket and dipper ||

Calendar || Casserole stack || CD stack || Ceiling light/deco display || Ceiling light || Conduit || Cooking pot pile || Counter || Curtain || Dining chair with pillow || Drink crate/mini vases/bathroom mirror ||

Eggs || Fan (square) || Floor dirt || Folded chairs || Folder || Frame basket || Fridge || Fruit bowl || Guitar case || Hamper (deco) || Hifi speaker || Hot pot (functional) || Letter pile/magazine stack/tv remotes || Letter pile || Mattress || Mug with teabag ||

Newspaper stack || Old phone || Perfume tray || Photo stack/passport || Picture frame || Pipes || Plant (hanging) || Plant - A - B - C || Plastic box || Rug/suitcase || Salt pot || Shower caddy/towel rack || Shower cap/bathroom clutter/toilet paper pack/shower wall deco ||

Sink (bathroom) || Sofa pillow || Surge plug || Table stain || Tea set || Teapot || Tissue box - A - B || Toilet || Towel || Tray clutter || Umbrella stand || Vanity table || VHS player/VHS tapes || Vinyl crate || Vinyl player || Wall light || Wall photos || Wallpaper/ladder/tool box ||

Washing machine || Water jug || Wicker bag || Window grills || Wine bottles ||

🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹

Animated Maneki Cat || Bed curtain || Chair with clothes ||

[farolero-posting]

Spring Cleaning

Hey! Happy 7th anniversary to OneShot!

I wanted to make something special for this day, and I would say this is... a little messy, but I think it is fitting for this day. OneShot is a really cool game, and most importantly, a unique experience, and I wanted to capture a little of that.

Without further delay, enjoy!

Summary: Niko does some chores and gets distracted.

Words: 1,674

(Click below to see the full fic)

Today was seasonal cleaning day, and Niko… was getting a little exhausted by now.

The teenager picked up the folder with yellowed paper sticking out of it, located at the bottom of the messy pile in the room’s top shelf, huffing from the effort to get it out of the shelf. The folder was a bright orange color, and had a sticker of an owl on the cover, their favorite animal. The art had smooth round shapes, giving the animal a cartoony look. There was a messier version of the same drawing, made with black pencil, where some of the lines were drawn several times to ensure the graphite would stick, making small dents on the plastic.

Recognition flashed on the teen’s eyes. They had not looked at this folder for… quite some time, actually. There was a period where they had looked at its contents as many times as they could, using the contents to evoke the memories of that journey.

They opened the folder, and giggled at the first doodle that greeted them.

Why was a ram with “baa” in scary letters the one they put on top? Heheh, maybe their past self wanted to play a prank on them. The drawing had a date on it, like most others.

Exactly seven years ago, to be precise.

Niko’s eyes were wide open, and they had to resist the urge to jump out of their position, standing on their desk’s chair. They closed the folder, pressing it against their body, and crouched down at a slow but shaky pace, before sitting on the chair, with one leg pressed against their body, and the other stretched, reaching for the floor.

“I didn’t know this was all the way up there… It’s been so long!” was all they could mutter.

It felt like a lifetime ago… though, while that is true, they still have a long life ahead, don’t they? Seven years was indeed almost half of their life, but seven years is nothing compared to what they have ahead of them.

It was weird to think of it that way now.  Many things change over the years.

The first month, they had taken days to make a drawing for everything that was in their mind, scared of losing the memory. 

When they turned nine, they started telling their dreams to their mama, so they could both remember.

When they were ten they even wrote a little about their journey for a school project… trying not to mention the fact it was all based on a real story.

They were around twelve when they first felt… an empty dread, looking at these drawings. 

There was one page, at the bottom of the pile, that caught their attention. It was a drawing of the top room of the tower; it wasn’t lit up yet, however. They had gone out of their way to paint the borders in purple pencil, the page curling around the corners. 

At the time, they hadn’t known what to do. They were at the peak of the world, and yet they felt they were at the bottom, holding it all together.

And you were… well.

When they were young, you were everything. You were Niko’s one company through it all. They barely knew you, but they trusted you fully. 

The last time Niko looked at this particular drawing, a few years ago, their thoughts had been bitter. 

Maybe that’s why it had been so long since they looked at the folder.

You… They knew you were their guide, but you also made choices that felt unfair. 

Why did you present the choice? 

Why did you wait so long for that? 

What secrets did you keep from them? 

And why go through all of it, only to discover that you could undo it, later on?

Niko was grateful to be home, but… they didn’t understand you.

And you couldn’t answer them, either.

Because you’re not a god. 

And you’re not there anymore.

Back then, both you and Niko were told you had one chance on your mission. And so Niko had taken care of the lightbulb that represented the sun of this world, following your words. It was a long journey, but you listened to them, and kept them safe. However… even with their best efforts, there was no choice at the end that would save both Niko, and that decaying land.. 

So Niko placed that choice on you. If Niko had been older, maybe they would have questioned this more. They would have more ways to look at the situation, to weigh down their options, and maybe take longer to finally make a decision. Instead, in both more and less time than they expected, but certainly a wrong amount of time, you told them what path they had to take. And Niko, respecting the wishes of the world’s god, had done it.

Except you weren’t god. You were someone looking at them through a window, generating the world that had imprisoned them, but not belonging to it. When Niko was twelve, they had realized that whatever the first choice was, the impact on you would not have been as big as it was for them. 

They were angry back then… But now… 

Now they couldn’t hold it against you. They knew better… and funnily enough, they remember their youngest self knowing better, too.

Niko placed the drawing aside, and as they did that, another one slipped out of the folder. This one was a drawing of pancakes with syrup. They weren’t the hazelnut ones their mama made (and now Niko makes them for her, too!), but they remember they were delicious, with a hint of a flavor they couldn’t quite name. The teen wondered if it was a product of that world that only existed there. Now, their older self with a hobby for baking, wished they could know what it was.

They remembered going there, right before the tower. Niko had asked you if it was okay to make a stop for some food, and you had taken them to the cafe, where they had gotten those pancakes. They knew you listened to them, and not only that, that you wanted to comfort them too, in any limited way you could. 

The next drawing they got from the pile showed a view from the top of the Refuge, taken from one of the tallest buildings. Niko’s town was close to a river too, but it wasn’t as close as the ones flowing around the Refuge. It wasn’t glowing pink, either. Niko had been to a big city now too, but it wasn’t anything like the one in that world. The Refuge was a unique city, among thousands of them. 

They remember you said you lived in a city, and they could only imagine it was like the Refuge, for years. Now they recognized there were many more options for what a city or a town could look like.

The next drawings were of the friends Niko met. Though they wish their artistic skills did them more justice, they couldn’t help but look at them fondly for what they represented. What would be of those people now? Do Calamus and Alula still live in the ruins? Is the robot lady —the drawing says her name is Silver— still in the Barrens? Did the Mr. Lamplighter get to sleep more with the Sun back? They smiled, thinking of the possibilities. 

Niko stumbled upon a drawing of the computers that made up the World Machine, and took it out to hold it closer, the glow in their eyes slightly reflecting on the paper. They remember drawing the screens with a ruler, to make sure it looked as good as a blueprint (but they know now that blueprints are more complicated than that). They also drew the Author’s children and themself on that page, holding the sun. It was them who reminded Niko what all the effort not to forget was for. 

And Niko would not have known of them without your help. Because you…, though you weren’t a god, you wanted to do something to save both Niko and everyone else. You cared enough to try to be more than just a guide, but someone who believed in a second chance as well. Someone convinced they were all worth it.

The last drawing on the pile was a journal with a yellow clover on the cover, along with the amber necklace, a glowing feather, and a six sided die. Niko never met the creator of that world in person. They simply had his letters, words of others and objects to remember him by. 

They understood why their mama gave them a hat passed down by her parents. They understood why she kept all their silly drawings.

And why hazelnut pancakes would be their favorite food forever, over any other kind of pancake.

They breathed in when they felt themself run out of air, and the shivering of their body almost made them burst into tears. You were a guide, a ghost and… a friend. And all they had of you was the memories of your voice.

Niko wondered if you missed them, if you would be happy to see them today. Niko didn’t narrate their thoughts aloud anymore, their life was also more hectic and complicated. They sometimes thought their younger self was a little silly. They were far from the child you knew.

But it was good to be there. To look at those old drawings, and get that same joy out of them. To enjoy the chances that were given to them, and know that, in some distant place, you are still with them, getting your own chances. 

Niko took a blank page from a stack on their desk and a pencil from their first drawer, and put something on it that reminded them of you, placing it on the top of the ram doodle. 

They hoped it would be the first thing they saw the next time they opened the folder. 

[cold-heart-warm-writings]

OHSHC Back to School Shopping

We’re ignoring that Honey and Mori would’ve graduated. Another school year at Ouran Academy is about to begin! What are each of the Host Club members looking forward to buying?

Honey - A new lunchbox. His lunch boxes are fancy af. They are cute, they are kept cool, and they have incredible storage for all of his cakes and snacks. This year he tracked down a limited edition bunny lunch box, and he couldn’t stop talking about it and showing it off to the ladies.

Hikaru - Locker decorations. Hikaru’s locker is decked OUT! He has a mini disco ball, every type of magnet conceivable, a mini battery operated vacuum (that he does not use), a mirror, and even more locker gadgets my commoner mind cannot think of. Even Haruhi is impressed by his locker.

Tamaki - Back to school new clothes. He remembers going shopping for clothes with his mom when he was little, and he’s been chasing that high at the start of the school year ever since. Tamaki’s outfit choices are typically questionable at best, but that doesn’t stop him from going into every single store searching for clothes, love, and acceptance. He will walk out with one of those things.

Haruhi - New pens. Haruhi is resourceful and usually either repurposes things from previous years, but she’s weak when all of the pens are on display and on sale. She’s still looking for a replacement pen that’s as good as the one that the twins STOLE and then sold on the Host Club website.

Mori - Textbooks. While not the biggest reader in the world, Mori does enjoy the quiet process of getting his book list, ordering all of the textbooks, and then skimming through the pages to see what the next year will hold, as far as school is concerned. It’s an introspective process, and he’ll tell his pets what he’s looking forward to. Whoops, it might just be university students that buy textbooks… oh well.

Kaoru - New shoes. While he and Hikaru do end up matching a lot, it’s because Kaoru is the one to pick out what shoes they wear. He is a giant shoe enthusiast, something he probably got from his mother instead of her attention, and he will absolutely stand in overnight lines for the latest shoe fashion. Well… he’ll send somebody to do the actual standing in line, but he’ll send them snacks. Maybe.

Kyoya - Notebooks. He is VERY particular about his notebooks, the color of the paper, grid vs dot vs lined, the subject DOES influence that, the quality of the paper, the cover, wire spirals vs plastic vs staples, he’s VERY particular. Kyoya does use his laptop a lot, but for notes on the go? That’s all accounted for in his notebooks, so he has to have the most top quality of notebooks. He is also still on the look out for a Death Note but that’s a different conversation.

Bonus! Renge - Buying new anime folders. It doesn’t matter the time of the year, she can always validate buying them, but buying them at the beginning of the school year to pump herself up for her studies just feels extra right.

[ginger-futch]

Return AU, Chapter 1, part 1 (warning for blood):

The lights were on.

Plaster littered the floor in dusty chunks, ceiling panels fallen from their places to expose wiring and pipes, the very front doors having to be picked open. It was abandoned, clearly so, for a whole decade, and yet the lights were still on.

She put a hand on her holster, and scanned every square inch of unlocked space in the front area.

Past the turnstiles, she found nothing but a locked shutter, a big blue light in the shape of a hand being the only indication of a locking mechanism.

The little store was empty, boxes emptied and shelves tipped over. A lone dismantled Boogie Bot sat on the counter in a splatter of reddish brown goo. The train circling the rail overhead was still running; at the back of her mind, she admired how the company's product was still functional years down the line, but at the moment it was just uncanny.

But, nobody was there, so she let her shoulders fall with just a little hesitation. Ransacked by edgelords as it was, it didn't look inhabited at all.

Sam went to check the door opposite of it, only to find it locked behind a colorful keypad.

CMYK? No.

Huggy colors? No.

... Train colors?

A chime sounded, and the doors slid open. She smiled to herself, a pinch smug. She wondered how many guests put the pieces together and just wandered into the employee area unsupervised. Did they have to repaint the train every time they changed the code?

For the most part, it looked like a regular security room; monitors lined the one wall, and chairs and desks filled much of the rest of the space. The recess in the wall with the ropes and pipes in it, and the TV with the VCR on the cart, were all interesting, but first, she made sure to check the desks.

This search yielded very little. A lot of old, dried out stationary, as well as hand-written reports of minor incidents and a drawer full of crumpled up employee complaint forms. The latter were at least a little interesting; at least in its last few months, the company was basically hemorrhaging employees. Complaints about having little time to sleep between shifts, not being paid overtime despite working well beyond full time hours, intimidation from higher ups, etc. contrasted heavily with the aggressively friendly image they portrayed.

She set her duffel bag down, and took out a simple plastic folder. Nothing special, just enough to keep things organized until she'd pick them up later. This room wasn't too humid or exposed to the elements, so she felt comfortable leading the documents there for now to be collected later while she was on her way out. Low priority, though.

As soon as she finished her task, Sam took the blue tape off the one desk, checked to see if it was wound (it was, good), and slid it into the VCR.

Dreamy music filled the room, and some animal part of her brain immediately raised its hackles. A memory, foggy and intense, overtook her, and her eyes immediately swept around the room, like every shadow had a predator waiting to leap out at her. She breathed in deeply from her nose.

In, out.

In, out.

In.... out.

And in a second, it faded into a dull sense of unease.

Before she knew it, the video unloaded a short tutorial on the GrabPack. She chuckled hesitantly at the part where the yellow stickman coworker got his head taken off, and remembered all at once how many employees she had seen with one of these things strapped to their backs. How was any of this approved by OSHA?

Though, given some of the complaints in the desk, she suspected the inspectors got paid off.

Looking back at her duffel bag, and taking a good look at the ceiling, she decided against setting up her tent for now. There weren't enough holes to worry about rain, the temperature was on the warmer side this time of year, and her cargo pants and utility coat were loaded with enough emergency supplies to last her a couple days before she needed to return to the van for more. For now, she had what she needed to go further in.

Using the GrabPack felt almost second nature to her, like picking up a bike again after a long time of disuse. Which was damn weird because last time she was anywhere near this place, she was a kid, and these things were dangerous in the wrong hands.

Thoughts of child safety violations quickly left her mind when she entered the grand hall. It was huge, just as she remembered it, and at the very center a towering Huggy Wuggy statue. In the bright moonlight, she could see the fur faintly moving.

Breathing.

Memories of giant toys come to life flooded her mind, and she had to take a step out and do yet more breathing exercises to come down. It was probably just a draft from the windows.

She forcibly perked up, and jogged right back into the room. Yeah... yeah! Just a draft. Just... don't think too hard on it.

Her eyes only barely grazed the plaque before the giant toy - it wasn't anything she didn't already know how popular this giant Sour Patch Kid was, given they were still selling bootleg Wuggies at the flea market - as she investigated the rest of the room. She tried her picks on the regular doors first, to little success. At least, not without heavier machinery; Sam left her power drill at home, so she'd have to save investigating those portions of the facility for a later date. Damn.

Finally, she tried the door with the one handprint, only for it to go black and give a concerning sound at the contact, a spark traveling down the wire to the next room over, labelled "POWER."

Jingle.

She turned on her heel, and saw... nothing. No other human being in the room. She almost sighed in relief, until she spotted a glint of gold in Huggy's raised hand.

A key that wasn't there before.

Fuck. He was alive. Or haunted, either or.

Hesitantly, she aimed her GrabPack for the key and snatched it out of his hand, watching as he didn't even flinch at the contact by the dangerous tool.

She almost proceeded to the Power room, but stopped herself.

How long has he been standing in that one spot, alone?

As terrifying as it was to stand in the same room as a nearly twenty foot living statue... he wasn't doing anything yet, and it felt kinda rude not to offer up something in return for his help.

Indulging her inner superstitious child, she took a bag of jerky out from one of her pockets - the nice homemade kind from the dried snacks stand at the same market as the bootleg toys - a napkin, and a bottle of water. Noting his lack of fingers, she laid out the napkin like a makeshift plate on one of the letter blocks, poured out an ample portion of jerky onto it, and left the bottle of water opened off to the side for him to take.

Stepping out a fair distance, she gave him a deep bow, and said sincerely, "Thank you for the key."

She felt silly talking to a statue that was only maybe alive, but hey, if she was wrong, no harm done.

Satisfied with her work, she continued off to fix the door.

...

There was more of the brownish red stains in this room, this time around the remains of a Bron toy. Narrowing her eyes, she took out her blacklight, and it lit up like a Christmas tree. There was a fair chance it was some kind of biological material, but blood wasn't the only thing that lit up under UV light; it could just as easily have been some kind of dried detergent or something containing lemon juice, for all she knew. She snapped a photo with her disposable camera, and put a pin on that thought. Whatever it was, it probably did not belong in a plastic kids' toy. She figured she'd pick it up on her second sweep of the facility and see if one of her classmates in Forensics could do a swab test.

She moved on to investigating the rest of the room; it almost resembled a locker room, except they held circuit breakers instead of shoes. Off to the side, a well lit poster hanged. Sam snapped a photo of that too, chuckling at the one rule.

A fuzzy memory tickled the edge of her brain. She was small again, angry and defiant with adults who acted like they hated her because they probably did. She was a bit of a turd as a kid, so she didn't totally blame them.

She was hiding for some reason. Looking for a way out, she thought. But the only doors going forward were locked, and so, she waited to get caught. In her stubbornness, she refused to come out and go peacefully, but instead give the workers a good sweat looking for her.

A man passed by the door she hid behind, and seeing the opportunity, she jumped out with a shout. The bastard nearly leapt out of his skin, dropping the clipboard in his hand as he gasped and nearly fell. His assistant, some mousey young nerd, squeaked and tripped over her own feet.

"God-damn it, kid!" he yelled, hand on his chest, "You nearly gave me a freaking heart attack!"

She was too busy laughing at his beet red face to even notice getting hauled off by security.

Sam in the present chuckled at the warm memory. Was that Leith Pierre? She didn't know, it wasn't like she was an expert on the small army of faceless old men who bossed her around as a squirt.

The end of the room held more stains, and a strange message scratched onto the wall:

ISNT HE WONDERFUL?

She doubted that a bored, edgy film student could have made it this far. What in the hell was going on in here?

She snapped some more pictures, and went to work fixing the wiring. It took a good second to rip the door off the one conduit, and with great hesitance, she fired the blue hand at it. The wire lit up, and carefully, she maneuvered it to touch the three power nodes, the lights turning back on fully with the final connection. Retracting the hand, she sighed when she felt no current hit herself.

She stepped out, feeling a great sense of relief... until she saw the empty podium in the main hall.