#artificial spider silk clothing

[spiderclothing]

Layering a pant is a great way to make you appear professional while keeping you warm when the weather is cold or in between seasons.

[azure-steel]

❛ missed my touch that much, did you? ❜

𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 - ACCEPTING

@warofthebeasts

Memory escapes him in that moment, shrouded by a carnal desire awoken with little more than the heat of another's hand beneath his shirt. An electric sensation, rippling the muscle and causing the air to come to the blond in short, sharp, ragged breaths. The softest mewl as those hands would lay flat upon his torso and stroke downwards towards the jut of his pelvis.

For this was no ordinary partner he'd found himself with, a whirlwind relationship if ever he'd come to know one. To discover himself lay upon a bed that was not his, and the looming shadow of the man towering over him, exacting this sweet torture one inch at a time, long silver tresses a curtain about them all but blocking out the artificial light of the room.

For nothing seemed to exist outside of this reality. Nothing but they. Just he... and Sephiroth.

Those hands would move lower still, slowly, arduous, tormenting the mind and stimulating the nerves, all enough to have the blond's back arch from the bed deeper into that sensual touch, reacting to the soft chuckle reverberating from the silver SOLDIER's throat.

"Missed my touch that much, did you?" the other had said. His voice soft, predatory, sticking to his skin like spiders silk. And the heat of his touch intensified ten fold as a result, pooling deep in his loins, making his knees shake, the breath catching in his throat and his face flushed.

Truth be told he doesn't even remember a time where he'd ever been touched so intimately, even laying here fully clothed nothing quite this erotic, dangerous, delicious, would come to mind. But he wasn't about to spoil the game here.

"You keep touching me like that..." Cloud would start with nothing but a breathless whisper, bright eyes drifting to that point of contact, feeling the tell-tale twitch between his thighs and the white-hot swell of fresh blood. "... you'll soon see just how much..."

[moocha-muses]

Happy Friday the 13th!

What's up my favorite meat hives? It's once again October and the ghosts inside me want to share their beautiful, terrible words with you so I'm opening up the prompt box again for #hallowpoems.

If you want your very own set of hastily organized letters, just send me a word or a phrase! It doesn't have to be spooky; I think we got really good results with 'marshmallow' last year.

Here's the first poem for @dunne-ias, who asked me to write about boxes:

Liz found the box buried under a pile of unworn clothes and unwrapped presents, deep in the back of her mother's closet. "Oh, that was "that's -a distracted smudge of lipstick, purple as a blackberry, a head tilted like a bird's- "wasn't that aunt Vivienne's?" Liz has never heard of any such person as her great aunt Vivienne. There is nothing here she can confirm or deny. Vivienne may be ephemeral. She might be a feverish imagining of Liz's mother, who invents cover ups for the way she buys things no one needs, and promptly loses them. But the box is real. It's large, and solid, and covered in musty white leather, and now it smells of forgotten clothes. The mother bestows it generously upon her daughter -is it really hers to give away?- with all the pomp of a queen granting largess. Liz, -the supplicant- kneels before it in her jeans and messy braid and works out the latch. Inside is- -water stained purple-pink silk, curling away from the wood in spots where the ancient glue has evaporated, the unwholesome smell of old metal- -a glittering swarm. Mom's chin digs into her shoulder as she peers in, pronounces: "Cheap costume junk. It's all yours, baby." The box opens up like a butterfly's wings, a dizzying array of smaller, silk-lined little nests. This long one has a dragon fly with crystal wings, and this one has a little golden bee, and there's a spider in that box, with rubies for eyes. Not real rubies. Obviously. Whatever they make the fake ones from. Little drops of artificial red, congealed like blood. Liz won't anyone else near the box. Her sister swaps the placement of a spider and bee, each in the other's cell, and Liz screams, wordlessly, motionlessly, for what feels like hours, until someone puts them back. She goes to the craft store to buy bags of glittery little rhinestones, and shakes a portion delicately into each little box. "Feeding time." She must come back, in secret, to remove them. Because they always disappear. How does she make the delicate, glittering cobwebs that appear in the cell of spider? Where does she get the sparkling, almost absolutely clear substance that fills up the boxes of the little golden bees? -it tastes like honey- -and glass- Liz keeps that box on her dresser for years. For years. Until her mouth is surrounded by wrinkles and her hair has gone very gray. And when she breaks her leg one spring, no one will go out and buy her bags of cheap costume rhinestones. They find her one morning, in front of the window. With a small red mark on her palm, and jeweled wasp lying near her throat. The white box closes its butterfly wings, and settles back into the closet.

[newborn-vessel]

Some sketches of my spidersona! She's called Silkweaver and uses She/They. They're actually the second spider in her world and takes over after the previous one wants to retire. Rather than the standard Spiderman powers they were bitten by an experimental generally engineered spider designed to produce silk at a higher level for clothes. As such she actually transforms to have spider attributes under duress and can only do things like stick to walls and have super strength when the body parts she uses are in spider form. They also physically generate web rather than artificially and can vary it willingly. The more spiderlike she is the less control she has though. She keeps loads of items and gadgets on her so they can use them even when not transformed.

[lured-into-wonderland]

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 / 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐒

Did they believe in Santa?: No, Nunnally always knew Santa Claus was a fairy-tale designed as an excuse to give presents to children. Her family is not religious but nevertheless they celebrated Christmas for the sake of the imagine that needed to be created for the political reasons; for keeping up appearances. Nunnally actually hates Christmas; it seems fake and always means additional work. Like attending parties, smiling to photos, creating the artificial world for the outside viewers, The “perfect” princess from the “perfect” family with the “perfect” presents. She hated that (and still does), especially that she never (or hardly ever) could get gifts that she really wanted. She does enjoy Christmas decorations, though. Simply finds them pretty. As well as Christmas fairs.

Were they a dinosaur or rock kid?: Neither. She was a book child. Mostly held inside and shaped to fit the perfect picture her family wanted to show outside.

Bugs or slimy critters?: Do moths and butterflies count as bugs? These would be her favourite. But both bugs and slimy critters were equally loved. Nunnally is not that type of person who screams when she sees a spider. She’d rather be inclined to let it free before someone finds and disposes it. Bugs and slimy critters were almost the only animals (apart from horses) she knew when she was a small girl. She was mainly kept inside and gardens (and hardly ever meadows, fields or forests) were often the only outside places where she could play in. So, she was fascinated with everything she could find there. When she was small, she would try to bring some of them home (caterpillars, snails, beetles), but she soon learnt she could not keep them and would get punished for getting all dirty and bringing "disgusting creatures" home.

Do they fidget? How?: No, not really. Not often. Fidgeting was not considered proper for a girl like her and even if she did sometimes when she was young, she was soon trained not to. Something close to fidgeting would be biting her lower lip, digging her nails into her palms and perhaps also covering her mouth if she feels embarrassed.

What were they frequently in trouble for as a child?: For sneaking out without permission. Nunnally was a curious child but sheltered (or caged), but was trying to find her ways into her little pieces of freedom. Even if that meant simply spending some time alone in the garden at night. Interestingly, although such a behaviour was strictly forbidden, her father did encourage her to test the borders. He would never come in her aid when she got caught and punished. So, in a way he wanted her to develop some sort of independence but all the consequences for failure were falling on her.   

What underwear do they like?: She’s indifferent. Nunnally would choose whatever style and colour would be the best match for her current attire. However, she does enjoy corsets, silk and lace, and satin. Here she is a little spoiled girl (as well as in a case of perfumes).

Designs on clothing or no?: Rarely. Nunnally’s way of dressing is definitely classic, old-fashioned, traditional in a way, so she hardly wears designs. However, her clothes are richly decorated. Mainly with lace, embroidery and similar techniques. She does, however, have a few pieces with some design on it, but she is well aware she does not dress for herself but for others to see. That significantly limits what she can wear.

Birthmarks?: None.

Do they have good self control?: Yes and no. In public situations, when she doesn't personally care about a situation and a person, she can really keep herself under control and show cold, polite and entailed (or even sassy) demeanour. But deep inside she’s very emotional and wears her heart on her sleeve; staying calm is especially difficult in personal situations, when she is worried or embarrassed. Nunnally is rather reserved (or was made reserved), what helps her to stay calm. But she’s a lava beneath the ground and sometimes it’s just a little trigger that is needed to lose that self-control imposed on her.

Favorite franchise?: No, not really.

Do they re-enact scenarios in the shower?: Nunnally’s not a shower person; she’s more into long baths, but even though she would not re-enact any particular scenarios. Baths are more about daydreaming, letting her thoughts going any directions, just time to relax and be truly alone. As Nunnally is always alone, but alone with other people around.  

Do they tell the waiter that their order is wrong?: Yes. She would try not to make a too big problem out of it, but she’d like to have it as ordered. She could give up if it causes to much hassle or too much trouble for a waiter, though. If she shares the meal with another person, she’d be more inclined to do what she thinks the other person expects. When she is dining with a man from her social class, she honestly expect him to (or rather let him) deal with the issue. Not that she likes it or thinks this is right, but rather it was what she was thought these men would expect. But if she notices it is not, she’ll be willing to deal with the situation herself. Nunnally was simply taught to fit to the expectations of others.

Stairs or elevator?: No real preferences. Depends on where and how many steps, but she is likely to choose stairs over elevators. It gives her this odd feeling of freedom when compared to being closed inside the lift.

Are they an exaggerator when telling stories?: No. She would hardly ever tell stories and is more inclined to simply report facts. Nunnally is pretty talkative when she feels comfortable, but even then she doesn't tell stories too often. She’s still a better listener than talker, but if you ask her to tell you a fairy tale, she could make it’s nice and elaborated. If in a mood. She used to make up her own stories as a child as she hated the classics ones with princesses beings passive and helpless.

Tagged by: @s-talking & @spectralhunter Tysm for the tag! It was fun!

Tagging: @bluebird-dolly-bride // @fightingthetides // @thecircusfreaks // @dernarrleid //@despairforme //@feraecor // @arcxnumvitae // @yuriko-tsukino-rp // @hellguarded // @burniingup // @soulsxng // @tigermcth // @ruki--mukami // @3ion-hearts // @strawberry-barista // @clearbottled // @mannequinentity // @hebiouji // @eliteimperialism // @viciousbite // @boundcd // @mukami-kuron-mrsadisticcat No pressure of course!

[sevthedev]

Some more Insomniac Spider-man universe character designs

It took me some time to finish them because I started 3 different characters at the same time right after finishing the game, but here they are!!

First up the G man!

The green goblin was hinted by Norman Osborn at the end as a way to "cure" Harry using what he called the "G serum"

Based on those words alone I decided to try and design what Harry would look like as the green goblin. I decided to make the G serum flow in his veins and slowly turn him into the Green Goblin from the inside. I gave him a color palette heavily inspired by previous iterations of the Goblin I have seen in various media. I also took into consideration the realistic -ish style of their current villains and came up with what you can see here:

My second design is the one and only Silk aka Cindy Moon

Cindy was introduced to the franchise at the very end of the game as a child or Rio Morales' new love interest. She appears to be around Miles' age (maybe younger) which I kept in mind during the design process. Her suit is inspired by the original Silk suit as well as by the suit miles wears at the end of the game. I think Cindy would look up to Miles in a similar way he looks up to Peter, so I wanted to create a little resemblance of that in her design. Since she is also pretty young I decided to make her everyday clothes very casual, which I think fits with a lot of the character designs present in the game already.

Last but not least everyone's favorite - Gwendolyn Stacy

Although Gwen was in no way hinted during the gameplay I have noticed in one of the cutscenes a blonde female playing the drums which jump-started my imagination. I tried imagining different versions of Gwen that could possibly appeared in the game. After finishing I settled on some guidelines. She would be around Peter's age, and they could have possibly met in the university or in the work field since in many versions of herself Gwen is also a scientist. I decided that *if* she had spider powers they would be artificial (like in one of my favorite iterations of Gwen from the cartoon Ultimate Spiderman) which she creates herself to fight crime. I thought she could possibly be Harry's lover interest in the Insomniac universe. Based on that I created two mugshots of what she could possibly look like.

In the end I have to admit that as a big fan of Spider-man the game was a very welcome inspiration at a time where I didn't really feel that well and was in a no mindset to concentrate on projects of my own. It actually helped me get out of the block and thanks to it I started writing a GDD for my year old game idea.

[dissonantia-goddess-of-chaos]

Ambrosine "Amber" Smasher/"Lone She-Wolf"/"Spider Daemon"/"Crimson Smasher": [Artificially, 1/Appearance and mentality, 18]

Ambrosine, or "Amber", is the byproduct and artificial daughter of Adam Smasher and Dissonantia, with her mother using her Smasher's DNA and her own to create Amber in a artificial womb, all part of an Arasaka program started by Dissonantia and funded by Yorinobu Arasaka to create the ultimate supersoldier. It took nine months for Amber to grow into an adult, then was experimented and modified (willingly) with Cyberware. And yes, due to Dissonantia's DNA, Amber is a reality bender of sorts, but prefers to fight fairly. After she finishes her military training program, she is put to the test by subduing a Militech task force—she succeed, slaughtering them just like her father would. A living, walking weapon of mass destruction. Dissonantia, noticing this, decided to revive David Martinez and his old gang (literally placing them back together), and strike them with a deal: no conflicts from Arasaka, become immune to cyberpsychosis with a single pill (idea from @fanofrandomawesomeness), and they get to have a killing machine on their side. Becoming more socially open-minded as she hung out with David, Amber started to become attached to the Edgerunner, liking him more and more, and started to enjoy the company of Lucy and Rebecca.... especially Becca. She eventually started dating all of them, sharing a platonic relationship with all three. While she has a very little sex drive, Amber still feels love and attachment despite being numb most of the time and undisturbed by gore. Every single cyberwear and ability available at her discretion, with a highly modified black Night Terror supersuit, black supersuit chrome motorcycle mask, and black cyberlegs. Her favorite things in the world are watching the sunrise, her friends, her parents, and watching the blue and red butterflies that flutter around Arasaka Tower's inside gardens. [Demisexual/Pansexual] (Cyberpunk 2077/Cyberpunk: Edgerunners)

Appearance:

Pale peachy skin tone

Blue right eye

Left eye has black sclera, with a glowing red "circle reticle" crossfire as her pupil and iris

Shaved head; she used to have long black hair and bangs before her training, but had to shave it off to avoid enemies grabbing it, but she can grow it back quickly with her body modifications that adjust her hormones

She has every upgrade that V, Adam, David, Lucy, and Rebecca has, hidden underneath her realistic skin.

Clothes:

owns a black leather jacket with a logo of a blood moon and a howling werewolf on the back

Saeko's DarkerNET tactical balaclava with nanotubing

Arasaka cap with camera

MaxTac tactical helmet with multifunction infovisor

Ergonomic SAFETY 3201 military shades

Arasaka tactical techgogs

Corporate blazer with bulletproof lining

Victorian Rose anti-shrapnel pencil dress

Rozovaya Reka pencil dress with protective membrane

Elegant hybrid-lining pencil dress

Lady in White hybrid-weave pencil dress

Demon Rhapsody reactive-layer pencil dress

Green Viper double-nanoweave pencil dress

Durable synweave corporate dress

Arasaka polyamide corporate dress

Spotted armor-coated corporate dress

Phoenix formal dress with microarmor layer

Brass Harmony composite-reinforced formal dress

Schwarze Limette aramid-fabric dress

Trilayer aramid-weave fixer skirt with jacket

Marbre Doré suit jacket with discreet bulletproof lining

Arasaka polycarbonate corporate blazer

Durable synsilk blazer

Gatto Nero evening jacket with tungsten-steel microplates

Synthetic corporate jacket

Arasaka formal jacket with light armorplating

Danse Macabre crop sweater

Asa no Heiwa enhanced yukata

Elegant nanoweave yukata

Synweave armor-coated yukata

Wakai Umi flame-resistant yukata

Murasaki tear-resistant yukata

Carbonweave silk corporate shirt

Reinforced breathable dress shirt

Paris Blue office shirt and vest with reinforced seams

Heat-resistant hybridweave netrunning suit

Armorweave rocker bra

Composite Arasaka netrunning nanoweave suit

Ultralight Jasmin Doucet syn-cotton bustier

Breathable reinforced bio-cotton corporate slacks

Classic immuno-cotton corporate pants

Bái Lóng formal pants with reinforced neo-silk

Classy aramid-weave skirt

Arasaka reactive-layer office skirt

Tear-resistant office skirt

Burgundy formal skirt with reinforced synfiber

Saeko's Limited elegant duoweave skirt

Hēisè trilayer formal skirt

Brass Harmony skirt with double nanofiber weave

V's office slacks

V's streetwear pants

V's pants

Elastic flame-resistant rocker pants

Armor-plated syn-leather solo pants

No shoes or socks

Arasaka hazmat suit

Arasaka spacesuit (with helmet)

Any Arasaka merchandise

Any gifts her friends give her

Cyberwear: (She is built to be the best of the best, so she's going to have everything on this list, minus the tattoos)

Thermal edged Mantis blade (left)

Electrical edged Mantis blade (right)

Lightweight "Animal" Gorilla arms knuckles (both, bioluminescent blue)

Legendary monowire cables (both, bioluminescent red)

Arasaka military explosive projectile round launcher (right shoulder blade)

Tranquilizer projectile round launcher (left shoulder blade)

Sensory amplifier

Sandevistan: Arasaka Software

Beast Mode berserk fragment

Ultra Kiroshi Optics Fragment (all fragments combined into a single chip, including night vision and automatic target tagging)

ultra strengthened black cyberlegs (equipped with hidden razors on the upper shins)

Retractable sharp nails, can cut through anything like butter (both, bioluminescent blue)

Enhanced internal military cyberskeleton

Cybernetic lungs

Supersuit chip "Changeling Skin", user is able to change appearance at will with enhanced cybernetics (stolen by Dissonantia from the Night Terrors)

Supersuit chip "Metamorphosis", user is able to change into an animalistic abomination, both physically and mentally, with the help of an advanced jumpsuit and mask outfit.

All quickhacks

Godly cyberdeck

Weapons:

Ranged:

"The Headsman" power shotgun

"Widow Maker" Tech Rifle

"Breakthrough" Sniper Rifle

"Kongou" Pistol

"Archangel" Revolver

Melee:

"Jinchu-maru" Katana

"Headhunter" knife

Tomahawk

Arm/Body:

Gorilla arms (detachable)

Mantis blades

Monowire

Projectile launch system

Armor:

Supersuit (made up of tiny microbots that weave into stretchable bulletproof fabric, and acts like her second skin, shaping to fit her Cyberware modifications)

Motorcycle helmet (made up of bulletproof metals and glass. Her left eye can be seen glowing through the one-sided shaded glass.)

Vehicles:

"Colby C125" economy car

"Cortes V5000 Valor" executive car

Arasaka Motorcycle

Black "Kusanagi Ct-3x" motorcycle

"Quartz Ec-l R275" sports car

[ainews]

With Halloween just around the corner, many people are gearing up to decorate their homes with spider webs and indulge in some delicious pumpkin pie. But have you ever wondered why platforms were Phoenician for cobwebs (item) for pumpkin pie? Here's the scoop on this spooky tradition.

The Phoenicians, who were an ancient civilization located in present-day Lebanon and Syria, were known for their exceptional trade and sea-faring skills. They were one of the first cultures to establish widespread trade networks, and their ships would travel to various regions in search of goods and resources.

One of the items that they were known to trade and export was silk. Silk was highly valued for its luxurious texture and was used to make clothing, fabrics, and even spider webs. In fact, the Phoenicians were the first to use silk to create fake spider webs for decorative purposes.

Fast forward to modern times, and spider webs are a staple decoration for Halloween. As the holiday became more commercialized and popular, companies began producing artificial cobwebs for people to use in their homes. And the tradition of using Phoenician-inspired cobwebs for pumpkin pie was born.

Besides adding a spooky touch to Halloween decorations, cobwebs also have a practical use when it comes to pumpkin pie. As the pie bakes in the oven, steam is released and can create moisture on the surface. Placing a layer of cobweb on top of the pie can help absorb this moisture and prevent the crust from becoming soggy.

So there you have it - the ancient Phoenicians' trading and trading of silk ultimately led to the tradition of using cobweb-like decorations and serving plates for pumpkin pie. Who knew a simple item could have such a fascinating history? Happy Halloween!

[quitthefastfashionlines]

Fast Fashion or Fast Doom; How are my clothes made?

Welcome to the second part of the blog series. Today we will be trying to understand what exactly goes into the making of our clothing and I will be analysing this article and informing you on how (un)sustainable these processes are.

The beginning of your clothings starts from the fibres. There are two categories of fibres, natural and artificial and within natural there are 2 subcategories; animal and plant based fibres.

Plant based fibres include cotton, linen, hemp and bamboo. Linen in particular is a more expensive one and advised by fast fashion companies due to its higher price. Plant based fibres aren't usually found in your clothing due to its lack of durability. However some fast fashion companies use cotton due to its temporary strength and it's cheap price.

Animal based fibres include wool and silk. While wool is kept at the average fibre price, silks can cost a lot of money. This is for good reason as silk is a very strong fibre, in fact the strongest fibre in the world is spider silk.

Artificial fibres are less favoured in fast fashion because despite its cheap price it requires high conditioning when making the clothes and need to be in proper temperatures. This increases costs which is why they aren't used.

The fast fashion industry however leaves many fibre waste concerns as microfibres are found in the ocean, too many chemicals are used to process fibres and too many pesticides are used to create cotton.

Therefore I urge you readers to take a look at your clothing label and see what is the clothing made of. There is a high chance that your clothes left behind high CO2 emissions.

See you in the next blog!

[elizabethbarlowunit5]

how fashion is gonna become sustainable

many componenets come from artificial, non-renewable sources. to male fashion more stainable we are coming up with ways to create sustainable fibres.

bio silk- this is a vegan and sustainable fibre which is inspired by spice we. spiders have always fascinated scientists. silk made by spiders are two and a half times stronger than steel.but in the past it has been had to gain enough as its not practical to farm spiders. "spider silk is extremely verist with complete molecular structure ad unique properties." however its just not easy to get in large volumes. therefor AMsilk has created the first vegan silk spider. this replicates luxury silk like quality clothing.

turning food waste into fashion- agroloop is trying to use the left overs food and medicine pops, which include pineapple, bananas, oilseed and CBD hemp. they then extract the cellulose fibres from plant stems and leaves which are then purified and ready to spin into fabric yarn. this uses 100% less water tan traditional cotton.

wood based glycols- this is needed to generate softness and flexibility in are clothes. traditional glycols are often derived from fail resources normally crude oil and coal. the renewable glycol is derived purely fro locally sourced beech trees.

[polyesterbrush]

Hosiery is simply a term for garments which cover the legs and feet

What is hosiery? Hosiery is simply a term for garments which cover the legs and feet. Another term which is often used in manufacturing and retail is legwear. They're the same thing.Hosiery is manufactured by a hosier, so often a generic term for hosiery is simply hose. Just about all hosiery is machine knitted from both natural and synthetic yarns and are categorized not only by style and China Crystal Velvet Imitation Mink Fur Factory color but also importantly by weight or opacity. The opacity is referred to as denier and is usually indicated on the packaging. A 5 denier pantyhose is very sheer (mostly see through and light weight) whereas a 100 denier tight will be opaque and not let any light through to the skin.Cotton fiber has been around for millenia, and for ages was the principal fiber used for knitting socks and stockings.

Before that, wool was used (and of course still is today). Both are natural, warm and easy to work with. For a more elegant and refined look, the finest hosiery was traditionally made from a different yarn, another natural fiber. This one is spun from, not a plant but a spider. Silk stockings are still today considered to be the finest hosiery one can buy.The story of women's hosiery here in America changed in a dramatic way in the 1930s. The materials changed and the supply of stockings became artificially scarce. Up until the 1930s, silk was the principal material used to knit stockings and the supplier of that silk was Japan. As the U.S. headed closer and closer to war with Japan, trade between our two countries ground to a halt and so did that lovely supply of silk. Hosiery manufacturers had to find another fine and silky yarn for stockings.  In 1938 the Dupont company caused a sensation when it unveiled Nylon stockings for the first time to a huge crowd of eager women. The nylon yarn was the first truly synthetic fiber ever created.

The softness and smoothness rivalled that of silk and became an overnight replacement. Women (and men!) loved the new nylon stockings….while they lasted. Soon, the U.S was at war with Germany and Japan and desperately needed all the nylon it could manufacture to be woven into parachutes and clothing for the soldiers. Women had to do without stockings until the end of the war in 1945.Spandex was the fiber that changed hosiery forever. With the ability to be stretched to twice its length, it was first put into clothing in 1959 and soon went into hosiery. Hosiery such as  pantyhose and tights could now stay up on their own. Thus began a dramatic change in the way women wore hosiery. Garters became unnecessary as spandex was blended into yarns used for hosiery and women began to simply wear pantyhose and tights instead of stockings. Bigger cultural shifts were on the horizon as well which would change women's fashion in a big way.

[sinfulsigh]

𝙰𝚂𝙿𝙷𝚈𝚇𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙾𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚂𝚄𝙱𝙻𝙸𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝙿𝙴𝚃𝙰𝙻𝚂

summery : he, who bloomed and ravished, sought euphoria in your high.

pairings : hanamaki takahiro x fem! reader

caution warnings : smut, nsfw, asphyxiation, marijuana

word count : 4.3k

He hated how your name felt against his tongue during an achroous downpour on a friable Monday afternoon; complaining how it’s harsh and jagged, as if it could shatter ivory molars. Your name sounded of foreign revolutions and fescennine opulence, a name he claims that static nymphs would own as they choke on nude snapdragons. So, he prefers to call you Hanaame, for the rain storm you lingered under and how he desperately wanted to pinch himself onto you for an eternity.

Delirious and illecebrous was his four o’ clock stare as he gazed at how your hair rests in heavy tussles against the rainfall, admiring how your uniform clung to to your statuesque body (exposing every soft curve and barbed edge of your anatomy); silently worshiping a sfumato muse with amaranthine forelsket that taunts him. Amid captivating midsummer showers, you were the luminary of his hazed, vain possessed reality that’s soaked in the trichromatic hues of explicit soaking. The tip of his fingers trembled lightly as they ghost over your skin, pulling away the hair that cascaded down your face—water droplets slowly descending from the ends of your hair and the curve of your face; baptising you in solstice sorrows.

“You look pretty this way,” Hanamaki informed with a honeyed, shy voice. His skin flushing the vast shades of peaches as it paints his flesh in warm tones.

You cusp your palm against his cheek, cherishing the warmth that radiates from his ambiance that felt strangely of smoke. You smiled at him, the gloss of your lips seeping into the cracks of your chapped lips as he melts in the softness of your voice, “You look beautiful in the tides of this storm.”

All he could do was stare at you with squinted eyes that are glazed in an amaranth hue. Hanamaki smirks as he allows your hand to linger for a second longer before moving his body onwards into the insouciant prisms of the storm. The light drum of thunder quaked your bones, setting the rhythm for your heart as you walked between the roars and screams of a malicious tempest.

Hanamaki’s home lingered somewhere between a busy street that is known for its dense population of hallowed bodies and rural authority of decayed forests. The lights in his home glowed with warm lights with silhouettes of his youngest sister dancing hazardously as the hem of her dress fluttered around her. You can see his mother lingering in the kitchen as the small, crystal windows placed emphasis on her beauty—her strawberry blonde hair tied into a tight bun as her nepenthe eyes rested downcast at the counter while she cut away at freshly plucked produce.

Hanamaki leads you inside his home, ignoring the shrieking greetings of his sister and his mother’s demanding call of pleads as he pushes you up the koidan-dansu staircase. His home was small with narrow hallways and thin walls, wooden floors that creaked under your weight and memories plastered in oxidized silver frames on every mahogany surface. Hanamaki’s room was in the far back of the hallway where shadows brood, and he’s profusely apologizing that the light fixture above is broken and has been for many years now. His nimble fingers sliding the door to his bedroom open as a darkened room sat in cimmerian stillness.

The smell of musk and earth envelopes you into a sense of tranquility as you push farther into his room, taking in the sight of an unmade futon laying messy on beige tatami mats and a polluted desk messied with papers and unread books. Dust collected on the surface of his bookshelf, dresser and far corners of his rooms as lone spiders spun silk plexure on his windowsill. Hidden in too obvious of spaces were selcouth paraphernalia made of glass, their crystal bodies odd yet arcane with yellow inert water and resin clinging to the neck of his bongs.

You turned to Maki, who’s reaching into his closet to grab a spare hanger, as you melt away the tears of Mother Nature’s tantrum onto the floor. You're drenched and glistening after being consumed by the rain and Hanamaki listens to the subtle droplets fall from your hair onto his floor. Like the rest of his catastrophic room, he doesn’t care that you're making a mess. If he wasn’t so occupied trying to make things comfortable for you, he would gladly get on his knees and lick every stray droplet that falls around you (in his foam gagged consciousness, anything that spills from you should never go to waste). But he keeps his composure with a deep inhale from his nose as he hands you a wire hanger.

“Here, put your clothes on that and I’ll place them in the bathroom to dry off.” Hanamaki offered before the sudden realization laved over him. His skin burning into molten hues of rose golden as he quickly added onto his statement with furrowed brows, “And while you do that, I will get you some spare clothes to wear.”

“Thanks.” You smiled, waiting for him to turn around before you discarded your clothes one by one.

You stripped away the light blue button down that caged your torso, followed by the unravel of the red ribbon secured tightly around your neck. Bare flesh being kissed by the dampened freeze of his aircon spitting clear, turbulent winds. You shutter, the vertebrae of your pretty spine vibrate in a shockwave of agglomerative climax. Gentle fingers unfastened the zipper on the side of your plaid skirt and quickly did it fall down your legs with a deadened thrash. You stepped out of your skirt and gently tucked away your clothes in an orderly fashion on the hanger, standing half naked in the midst of his room with artificial lights spotlighting the delicance and elegance of your flesh.

Hanamaki blushed, attempting to hide the tinge of apricot blush that painted his face in soft strokes, his hands trembling as he attempted to offer you a gray shirt. You thanked him as you handed off your uniform into his empty hands, watching him quickly dart out of the room as you played with the hem of his shirt. Once the door slid shut, you placed his t-shirt over your head and watched it cascade down your body as it engulfed your stature completely. A normal shirt for him was an oversized dress in contrast to your feminine build, something he admired once he returned into the sanctity of his room.

“You look pretty like this.” He praised, his smile carving into the lunar flesh of his face.

“I can say the same for you,” you pointed, acknowledging how he slipped out of his uniform to wear a plain, light blue t-shirt and a pair of sweats. “Thanks for the T-shirt.”

“I couldn’t just leave you in that wet uniform,” he exclaimed as he walked to the far side of the room. His hands brushed against the light fixture of his LED lights that quickly blazed in a violescent pigment; his hands rapidly tampering with a different, much smaller lamp that illuminated the many shades of a citrus sunset. He walked back to the other end of his room again to turn off the main light fixture, “It should be dry once you leave tonight.”

“Hopefully this storm lightens up.” You peered out the window as maudit winds routed between the spaces of buildings and trees.

“Even if it doesn’t, I don’t mind giving you my clothes so you can stay warm.”

“Such a typical guy thing to say,” you rolled your eyes.

“I’m only human and you look too pretty in my clothes,”  Hanamaki reminded, looping his arms around your waist as his lips pressed a chaste kiss on the top of your head. “Thanks for skipping homework to have a smoke session with me.”

“Thank you for providing the flower.” You smiled against the skin of his collarbone, taking in his scent of musk, jasmine and coconut shampoo with earthy tones of cedar wood and lavender.

Hanamaki pushes you into the futon before giving you one last squeeze, watching you fall like dazed cinematic sequences of lovers falling in lust. The back of your head hitting the pillow too hard that it ached in a dull pulse but you didn’t mind. Your dilated eyes watch him stalk towards the long bookshelf from between your legs that gaped slightly opened. You watched him with sublime lacing your beings as his oversized hands grasped at his pink grinder with a uv dripped face, a small gray bag that tore at the seams with frayed threads while his other hand carefully held a beaker bong that's dusted in a light pink color. You felt the sudden relief of knowing that the bong you’ll be sharing is clean with freshly added water.

You watched him open his grinder, the pungent smell of terra and dirt invading your aura as he sprinkled bud into the glass bowl. You lean into him, watching Hanamaki set up everything on his own as he demands you to relax and seep closer to him with a soft smile. His warmth like molten suns as it lulls you into halcyon elation, wrinkling the fabric of his shirt as you curl your fingers across his thin torso. Lips latching onto his neck, sucking on the subtle skin that makes Hanamaki feel euphoria against the plush of your pouty lips and the slime of your saliva staining his skin. A deep moan escaped the charred airwaves of his throat, sounding sweetly of corybantic arousal.

“Hey, at least let me finish this,” he sighs, hands roaming into his bag to find the yellow lighter he believed to be was lucky. He placed the tips of his fingers against your chin, turning your head to face him with a smirk planting his face as the pad of his thumb brushed against your bottom lip that was swollen with lust and anticipation. “Here, place your mouth on the rim and inhale.”

You obeyed, leaning your head down to attach your lips against the glass and began to slowly breathe. Hanamaki held the lighter to the bowl as to set the bud ablaze; he encouraged you to suck harder with a gentle rub of his calloused hands as it traces the curvature of your spine while the smoke began to accumulate in the glass. He released his hold on his favorite lighter as he pinches the bowl of the bong tightly between long fingers, Hanamaki smiled as he gazed at you, “Okay, darling, start sucking.”

Hanamaki pulls out the bowl, making you quickly suck in the clouds that swirled in the glass bong. The water in the bong began to bubble with the force of your soft inhales, trying to match the rhythm of heavy downpours that shatter his windows. The smoke traveled down your throat, scorching into your esophagus as it settles in your lungs—the smoke burning your respiratory system as if you consumed a thousand molten, honeyed suns whole. Your lungs felt like they dropped into your core as the pain tangled your nerves and spread across your back, making you want to release the smoke you were currently choking on. You looked at Hanamaki with blurred vision as tears swelled into your eyes, the smoke you poured out of your mouth billowed around you till it dissipated into the atmosphere.

“Ah! You drooled!” Hanamaki laughed, collecting the silver spit that glossed your lips and dribbled down your chin.

“God, that hurt!” You complained in between deep breaths.

“The first hit of the day is always the hardest.” Hanamaki informed before taking the leftovers your small lungs couldn’t carry. He quickly took in the smoke and held it in his lungs like a blanket before he began to slowly choke on colorless clouds. Smoke poured out of his lips as if it was second nature as they thickened around him. Between gentle coughs, he began to speak.

“Hanamaki, can I ask you a question?” You jeered. All too soon between after school smoke sessions and tender kisses on the rooftop of your school, you began to notice how Hanamaki feigned vanity (pretending to be possessed with solar incendiary with every shallow breath and dagger pierced eyes). He wasn’t like he claimed to be, if anything, Hanamaki Takahiro was a man that had interest in everything and a deep desire to be loved. Blood deep, he was still a prelude mortal that carries inordinate vitality. But he gravitated somewhere on a spectrum of flowers blooming in a subtle reality and an acid trip of lilac skies, where pain is easily mistaken for pleasure. You were sure you knew the answer but the words still slipped past your saliva glossed lips “Are you a virgin?”

Hanamaki smiled as urged you to place your mouth against the rim of his bong, lighting the bowl as the green residing within it became blackened ash. “No, I’m not.” He said simply, no emotions carried as he pulled the bowl away, “suck hard, darling.”

You held the smoke into your lungs as your chest expanded, your eyes glazing over to Hanamaki who could only smile at you. Slowly, you felt skin heat under his stare and all at once, the shame relaxed your spine as your lungs pleaded for oxygen—like a slave to your body, you obeyed as the smoke pooled out of your mouth slowly to create thick mist between you. Quickly, you let out a sharp cough that scraped away at the flesh from behind your throat. Hanamaki mutters how cute you were before he played with his glass to seek his high.

“I’m still a virgin.” You admitted.

The bubbles of his bong roared as he swallowed the thick cloud that billowed in his bong. He held the smoke inside his lungs for a minute as his lips carved into a smile, his head nodding in understanding, as if he knew. You were a good girl and he just ended up becoming the floral demon that took possession of your nectar spine, quickly corroding the prayers etched into your grapefruit brain. He made assumptions of you, just as you did of him, but he could never call you anything with malicious intent. Like he said the first time you smoked with him beneath the rose hedges of his home as bumblebees swayed around you, ‘you’re the world to me’. He blew out his smoke, the front of his teeth brushing together before returning your stare, “I know, baby.”

Lean bodies protrude closer as Hanamaki slid closer to your aura, his slender fingers gently scraped at the curve of your face. Your skin was coaxed in slime and salt, oddly did it remind Hanamaki of the rapid rivers from behind his house and how the mist of fresh water soaked his skin. His thumb brushes against the edge of your cheek bone before his hand slowly glides downwards to rest on the base of your neck; his lips finding the corner of your parted mouth as he kissed you gently—the taste of the cannabis stained onto his skin invading your sense of taste that burst of charred earth lave your tongue.

Hanamaki grasped your wrist, willing to pull you deeper into his core of guilty pleasures. And just how willing he was to expose the rot and hallucinations that polluted his mangled body, you willingly stepped into his delusions of lilac skies where flowers bloomed vibrantly and violently—saturated in the acid that distorts your angelic image into a nymph that births peonies. He leaned forward, hovering his chapped lips above yours as waited for your signal, hoping it was fine to sink into your solar prisms and taste the honey from your lips. Eyes half lidded, he sweetly framed your mouth to his with open mouth kisses. His touches feel comforting as his weight is forged onto you and he pulls you down.

Nimble fingers card through his hair, the tip of your fingernails scratching against his scalp but he didn’t mind. It only encouraged him more with fever blossoming beneath his pale skin, your touch was something he craved and Hanamaki desired to capture it more with greed in hands.

Hanamaki bit the bottom of your lip before pulling away, gasping for air as you were far more dangerous than any smoke he could devour. “Hanaame,” he gasped, as if it was your actual name. The tips of his fingers inched higher above the hem of his t-shirt draped on your body as they roamed against your skin. You followed his movements, slowly pulling at the cloth that entraps his body till it raised just above his navel. Your fingertips brushed every hard edge and muscle of his torso before he replaced your hands with his, quickly discarding his shirt that suddenly felt too heavy to bear.

With furrowed brows, he gently placed his hands on your stomach from where your skin exposed, looking at you with half lidded eyes as you gave him the okay to touch your flesh. He slowly pulled at the hem of his shirt, raising it up to reveal your chest that was adorned in a bra that matched your black panties. Raindrops fell onto your skin from the open cracks of his window, painting you in cold, summer rainstorms as Hanamaki discarded the shirt; your body leaning forward from the assistance of your numbing elbows digging into the fabric of his futon. You harshly pressed your mouth against him again, missing the mold of his lips that feel like strelitzias swarming around you. The lingering taste of ash and earth of his lips felt hot in comparison to the rain that drizzled over you.

Water droplets began to pile against you, pooling into the spaces of your collarbones and neck muscles that you shivered. Hanamaki wanted to cure you of the pale freeze that glimmered onto your skin, jealous of how the rain loved you with it’s elixir offerings, so much so that attached his open mouth against your neck and dragged his tongue down. He cleaned the salt and purity from your skin, the sweat and nectar that doused you as the feel of your flesh mimicked the heat from oblivious, vermilion hell fires. He sipped on the rain fall that ruined your gentle image, knowing in the back of his mind he’ll become sick with infections that will soon saturate his organs with toxicity. However, he didn’t mind and it proved as his tongue still swayed against your skin.

Hands trembled as they pulled at the hem of your black panties, pulling them down slowly as you adjusted to the sudden chill of being bare and exposed. Hanamaki searched for your evening stare through half lidded eyes, assuring that he wasn’t pushing boundaries. Shaken fingers trembled as they gently pressed against the slit of your opening before they ran upwards to press lightly on your clit. You stirred, letting out a soft hiss as your body trembled from his touch, and for a moment he was scared that he harmed you but the apprehension that laced his translucent flesh washed away when he noticed your legs opening just slightly. He pressed agonizing small circles around you, adoring the sweet mewls that leave your lips with a drunken smile—saturated in euphoria at the beauty sprawled out in front of him as his high quickly takes over.

His movements felt slow as he carefully pushed away the hairs that curtained your face. The pad of his thumb brushing over your bottom lip before grazing it over your eyelid, smearing the eyeshadow and liquid eyeliner that painted you in renaissance beauty. “Open your eyes,” Hanamaki demanded, leaning his body closer to yours as you felt his hardened cock rest painfully on your thigh.

You obeyed, your vision going hazy like a noise filter. For a second you couldn’t comprehend as to why your body reacted in such a way but you couldn’t escape this high that made you feel like mauve flowers blooming underneath the heat of a uv lamp. You felt dizzy, as if you orbited around Saturn’s orange halo rings yet you knew perfectly well that you laid still and composed under Hanamaki. You reached out your hand to cusp his face, your reaction time slow as your limbs felt too heavy.

“Your eyes,” he complimented, “Are a beautiful shade of red.”

“I feel like the color purple, rare and untouchable.” You murmured, “But I know I’m in nude tones of skin shows and it’s just my aura slowly reaching enlightenment under the haze of your influence.”

He smiles at you, returning his lips to your skin as his fingers trailed down to feel the nectar collecting at your opening. His fingertips coated in slime as he pushed one digit in, curving his digit against your walls to witness the reaction of ecstasy that laced your bones. He moved his fingers in rhythmic tone, sliding in and out before needing to replace his slender fingers with his raged member that demanded to be noticed.

He grasped the base of his cock, sliding it between you in slow pushes to give you time to adjust to his length. He shutters at your unintentional squeeze as you milk him, Hanamaki never realizing how loud his gasps and grunts are as the pounding in his heart (from embarrassment, the pleasure and the high) became too coherent in his racing mind. The grip around your hips could break, allowing the black ichor spill like ink, blotching your flesh in a bouquet of flowers. Once he’s fully in, he recomposes, staring at you with the casual sparkle in his eyes as his smile resurfaces. Hanamaki traces the skin from just below your eyes, demanding you look at him with those red eyes that captivate him completely like salacious artwork hanging proudly in elegant museums.

“I can take you even higher,” he admits, fingertip brushes tracing softly against your neck, “I can take you away from this reality.”

You don’t say anything, still attempting to understand his words as they pour slowly out his lips. The reaction of his fingers on your skin was delayed, and it wasn’t until he pulled away did you notice his lingering advances. Once you could comprehend his words, you nodded your head, shaking it so quickly that it pulled at your center of gravity. “Okay,” you meekly whispered, giving him consent before you completely forget what he offered, “Just don’t kill me.”

Hanamaki pressed his lips onto yours sweetly before pulling away, his words tracing your lips in the same hush toned you spoke, “I could never.”

Because, you were his world.

He quickens his thrust, his hips carving into yours as if you’re a goddess demanding to be worshipped. You could feel the pleasure resonating from your love and spreads—every little edge and surface of your skin feeling sensitive to the touch of his lust. The slam of his hips felt like thunder as it echoed and reverberated off the thin walls of his room, and in the back of your mind before you forget about it mid sentence was, ‘I’m sure his mother can hear us.’ But Hanamaki didn’t mind, he wasn’t ashamed to let his mother know that he was deep within the bathic caverns of the girl he worshipped.

He knew you would most likely come before him, so quickly he fulfilled his promise and offered his hands to you. The palm of his hands pressing tight against the side of your neck as the curve of his thumbs sat against the base of your neck. Once he paved inside, he began to squeeze, restricting your breathing as his hips hit hard against your liquid love. He ignored the rainfall that slaps against his limbs, the cold thrush of droplets adoring his skin like impaled jewels. Disregarding the water droplets that splashed against his narrow shoulder blades and traveled downwards across his spine. And under him, you were soft with widened eyes as you try to comprehend his soothing words. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ he assured and you believed it, ‘cause deep within your core, he’s nurturing the lotuses that wilted as the stomach acid dissipated from your organs. Hanamaki was a literal demon, adored in flowers as he puked up petals beneath your naked frame—he could make you witness the destruction of paracosms and rebuild the dimensions that you nuked with heartache with the growth of florals and cannabis oils.

Your vision faded into this reality to a white cascade that appeared like static in your dilated pupils. Against his palms, he could feel the gentle pulse that fastens with every pace of his hips. Once you could witness the rebirth of this reality, your vision still clouded in noise and static, everything felt slow. His pace, his touch, your buildup. You never notice how the rain pours onto your bare flesh, or how Hanamaki’s heated exhales mist your skin. Slowly, did you feel euphoria tightened around your love as it escalated heavily before the vertigo grew overwhelming.

“H—Hana...maki!” You moaned, “I think I’m going to—!”

“It’s fine, darling.” He whispered, “Come, it’s okay.”

With or without his permission, your climax heightened as your hips raised against his careless rhythm. His cock brushed against your cervix as his hands began to squeeze tighter around your neck. As you slipped out of this reality, you released the pressure that pooled inside, your body seizing with the heavy weight of your climax and milked his cock.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He moans.

His hips continued to thrust as he formed his lips onto yours, swallowing your moans and saliva as he too was close to reaching his high. Beneath him, you felt the wave of euphoria graze your daybreak ambiance, shedding away the title of mortal to enter a slow metamorphosis of godly.

[kettlequills]

prisoner of the skein

follow up to this, available on A03 here. cw: spiders, self-loathing, some violence, daedric pacts. FDB! Laataazin/LDB! Miraak.

He was so young, Laataaz thought as they saved the Last Dragonborn from yet another perilous death at the hands of the many-legged and rarely-kindly denizens of the Spiral Skein, though a wise man would have known to stop coming and not needed saving. And annoying, they added to themselves sourly, when he immediately took this as a sign that they were finally in the mood to be pestered.

The Last Dragonborn in question called himself Miraak – a curious name, Allegiance Guide, given to him by Paarthurnax at the Throat of the World (how Laat’s heart had ached to know their old friend was still alive, and fighting the good fight after all this time) – and had the look of the Falmeri in his sharp claws and luminous snowpale eyes, the Nordic in his towering height, firm jaw and proud nose, and the stupid fool in his determination, the radiance of his hope, the sure, steady way he carried himself, like that of the bold youth supple in his summer-strength, untested as yet by the bitter winter.

He was very beautiful, Laataaz admitted to themselves candidly, and his sharp eyes, his deep, sonorous voice, the breadth of his unbowed shoulders – did certain things to Laataaz that they had hoped were as dead and buried as the rest of their kin. He was so alive, beard not yet touched grey, so untainted by the daedric corruption that crawled like living creatures under Laataaz’s skin.

Laataaz wanted to wring his neck so badly that every second in his company felt like a test from Bormahu. After all this time, did the gods still crave Laat’s punishment?

Yes, they thought, as well they should.

After all this time, their hands still shook with the blood that stained them, dripped, now, with cobwebs and extra fingers they did not remember having before, the venomous bone-spurs that shredded through once-flesh. Laataaz was nothing so forgiveable as human, anymore. If they had ever been.

“Thank you,” said Miraak, blinking up at them from the ruins of an obliterated daedra that had been about to remove his heart from his chest. His shoulders were dusted with cobwebs and his robes were stained with spider ichor. Laataaz gave him a cursory glance, but they couldn’t see any bites on him – if he was poisoned, he could deal with it himself.

Laataaz swung their warhammer over their shoulder, ignoring the spiders that hurriedly skittered over their mask out of the way. Dusty filaments of web squirmed free of their ancient armour, caught the towering crown of Mephalan-horns. They squinted at him in a glare he couldn’t see behind their forbidding priest mask, then stomped away. Their footsteps echoed as always with the rustle and chitter of more legs than Miraak’s mortal eyes would be able to see.

He shouldn’t be here.

Miraak picked himself up and trailed after them, talking excitedly – and loudly, Laataaz’s thumping head added – about the progression of his research on Laataaz’s life, powers, and imprisonment, all vanished (they had hoped) to the murky mists of time and Mephala’s delicate hand. At least he did not expect them to reply, as Laataaz had been quite successfully pretending to not understand modern Cyrodillic, Dunmeris, Falmeris, and any of the other languages Miraak had tried, only growing, impossibly, more excited with each one that Laat remained indifferent to.

Dovahzul, however, they could not convince him of, and to Laat’s weary alarm, it seemed as if he had brought a dictionary.

He was trying to talk to them even now with dragon-words that caught at their attention like fishhooks, but Laataaz pretended to ignore him. He should not be here. He needed no encouragement to continue seeking them out.

Truthfully, Laataaz knew they really ought to just stop saving the bright-eyed, fresh-faced young mage from his own folly in repeatedly entering Mephala’s realm, seeking out a Dragonborn whose crimes and sentence were better left forgotten, kept safe away from the world. At least when Mephala brought Laataaz out to kill some other godling or beast that rose up to upset the Prince’s careful game, they could close their eyes to the task and simply add another sin to their sentence. But this – this, was temptation the likes of which Laataaz had not faced for centuries.

With his soul, they could be free of the Skein. It had been so long since they had eaten a dragon-soul, and every time he came near them they felt that emptiness within them howl its hunger. How sweet would his struggles be, if Laataaz wrapped him in their silken spider-threads? How lovely would his heaving chest be fighting for air, as they suffocated him in the thirsty darkness of their cocoon, sticky web anchoring each struggling limb? Would his blood taste of Nirn under Laat’s jaws?

Laataaz swallowed, feeling the acidic burn of venom pooling down their throat, their stomach. Would he shiver and sweat, if they gave him their poison? Was his mortal body strong enough to bear it, or would Laataaz only tear him apart?

Would he cry, if they hurt him, if they betrayed the foolish trust he should not have placed in them? Would the pleasure of his soul be worth the pain?

Not that Miraak seemed to care about the danger he put himself in with each trip. He thought that the greatest threats came from the daedra that lived in this infinite web, and pursued the true monster that haunted its shrouded depths guilelessly. Laataaz’s Prince had to be amused.

Laataaz ducked into the shadows of the leaning webs stringing the darkness between the spokes of Mephala’s Wheel, hoping to lose him, then plunged their hands into the stickiness of their home for the past few thousand years and skittered up, surely as any true child of the Webspinner. They hoped he would spot the unnatural movements of their body, the clicking of the ancient scales wrapping dully over their armour, the glitter of their eyelike scars, more, they thought, then they had once had, and fear the darkness they disappeared into.

Annoyingly, Miraak hesitated not at all before following them. He pushed his hood off shading his eyes and flipped up his snow-goggles, seeming, if anything, relieved. He stopped stumbling around so much, too, Laataaz could feel fewer spiders crushed under his heavy Nordic boots.

“This is better,” he called up in shaky Dovahzul, “It reminds me of home.”

The webs shook when he boldly forced footholds into them and climbed after them doggedly. Stubborn as a Dovah, Laataaz thought, and hissed. He was lucky that his gloves and boots had been made thickly and well, Laataaz could feel the black widow gnawing at the leather, trying to get into the unknowing blood beneath.

“Wherever you go,” he said, “I will follow you, I will learn your secrets, Dragonborn!”

“Leave him alone,” they ordered in sharp jerks of sign to the creatures of the web stirring in irritation as he shook and bothered their homes, their cocoons, “This is my prey.”

“Is that sign language? Who are you talking to?” Miraak asked, forgetting Dovahzul, then cursed as he manoeuvred around the slack face of a half-eaten daedra that had been too slow to avoid the plots of his fellows, and spun into the digestive darkness. The bones were always last to go – Laataaz heard the daedra’s teeth rattle free of the softened gums and clink on the distant floor.

His voice was closer, closer, but Laataaz faced away, clinging to the web and pressing their mask into its soft yield. Akatosh, would he forgive Laataaz for taking this prize who kept offering himself up, for stealing the last hope of Nirn to thwart Alduin’s destiny? Laataaz wanted to eat his soul so badly. This was why they deserved to stay in their prison! Did he not know of the blood that soaked Laataaz’s fate?

Miraak swore behind them, closer than they had expected him to be, and Laataaz’s eyes flew open as they felt the whole structure of the webs shake. Executioner they might be, but there were many other daedra in the webs, hiding from the light but observing the confrontation, and Laataaz would spare their lives, their brittle carapaces, if they could.

“It’s coming down!” he shouted, and Laataaz acted.

They swung down from their knees, letting the webs hold them, and spun spider-silk from the spurs of their robes. Sticky and pearly-white, it caught him, held him struggling like a butterfly against the roof of the web. A Word had the webs still, shivering at their power, and Miraak’s eyes were wide, his cheeks rosy as he swung upside down.

He would faint if they left him there, Laataaz knew, and felt the burn of venom as they swallowed. Already his face was filling with blood, an artificial blush that pinked his cheeks and the tips of his ears. The curls of his dark ringlets pulled long like a cloud, swung as he struggled once, twice, instinctively trying to move his trapped legs.

“You are strong,” he breathed in something that might have been a laugh, something that made Laataaz’s heart jerk and warmth pool in the base of their spine, “Stronger than I believed possible. The secrets you possess…” He trailed off, but the hunger was loud and unspoken.

How he wanted.

Laataaz touched him, spreading over his chest. Little spiders, jewel-eyed and curious, ventured from the folds of darkness under their clothing, under their bruised nails, the hollow of their palms, and scuttled free, exploring the shape of him, mapping the sturdiness of his neck, the exposed shell of his pointed ears, tangling into his long locks. They closed their eyes and sucked in a hollowing breath. How warm he felt to the rasping hooks of their small legs, their burrowing bodies, to Laataaz within them.

Miraak twisted and twitched uncomfortably when he felt their tickling legs on him, but he did not push them away. The shreds of their priest gauntlets – torn when Laataaz had grown more fingers than they had been made for – still gleamed with a faintness of the old enchantments, the only light between them. Venom dripped freely out of their mouth, ran stinging towards their eyes. No matter how much they swallowed, more welled up, bitter with desire to sink their teeth into him, paralyse him, set his blood alight with poison-fire.

They had never been strong where it counted.

“Pretend at aloofness all you like,” his voice rumbled and jarred the bones of their hand, shook Laataaz’s soul where it hungered, hungered. “I know you want this.”

He jerked awkwardly, trying to reach them – with a look, Laataaz wrapped the offending hand in spider-thread. No movement from him, nothing, they were busy marvelling over the rise and fall of his breathing where they pushed his chest. The Last Dragonborn was so greedy with his breath, so steady, so assured that there would always be more. Had he never been choked to the starving of it before?

“Your actions speak when you refuse to. You are curious, you must be.” He said it like a prayer, like they were a prayer. “Don’t you want to know? Have you met any other Dragonborn? There is so, so much more to be done, Alduin rises, think of all we could learn, the power we could wield!”

Laataaz said nothing.

“Are you not glad I am here at all?” Miraak said, and there was pain in him when he spoke those words with an uncharacteristic crack. They slanted their mask to look at him. Did he think himself lonely, this fool of the new age? Did he think he understood the meaning of solitude?

“Niid,” Laataaz ground out in Dovahzul archaic and stony. They had not spoken to a mortal for so long words crumbled like dust when they felt them with their tongue. But for him, this foolish young Dragonborn, the Last, they forced themselves to speak their first words in centuries. Would he appreciate this forked gift? They doubted it. “You are a foolish mortal, fumbling at powers he does not understand, nothing more. You are weak.”

Their lie struck his heart true, and he reeled. Laataaz had hurt him, they could see it in his eyes. Guilt was a familiar emptiness as Laataaz pulled away. They turned to go, turning their back on him, his hope, his persistence. Their webs were not indestructible, he would free himself before he passed out. Probably.

Better he learn this, if he wanted to so badly. Better he learn that Laataaz was good for only a few things, blood and death and pain. Better he get stung, and so learn his lesson to stop planting his hand in the viper’s nest and pushing self-control Laataaz had felt wither long ago. Back before they had understood this inherent truth about themselves – Laataaz was a monster, and no one around them survived for long.

Had not they started a war that had massacred hundreds, for the want of freedom that had been nothing more than a lie? Had they not listened to the whispers of a Prince and took the power that was offered, in their foolish naivete, believing they could help, believing they could save lives from dragon-fire and dragon-claw? Had they not made their monstrousness clear in their flesh?

There was no easy way out of destiny. There was no secrets Laataaz knew that had not been paid for with the blood and suffering of their people. The only thing Miraak could learn from them was how to be stronger and end it before it got that far with himself. Before he began to believe that his power was anything but a curse of pain and death.

Soul-eater. Executioner. Laataaz gulped down more venom. They were so hungry. It had been so long since Mephala had required them to kill any usurper to her plots.

“Then I don’t care,” Miraak snarled, “I must know!”

A flame cloak roared to life around him and Laataaz shrieked as they felt the spiders on him explode into popping sparks and snaps. He lurched forward and seized their ankle to anchor himself as he swung out unmoored over the empty abyss. Laataaz was too slow in their shock at his anger, at the pain – too slow, too slow to stop the pain, the death, the burning! They screamed, instead, their voice shattering the webs. They felt them die, they could feel them dying there were so many hiding in Laataaz’s armour, their webs, their home-!

“Prince of Knowledge, hear my cry!” Miraak’s intonation boomed around them, the flaming Last with his Voice of thunder, “Gardener of Man! Assist your servant in the pact that was promised!”

They were falling, the webs sticky ash in Laataaz’s clutching hands, the fire brilliant and snapping the dry kindling of their robes, their body, their foul burning flesh bubbling and spitting with poison. Laataaz screamed, and screamed, and screamed even when the oily tentacles burst out of the unholy rictus of green light spilling from Miraak’s hand and swarmed over them, their body, eyes, their mouth.

The oily coldness of the tentacles smothered the fire, choked out Mephala’s hissing, formed muscular coils thick as snakes and yanked. Down, down, down, through the portal that scratched and scraped thorny on ancient flesh, then out.

Nirn, unbearable and real, and through it all Miraak’s hand on their leg, firm as a shackle despite Laataaz’s thrashing. Earth sprayed and thundered – the green light died – they were a crumble of robes and armour, Laataaz snapping like a wildcat. But they knew, knew –

“Fucking Hermeaus Mora!?” Laataaz shouted, twisted round and punched Miraak so hard his teeth rattled in his jaw. “You bartered with Mora for this? To free me?”

“Yes!” Miraak yelled back, “Wait – you do understand Cyrodillic!”

“I will kill you! Are you such a fool that you learnt nothing from what happened to me?”

Laataaz shoved him until he stumbled and wrestled him to the ground, so angry they sprayed venom that spat hissing holes into the earth inches-deep. He had the height advantage but he was weaker than Laataaz, taken by surprise. Fuck Bormahu, fuck Fate, Laataaz was going to strangle him.

“I’m sorry,” Miraak flared, angry pride smarting even as he struggled, “Would you have preferred to languish in hell for centuries, no good to anyone at all?”

“Yes!” Laat threw up their hands, ignoring the spider gamely clinging to the back of their hand that went flying at the movement. “What did you promise that tree-snake Dovahkiin?!” They fisted their hands into his robes and slammed him into the ground.

He groaned at the impact, but the damnable fool was beginning to smile, eyes bright at finally, finally, doing something too stupid for Laataaz to ignore. “Calm down,” Miraak said, and he reached for them, ignoring how Laataaz flinched away. His hands cupped their shoulders then squeezed. Laataaz felt the pressure of his clawed fingertips under his gloves digging divots into their skin under the armour. With an unseen scowl, they shook him off with a twist of their torso. “It was a simple pact, already paid. And here you are.”

He frowned, and if his disappointment was not accompanied by a smile so insufferably proud of himself Laataaz might have believed it. “Are you not even excited to return to Nirn?”

Nirn. Laataaz’s eyes closed, their grip tightening on the front of his robes convulsively. Yes, Nirn.

It was – loud. They could hear a sweet song, fluttering and chirping – were those birds? Birds, among long grass that rasped and swayed, yes, Nirn had grass, it had birds and skies for them to fly in. It had wind, piercing and sure, that ruffled at the ties of Laataaz’s armour and the thick strings of web that hung from their arms, the wattle of their horns where they speared through the hood of their mask, and tugged the threads of the spiders that curled curious in the balding clumps of what remained of their hair until they moved, clung closer to Laataaz’s skin to seek safety there.

Laataaz tried to breathe in and coughed instead, years of web-dust and silk clogging their throat and nasal passages. The air was so cold it made their teeth hurt. It was intense. It was terrible. It was wonderful. It was to be the doom of the world.

Tentatively, as if they could not quite believe this was not some dream, some nightmare, they tilted their head towards the sky and opened their eyes, just a crack. Light so bright it was agony blazed, seared, struck into Laataaz’s weakened eyes. Laat cried out and clapped their hands over their eyes, fearful, suddenly, that they were burning.

Miraak acted immediately. He swept his cloak over their head, casting them into the darkness. The shadow comforted them, his head the only other, mounding the tent they made with the cloak and their bodies. Laataaz pressed their hands over the eyeholes of their mask until the grooves dug into their gauntlets and hunched from the pain. But they were not burning, no flame licked their cobwebs or dusty skin, no heat save the Last Dragonborn beneath them, the curl of his breath. It was Nirn. It was Nirn. He had freed Laataaz. He had freed the monster that was never supposed to be unchained again.

Miraak’s hands found their shoulders again, rubbing them through their robes. Laat thought it was supposed to be soothing. He came close again, undaunted, as before, by the thrust of daedric horns, the cling of cobwebs, the eyes that glittered like onyx-shards, watering with venom that scored the dirt like fingermarks when it dripped. Undaunted by Laataaz, First Dragonborn, executioner, soul-eater, prisoner-no-longer, his enemy by fate and perhaps one day necessity.

His touch was electric.

“I was raised in the sweet darkness below the earth to a mother betrayed by dead-elves long ago,” Miraak murmured, “I did not need eyes there. My ears and nose saw for me, my feet learnt the paths, and the chaurus I fed from suckling pupa guided me where there was uncertainty. I knew everything. I was not encouraged to come to the land of my father, though I wanted to learn its knowledge, because it is a place of pain and grief. I remember when I first came to walk in the sunlit lands, I was in constant agony. My skin burned. I grew sick with sun-fever, and I knew not where I walked. I thought – what kindness it would be, to have no eyes at all. But I bore this inheritance from my father, because they are useful in Shouting dragons from the sky. Useful, but unnecessary. Your eyes may adjust, but if they do not, I will help you.”

Laataaz groaned. His promise was earthen-solid. It sunk in their belly like a chain. The world was so much, and he was so rich, so incredible, so sincere, Laat wanted to bite into him and steal all that vibrancy and colour for their own. How strong his soul would be, under the thunder of his heart. How unguarded it would be, with this foolish trust he kept extending, like he didn’t know how badly Laataaz wanted to consume him. He had to know. He had to feel the same. Was he not a soul-eater, too?

“I have unlocked this sunlit land now,” Miraak whispered, low and intense, “I am learning of dragons, and soon I will have all the knowledge they possess. And I will know you. Laataaz. The final mercy of the dragons.”

His hands came up their shoulders, stroking over their epaulettes, thumbing the line of their neck, tender with wonder, and Laataaz repressed a shiver. He could feel it, no doubt, where his body was a warm, living thing between their legs, the places where their muscles met through skin and fabric and bone.

“I would know you,” Miraak repeated, and he pulled at the hood of Laataaz’s mask where it was tucked into their robes.

“Niid,” Laataaz breathed, but their shaking hands curled into the eyeholes of their mask did not stop him as he lifted the fabric, bearing Laataaz’s throat to the air for the first time in millennia. To his tentative caress, which pressed there in cartwheels of fire. His touch ran over their back in an indulgence of contact, heavy, drugging rubs over their tight muscles through the robes that made Laataaz’s stinging eyes squeeze shut and their head tip back with low gasps that were pulled from their sternum half-formed, foetal and broken.

“This hurts you,” Miraak observed, and his hands withdrew. “I don’t-“

Laat chased him when he made to pull away, slamming into his chest and pressing him back against the earth. The cloak folded around their heads in silken darkness and they gripped his wrists, trapping those clawed and clever hands between their bodies. They heard his shocked inhale, felt more than understood the heat that bloomed between them. They tightened their grip until they felt the bones bend under their hand and Miraak moaned.

“Ow,” he gasped, and Laataaz fought not to crush him harder.

The vibrations of his voice thrummed through his body, his stomach trembling with his breath, and Laataaz clumsily chased forwards until the metal of their mask bumped his forehead. Their tears dripped from the eyeholes to kiss his cheeks. The bared skin of their throat tingled and itched.

“I should kill you,” one of them whispered, and Laataaz’s dizzy mind was not entirely sure which. Maybe neither of them. Maybe it was just Laataaz’s hunger. “Fight me,” that was Miraak, earnest as snow-melt. “Train me – when you are healed, let me taste your full power-“

“There are better ways to learn the shape of a person,” Laataaz heard themselves say in a voice that shook the earth, that shook him. “If you are so set on this mistake you would trade your soul for it.”

“I don’t understand,” Miraak snapped. His wrists flexed helplessly against their grip. Laataaz squeezed him tighter, until his breathing paled with pain.

“You have won me from my Prince for now, but you will die to my poison before you triumph over me,” they promised him.

“I need to learn to defeat Alduin,” he said stubbornly. Laataaz growled.

“You don’t know what you need, foolish boy.” Laataaz’s hunger thrummed between them, and they felt him react to it, their words, both, with a moan that they fought to ignore. “That, I will teach you...”

They brushed their mask down lower and let their mouth stretch open, yearningly, venom pooling out their mouth and dripping over the lip. It burned him where it fell, marked his skin with its sting, and Miraak hissed.

“…even if it kills you.”

[greatguilt]

STATISTICS —

NAME: Miguel “Miggy” O’Hara. AGE: Twenty-six. FACECLAIM:  David Castañeda. ALIAS: Spider-Man. POWERS/SKILLS: Fangs — possesses elongated canine teeth but he cannot retract them. it’s hard for him to speak and hide them at the same time. his fangs produce a non-lethal venom that will paralyze his victim when they’re bitten. Talons — also possesses short retractable talons on the tips of all his fingers and toes. they are razor sharp. Organic Webbing Generation  — which he refers to sometimes as having spinnerets in both of his forearms. which means he doesn’t need web shooters since his body produces organic webs that are chemically identical to real spider silk. he uses them to swing from building to building. Everything else — genius-level intellect, accelerated healing factor, aging at a slow rate due to longevity, accelerated vision, superhuman durability, superhuman stamina, superhuman reflexes, superhuman agility, superhuman speed, accelerated decoy, superhuman strength, computer hacking, skilled hand-to-hand combatant, marksmanship and fluent in speaking spanish as well as english. ALLIANCE: Web Warriors and solo. THREAT LEVEL (OUT OF TEN): Ten. HISTORY FILE (LINK WIKI): Dossier. NOTABLE CHANGES FROM 2012 TO THE TIMELINE THEY WERE PULLED FROM: Miguel will be based off comics! He’s from Earth-928. He will have his holographic personal assistant Lyla with him in the past. She’s an artificial intelligence and her  hologram will always appear yellow in color. She’s unlike anything anyone has seen before and has developed a personality of her own over the years. Lyla aids Miguel in all of his adventures with as Spider-Man or in his personal life. He has a special device that connects them together. He’ll be wearing his blue and red suit!  He was wearing it underneath his clothes before getting brought to the past. He doesn’t know it’s a completely different universe from his own yet though. Miguel’s eyes are vibrant red and sensitive to light so he often wears sunglasses. I’m also going to toss out the canon that his timeline was destroyed in recent storylines. It still exists, thank you. One more thing. He says ‘shock’ instead of ‘fuck’. It’s a future thing. LAST MEMORY BEFORE ENDING UP IN NYC, 2012: Celebrating New Years Eve and waiting to see what the year 2100 will bring.

@rewrittenintro

QUESTIONAIRE —

How are you feeling? Physically and mentally.

“I’m shocking great. Lyla already did my daily bio reading. Apparently I’ve been exerting myself but what else is new? I’m stuck eighty-seven years in the past and anyone would be stressed.”

Where are you living? The same place you lived in 2012, or displaced to a random apartment? Explain to the best of your ability.

“I’m currently sharing an apartment with Scott Lang. It’s better than living along and definitely better than the shitty motel room I was staying in when I arrived. There was bullet holes in the door and I wasn’t sleeping well on that stiff mattress. It’s nice having company and Scott is a good guy. It’s nice having a space of my own . . . and I told him about my secret too.”

What do YOU think we should do about the situation at hand? Try to go back home? The original mission of stopping Thanos? Rewrite the entire story?

“I think getting everyone back to their respective timelines should be one of the goals at when this is all said and done. Who is Thanos? Shock. Why is there always another supervillain?”

What will you DO about the situation at hand?

“Since I’m stuck here I’ll help do the right thing or whatever.”

Is there anything that you think needs to be done?

“My main priority since getting trapped here is trying to figure out how to build something useful out of this ancient technology. Lyla has been a great help on this journey the last few weeks. She’s my assistant . . . a holographic artificial intelligence.”

If need be, would you be willing to team up with the government and SHEILD to recoup and help the situation at hand?

“Shock no. I don’t trust SHIELD. Where I’m from the government issued an order for all SHIELD agents to track down heroes and execute them. I don’t know what happened after they had a change in staff but I’ve seen enough back in 2099 to leave me wary.”

What are your worries?

“What will yesterday do to tomorrow?”

What do you think are the pros about this situation?

“There’s positives about this situation? If I really have to pick one then it’s nice to see Nueva York when it isn’t falling apart. The lack of flying cars makes swinging around the buildings easier. Less civilians to worry about.”

Anything else?

“No. Are we done?”

[boethiah]

ANYWAY since you're here for a bit, and you have really interesting insight on lore, i would like to know if you have any particular theories or headcanons about the great house telvanni you'd like to talk about? i love those insane bastards and it's always very fun to hear about what other folks think on them

house telvanni headcanons!

aside from magical supplies, one of their main exports is textiles-- particularly specialty textiles such as those made from spider-silk, spider daedra silk, and mushroom cloth. telvanni clothing is seen as the standard for high fashion, and the most expensive clothing is telvanni-made 

they aren’t actually as atheistic as one might believe. they approach the daedra as equals and potential collaborators, yes, but many telvanni wizards are on friendly terms with daedra and work with them often

the word for a lesbian in morrowind is ‘telmoran’ in honour of mistress dratha

theyre probably the house that cares the least about bloodlines or inheritence, with very few high-ranking wizards opting to have children at all. anything inherited, be it property or status, is seen as undeserved, and it’s considered embarrassing to have received any benefits based on who you’re related to. artificially creating (or just adopting) children is very popular when one does feel compelled to have them, partially due to this mindset 

the temple has very little influence within telvanni territory, so the social functions that it usually performs-- public education, charity, supporting the homeless or those who can’t work-- fall to the wizard presiding over each town. some are very good at providing for their towns, but others not so much. 

telvanni CUISINE, and in particular, telvanni banquets, are some of the most infamous in morrowind. food is seen as a way for the wizard to flaunt their alchemical and conjuration skills, so anyone invited to a lavish dinner at a telvanni tower will be treated to food beyond their wildest dreams. dishes range from clannfear steaks and salads rendered from highly toxic components, to aetherial ectoplasm that you can eat twice, to dishes that appear in blasts of coloured flame. a talented telvanni chef gets paid like a king

codes are somewhat of a national pastime among the telvanni-- they love to invent, and break, different ways of encoding messages. any halfway decent mage has at least five different ways to make their letters unreadable to the uninitiated 

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Spider silk made by photosynthetic bacteria

Spiders produce amazingly strong and lightweight threads called draglines that are made from silk proteins. Although they can be used to manufacture a number of useful materials, getting enough of the protein is difficult because only a small amount can be produced by each tiny spider. In a new study published in Communications Biology, a research team led by Keiji Numata at the RIKEN Center for Sustainable Resource Science (CSRS) reported that they succeeded in producing the spider silk using photosynthetic bacteria. This study could open a new era in which photosynthetic bio-factories stably output the bulk of spider silk.

In addition to being tough and lightweight, silks derived from arthropod species are biodegradable and biocompatible. In particular, spider silk is ultra-lightweight and is as tough as steel. "Spider silk has the potential to be used in the manufacture of high-performance and durable materials such as tear-resistant clothing, automobile parts, and aerospace components," explains Choon Pin Foong, who conducted this study. "Its biocompatibility makes it safe for use in biomedical applications such as drug delivery systems, implant devices, and scaffolds for tissue engineering." Because only a trace amount can be obtained from one spider, and because breeding large numbers of spiders is difficult, attempts have been made to produce artificial spider silk in a variety of species.

Read more.