#lacquered threads

[tanuki-kimono]

Luscious purple velvet kimono coat with botan (peony) - probably woven-in urushi (metallic/lacquered threads)

[moononmyfloor]

Hi Producer (正好遇见你) Infodump

Disclaimer: I have no idea about the accuracy of the information shared in the drama, I'm merely transcribing for future reference purposes. Proceed with caution!

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Ep 26-27: Stage Costumes and Props

Stage outfits worn when performing Chinese traditional operas, since the Song and Yuan dynasties, a fixed pattern has been established gradually. Characters with different titles, social statuses, and personalities dress up differently so the audience can tell the disparities. Thus, there's a saying in the industry that a torn costume is better than the wrong costume. Following the rapid development of Chinese traditional operas during the Ming dynasty, the quality of headgear, costumes, and boots were improved considerably. Their design focused more on elegance and luxury.

Production of Suzhou stage costumes and props took off during the middle of the Ming dynasty. They're closely related to the development of Kunqu opera.

Designs, also known as outlines- In response to the different characters, various costume designs will be made. Dragons and phoenixes, flowers, Ruyi pattern, flowing pattern, and so on are commonly seen in such costumes.

Stitching, a process to create holes on the paper sample according to the design, to ease the foundation process.

Foundation process, a process where the foundation is applied on the fabric that they're going to embroider on through the holes.

Embroidering, a sewing process that uses threads of different colors. For stage costumes, the dazzling gold and silver threads are commonly used.

Flattening, a process where you apply glue evenly onto the fabric with a glue knife to flatten the embroidered patches evenly.

Cutting, a process where you cut the entire fabric and embroidered patches into desired sizes.

Completing, a process where you employ all kinds of sewing and gluing techniques to complete the costume.

Currently, all the stage costumes and props include headgear, boots, weapons, accessories, and headwear. These six main types cover over 1,000 kinds.

It's a shame that most of the crafts have gone extinct but as much as possible textual research of stage costumes is done, such as visiting museums in many cities to observe the preserved stage costumes in hopes of replicating something up to the standards of which of the Qing dynasty. That's a difficult task as the exquisite and luxurious stage costumes back then were produced by imperial craftsmen.

This episode truly felt like the epitome ofYu Zheng going Nudge, nudge, aren't I the most awesome costume drama producer? especially with the characters saying stuff like this lol🤭

Right now, there are stage prop and costume factories that take custom orders from film production crews. Celebrities may visit for personal requirements and many others out of admiration. To preserve texture and quality, outfits are made by hand for most parts. They have warehouses for costume design manuscripts. Best attempts are made to replicate the stage costumes of the past within reason such copper jewelry plated with silver as it costs too much if made with silver entirely. And handicrafts like velvet flowers take up a long time and has high labor costs. So most costume drama crews prefer a cheaper option like beaded flowers.

When an actor appears on the stage with these outfits on, the audience will know the title and the personality at first glance. It's completely different from some modern TV series. They don't dress in accordance with dynasties or characters. A random and wrong costume may look fashionable, but it won't fit the character and the plot itself. And overdoing the designs brings underwhelming results as when you are performing wearing them, overtly vibrant and exquisite designs will steal the spotlight from you. It's not the glorious look that decides its value. Anyway, we don't understand them.

I liked the following part a lot tho, it felt quite reasonable and moving. Especially as someone with 2x as my NORMAL watching speed, I know I still care for the meta details and the reason I watch fast is not because I don't care for the effort and research that went into a production.

Next year, online video platforms will launch a 4X speed function for all TV dramas. One might think that no one will be interested in Chinese operas is they've never spent time in a traditional Chinese theater before. There are rarely fans of Chinese opera nowadays.

It takes tens of procedures to making a stage costume. We need to focus on every single detail and can't rush things. But people are always in a rush. Making props and costumes by hand isn't efficient, and there's little demand. Many people wonder if the younger generation is willing to pick up this craft? What if such an excellent craft does go extinct? People always say that productions like this are slow and can't adapt to the era of machine production.

Many adapted historical tales are quite interesting not just because it touches on people's sentimentality. If their sentimentality can be used advantageously, that means people are still reminiscing about the past. However, this method will come to an end one day as a show is just a show. It has no way to save all those crafts that are going to vanish soon. Even if all these crafts will disappear after a century, we still hope that people will know that we once spent half a day just to make a fold or spent one and a half years just so we could produce one piece of stage costume.

What do we call this? We call this a craft. We call this a legacy.

China is a country with a big population. As long as there's one person who likes traditional crafts and is willing to learn, the legacy won't disappear.

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Rose-purple satin female Kao costume

Embroidered with phoenix and peony patterns in flat gold that was made during the Guangxu period of the Qing dynasty. Every detail has been carefully recorded so the future generation could refer to it. The Chinese opera industry is developing. There are many newly adapted versions of historical operas. When designing costumes, aesthetic standards of the younger audience and the requirements of various kinds of stages both are taken into consideration.

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Cixi watching the opera

-Showcasing the contrast of costumes and performances of Southern and Northern operas

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Beijing silk figurines

To make these, one must know sculpting, painting, and design of outfits. Similar to stage costumes and props, it's a fusion of many traditional crafts. But not many are aware of this. Most in the field do this as a hobby because in China, people aren't aware that these are not the work of craftsmen, but artists.

It got the name because the whole figurine is made with premium silk cloth and silk gauze. Beijing silk figurines were invented back in the Tang dynasty in Northern Fujian, when people used paper to make animal dolls. The craft continued to develop until the Song dynasty. People started using silk to make human figurines.

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More Misc. Crafts

Featured in the timestamped vid below such as:

Sandpainting, Suzhou Embroidery, Hokkien Lacquer Thread Sculptures

Many consider that sand animation originated in Hungary. Although Ferenc Cako did turn sand animation into a modern performance, traditional sand animation originated in China. During the Song Dynasty, there were stories of people writing on sand and so on.

Suzhou embroidery is one of the Four Great Embroideries of China along with Hunan's Xiang embroidery, Guangdong's Yue embroidery, and Sichuan's Shu embroidery. The Suzhou embroidery is detailed and subtle. In May 2006, it was listed as a national intangible cultural heritage.

Lacquer thread sculpture originated in Quanzhou of Fujian. It has existed for over 1400 years. The craftsmen must use the fine thread of lacquer and specialized techniques to create these resplendent patterns. Every piece is one of a kind.

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Making Liuli Glass

The ancient process of making colored glaze was very complex. The colored glaze was born in the fire and drowned in water. It takes dozens of processes to complete such as: detailing the wax pattern, casting the plaster mold, coloring, firing in the kiln.

Normally, steps involved in the making of colored glazed are designing, making of silica gel mold, making and detailing of wax patterns, the making of plaster molds, and being fired in a kiln, removing the plaster mold, sanding, and polishing.

Timestamped Documentary segments:

Props and Costumes Craft

Of Traditional Opera Theatre

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More Hi Producer posts

[itsabouttimex2]

Eclipse Kings

Part Three: Wild Dawn

(Part One: Mountain Monkeys) (Part Two: Barbed Dusk) (Part Three: You Are Here)

(Extra One)

For almost all his life, Sun Wukong had never really known “want”, not for more than the few moments it took to decide he was going to pursue some fleeting and new desire.

The land itself seemed to conspire to his favor- he was borne to a thriving mountain of surplus and luxury, sparkling stream racing down each hill, bountiful orchards with boughs so heavy they dipper near to the earth. Even the horizon was generous, spanning sunrises to color his every lavish breakfast and hosting a banner of glittering stars to lull him to sleep.

He wanted for nothing, because when the world would not bend to his whims, he simply bent it himself- to the end result of power, luxury, and adoration.

His life was fraught with the inevitable turning of blades, stuffed full of motion, conflict, and inevitable triumph. His troop grew by the year, Flower Fruit Mountain knew nothing of suffering, and his treasury was brimming with relics.

A demon crowned eternal king of a flourishing mountain, untouchable and immovable.

What more could a monkey want?

Company, as it turned out. The varied little simians scattered all through the trees and bushes of his mountain were wonderful, of course- he cherished them all like his own children, and doted on each and every one of the little menaces.

But he still wanted more.

—-——————————————————————

“That, little mortal, is when I joined my Sworn Brotherhood!”

The Great Sage Equal to Heaven smiles warmly at his recited memories, claws lightly sifting through a large collection of traditional clothing.

“We were going to lead a siege on that stuck-up realm of Celestials, but my darling moonbeam had an even better idea- why not start our own kingdoms? Instead of teaching those stuffy old fools how to respect us, we could just show them up and take all their little worshipping mortals away!”

You don’t say a word in turn, still bundled up in a fluffy towel, sitting on the nearest chair, idly watching through blank eyes. Since you hadn’t been willing to walk or respond, Wukong had scooped you up with a sigh and hurried off to his and Macaque’s shared changing room, given permission to pick out some old clothes of theirs to give you.

“Of course, all of the stuff that was supposed to be boring was, uh… a total mess. Y’know, like deciding on territories, drawing borders, figuring out taxes—ugh. Mortals do not like taxes. Sure like ‘em better than being eaten by demons, though.” He chuckles at his own words, shaking his head as if to dismiss the unpleasant memories of bureaucracy. Wukong pulls out a black ceremonial robe embroidered with purple thread and holds it up against you, squinting as if he’s considering how it might look.

“…no. My sweet moon wouldn’t like you wearing this.”

“…s’it “too nice” for me?”

“…you mortals really aren’t the best with self-esteem, are you? No, little villager- it’s because he wore something like this when we were married. After that, he started commissioning seamstresses to make him more clothes like that robe… the actual thing is framed in a glass box over our bed. I don’t understand why Mac wanted that, but I can’t ever say no to him…”

Wukong’s voice trails off, tone softening as his gaze drifted to the ceiling. A smile plays on his lips, barely restrained, as he’s replaying his dearest memory of Macaque on repeat. You shift uncomfortably, unsure how to respond, the weight of his affection for his moonlit partner pressing against the silence.

He breaks it himself, but only after walking across the room and popping open lacquered wood chest, breaking the preserving sigil printed across it .

“You know,” says the king, his claws tapping the gleaming pauldron of gold within, “I wore this when we got married.”

He turns to the side, catches the fact that you’ve perked up even a little, and continues.

“It was the nicest thing I owned at the time- most of my outfits were skinned animals and stolen rags. This is something my brothers had given me, so it was the nicest thing I had that wasn’t my staff.”

Wukong’s fingers linger on the golden armor, tone rich with an ancient nostalgia. “I wasn’t one for fancy clothes back then- still coming around to it now- but I was even worse with it back then. I wanted to go in my tiger skirt and my old boots! But my brothers? Oh, they insisted: “You’re getting married- you can’t just show up looking like a bandit on your wedding day!” So they gave me this, and a nice red robe with a ton of silly characters embroidered into it- it’s framed right next to my mate’s robe, now.”

Say something. You need to say something. You can’t just mumble and mutter if you want to stay in a king’s good graces, can you?

“…do you… remember your vows?”

He perks with a smile, intrigued by the random question, entirely missing how dangerously close you are to cracking.

“Well, if that’s want you want to know, how about I tell you about the whole ceremony? Here, I’ll lay out how it went…”

——————————————————————

Macaque shuffles in place for a moment, old meekness returning to him- his hands twitch, and the notes smoothly inked onto the sleeve of his silk robe catch in the light, drawing his aureate eyes downwards. The crowd all around is nervous mortals and drunk demons, dressed in red or black or gold, held at peace mostly by his eager “brothers”. On Azure’s lap and shoulders are several children, more interested in his blade and snout than the ceremony. He’s smiling, more at ease than any other here.

The others for the most part are doing alright. Peng is preoccupied with their drink, casually allowing themselves to be marveled at by a blacksmith and a jeweler- though neither are allowed to touch, both mortals are fervently etching the gilded designs into their paper scrolls. The avian flaps those glimmering wings on occasion, causing streaks of light to flash over the modest venue, catching across the polished tiles.

Yellowtusk sits on a carved stone chair, marking the attendants in a neat ledger, made oversized to fit his hands. Several troops of Long-Tailed and Crab-Eating Macaques play on his trunk and tusks, their little fingers deftly taking hold in the cracks of his thick skin to ascend it. They don’t ever distract him for more than a few seconds, even when the youngest cubs forget their manners and start chirping in his ears.

The largest of their Brotherhood stands at attention in the doorway, toying with the straps of his battle axe. His face is painted with a rarely seen apprehension, looking back and forth over the room on occasion. Sometimes his gaze stills on a veil-shrouded woman with painted lips, and then he smiles for a moment.

The Demon Bull King is not nearly as subtle of a man as he thinks.

Not that it matters- when, for all that (which is very much) his Sworn Brothers know he’s courting a Celestial Maiden, they’ve chosen to keep an oath of silence on the matter.

(“He’s our big guy,” as Wukong had put it during one meeting months ago. “And we want that goofball to be happy.”)

(All of them- even Peng- had toasted to that notion, in the general direction of the bull’s empty chair.)

The mortals are safe. His brothers are content. He can do this.

Once more the dried notes on his sleeve catch Macaque’s attention, snapping him from the venue and to his golden love.

One last time he goes over them, dedicating those practiced words to memory.

He takes a breath, and turns to the audience.

“My mate-to-be is… molten gold, kissed by the rising sun. Beautiful is a shallow word to describe him- he is a masterpiece, a divine work of art carved by the heavens themselves. His eyes hold the all the world’s fire within them, blazing with the brilliance of a thousand sunsets. His laughter is a hymn to freedom itself, a melody I pray to hear every day for the rest of my life. When I look at him, I don’t just see a king, but the very heart of my existence, the axis upon which my world turns. He is my sun, my storm, my sanctuary, my everything.”

Several of the softer mortals are touched by his speech, lifting their cotton sleeves to the very corners of their eyes. Others only lightly clap, still uncomfortable at being called to the union.

Macaque does not have time to look away from before Wukong’s ginger-furred paws clasp onto his shoulders, holding tight.

There are no notes, no hours of reciting, no time spent with helpful Sworn Brothers to listen and offer advice, no matter how snarky- Sun Wukong simply turns from the crowd and offers himself.

“Macaque… I love you. I want you to be my mate forever. Until the sun goes dark.” Wukong's tail flicks behind him, expression softening with a rare blush. "Because... you're part of my story, bud. You’ve always been a part of it. And I'm tired of pretending like I can write the rest of it without you. Be mine forever and let’s be mates.”

The world is blurry, at least to Macaque. Nine and a half seconds prior he had thought there’d be some disappointment to push through, delivered an insincere joke or a vow written by another’s hand.

But there was only been Sun Wukong, love of his life, smiling at him.

“I will be your mate,” he chokes out, “forever. Until the sun goes dark.”

——————————————————————

“We’ve never been apart since then,” he purrs, dragging one claw over a hanfu the color of a sky on a gentle morning, toying with the white sash to untie it. “Not even for a day.”

Before you have a chance to respond, he plucks up the garment and holds it out to you. The size difference between him and the outfit is comical, and you wonder why these two demon kings have it in the first place.

“This should fit you, bud! Here, let’s get that towel off-“

You scream.

It’s not particularly loud or long, or even desperate- but it’s a scream all the same.

Worse still for yourself, you take this hysteric moment to lay on some shaky remand.

“NO! No more! Just stop touching me! I don’t- I d-don’t like it! You’re- you’re twice my size and you keep- you and him are always getting in my face and- a-and putting your hands on me, and I- I’m am so, so sick of it! I am not an o-object! I am a person! I am a person! I-“

“Quiet. Now.”

Wukong’s golden eyes narrow as he stands there, the weight of his presence pressing down on the room like a thundercloud ready to burst. His tail flicks sharply, but his voice remains measured.

…there are tears rolling down your eyes now, lost in the fluffy expanse of the towel around your body, sopping uselessly away as the king takes two footsteps to your form, frowning.

Not that it does anything to settle the rapid beat of your heart, crushed by the newly oppressive atmosphere.

“…you’re scared. I understand that. And maybe my moonbeam and I, we’ve been a little too hands on. That’s on us. But this my pagoda, and I did not build it by hand so that a little guest could yell at me. You know that you’re not a prisoner here. The doors aren’t locked, and there aren’t guards stationed outside them… now. I’ll let you get dressed- alone- and then you can eat. And…

“And no more touching without your permission. Okay?”

“…m’sorry. F-for yelling.”

“…I’m not mad,” he lies, one hand shifting to condescendingly pat you on the head. “I forget- my brothers, and my mate, too- we yaoguai just aren’t the same as mortals. You little things are scared too easily, and break so quickly.”

Something about hearing that is humiliating, but you don’t dare argue with him. Instead, you hunch your shoulders and cling to the towel, sniveling down at the floor.

Wukong’s frown softens the longer he watches you cry, all the sharpest edges of his irritation melting away into something closer to pity.

“I’ll leave it here. Call if you get lost looking for the kitchen.”

His words are painfully curt, and then the king is gone, golden beads and silk robes swishing behind him with each step.

You were never close, and only ever tangentially in the “good graces” of these kings. It’s not like you’ve shattered some precious bond.

But you still feel bad.

You wouldn’t, not usually. But as you unwrap the towel and begin to dress yourself in the lovely hanfu left draped over the chair nearest to you, the aches and pains of yesterday’s chase down the mountain weigh on you, just as MK’s new identity and newer happiness strike a deep point of insecurity- that you simply weren’t good enough to take care of him.

You weren’t good enough to provide for him anymore.

You wanted to believe you were more than them- strong enough to survive on your own, to fight your way through the world with MK in tow. But the truth was harder to face: Sun Wukong and the Six-Eared Macaque were meteoric gods, and you were just a mortal caught in the tides of their myth.

And where MK was thriving in this ecliptic chaos, you instead were already cracking under pressure after only a day spent before the kings.

…there’s a lovely silk pouch, dyed the color of new lavender blooms, hanging from the hanfu- you only notice it after tying the sash into a decent bow. The soft texture grounds your tumultuous thoughts, and a powerful aroma steadily drifts from within.

You fiddle with the tie and open the sash, revealing a dried bundle of orange blossoms tightly tied together, each stem marked with a glittering mystic sigil- 提高.

Whatever scent they would’ve had already was amplified by the marking, causing a heavy flow of fresh floral scent to ooze from the little purse.

You lift it and take a deep breath from the bag, allowing the veil of citrus aroma to utterly cloud your mind, providing it a much needed fog to rest under.

The soothing haze is slow to fade, even after you’ve pulled away and sealed the bag, but eventually you are left with only your steadied thoughts in the ornate chamber, amongst fine silks and polished wood, treasures of centuries past hung casually about It’s beautiful—almost too much so.

A reminder that this world of theirs is not the same of yours.

But you would not stop trying to survive in it.

You couldn’t.

[amjustagirl]

chapter 4

pairing: hoshina soshiro x f! reader

genre: romance, angst

wc: 5k

summary: you've loved soshiro since you were seven. he will always place his duty above you.

chapt 1 / chapt 2 / chapt 3 / chapt 4 / chapt 5

When you blink open your eyes, you find yourself back in the Hoshina family estate. 

The garden is exactly as you remember it. Bonsai trees, neatly manicured. The white gravel ocean raked with ripple lines. Heat shimmers off the ground, harsh summer sun bearing down on the tiled roof. A young man with dark hair and sad, violet eyes sits across you. 

“Soshiro”, you cry, fumbling to your feet. 

He looks right through you even when you’re standing right before him. 

He’s wearing the navy hakama he reserves for formal occasions, the family crest embroidered in gold thread on the back, a ceremonial katana strapped to his hip. Something’s about to happen, you realise, the compound bustling with servants carrying paper lanterns. No one pays you any notice as you float behind him down the familiar corridors of the house, a ghost. 

His father approaches, severe lines running through his forehead. “You know your duty”, he claps his son’s shoulder with a heavy hand. 

Soshiro’s shoulders slump, an invisible weight bearing down on him. 

His duty awaits outside the estate’s gates. 

A young woman, clearly noble born, waits for them to greet her with her chin in the air, dolled up in matrimonial white, surrounded by a retinue of servants. She tilts her chin higher to assess her groom as he offers her his arm before bowing her head demurely, letting him help her up the stairs. 

The sun in your eyes forces you to turn away. Another woman catches your gaze, the profile of her face backlit in the blue-grey dusk. Rough hands, a cheap, cotton yukata, she hides in the shade. Her anguish is apparent in the defeated curve of her mouth. 

She’s you, you realise, with even sadder eyes. 

This is a dream, you tell yourself. A shitty, crappy excuse of a dream that you probably caused by drinking one too many cans of beer. You really should take better to maintain a healthy REM cycle, maybe pick up some meditation or exercise, because heaven knows your psyche will suffer if your subconsciousness decides to torture you in your sleep too.  

You close your eyes. 

You still don’t find yourself back in your bed. Instead, the stench of manure hits you, then the scratch of straw under your feet. That sad girl - you, in another life perhaps, kneels before the same dark haired boy, Soshiro, still as a statue.  

“The horse is saddled. We can ride somewhere, far away where no one knows either of our names, leave all of this behind. You don’t have to get married to a woman you don’t love -” 

He’s carved of marble in the moonlight, doesn’t move to meet her gaze, not even when she tugs at his sleeve. “I am but a second son, but even I know my duty to my clan.” 

“And what about love?” she asks. “What about me?” 

Neither of them notice you when you tumble out of the stable into the night. But there’s nothing but darkness looming before you, the moon nowhere to be seen, and when you turn back, the stable has disappeared. In its place, a familiar, wooden hut, where a fire grows. The heat of the forge stings your face, ash flying, the smell of burning steel in the air. 

This time, Soshiro’s in the lacquered leather of a samurai warrior from centuries past. “Is it ready?” he directs his question at the woman in the forge. 

Wordlessly, she hands him the sword in her hand, red hot from hammer and tongs. He weighs it in his hand, swings it once, twice, flashing quicksilver in the dim light of the blacksmith’s forge. You recognise the blade. You’ve seen it hung up in one of many sitting rooms in the Hoshina estate, captioned as belonging to a Hoshina ancestor who never returned home. 

You understand why her voice quivers when she calls out to him before he leaves. “My lord”, she says. “Will you ever lay down your sword?” 

“Perhaps in another life”, he replies. 

In the shadow of the forge, the violets in his eyes wither and die. 

You cannot bear to watch this play out before you again and again, a twisted loop you’re powerless to stop. There is nothing you can do to shock yourself awake, a ghost in every lifetime you freefall through, so bone weary, you stop running, sink to your knees. Wherever you are, the nightmares stop once you close your eyes. The damp grass is cool against your back, the darkness becomes soothing. It’s easy to lose yourself to a deep, undisturbed sleep. 

(wake up) 

The thrum of your heartbeat starts to still. You think you hear a faint echo. It sounds like Soshiro.

For the first time in your life, you hesitate to answer. 

(please, wake up)

“But it’s comfortable here”, you say to no one at all. “I’m so tired.” 

The neverending grind of work, of long hours spent hunched over glowering flames and complicated weapon blueprints. The dull ache of heartbreak, the painful lesson of learning to be okay alone. 

“Let me sleep”, you whisper. 

The darkness holds you close, blankets you. It’s too easy to let yourself just be, no one to disappoint, no one who disappoints. You let yourself be pulled beneath the tide, the endless ebb and flow lulling you into a dreamless slumber. 

Perhaps you could be content like this. 

Perhaps not. You think of the menagerie of plants you’ve gathered, they depend on you for food and water. There’s a pottery class on Sunday that you’ve been excited to attend, an abstract pot that you want to attempt. You’re supposed to meet your mother for tea, you’re looking forward to feasting on peaches, in season in the dying weeks of summer. 

Your eyelids are still heavy with the weight of sleep, but you force them open. A streak of pain that shoots through your right side, but you slowly sit up anyway. A sea of hydrangeas,  shimmering violet-blue in the early morning light stretches before you.

An achingly familiar voice calls your name. You lift your face to meet the rising sun, feeling its warmth flicker through you. 

Your heart begins to hum. 

You’re not in your own bed when you crack your eyes open. 

The room is too white, too pin-neat. There are clear tubes running from your arms, bandages restricting even your slightest movement, not that you really can do much other than shift about the too-narrow bed you’ve found yourself in, the sudden brightness disorienting you. 

“Oh!”, an unfamiliar voice exclaims. “Call the doctor, she’s awake!” 

Your head threatens to split open. It hurts too much to stay awake. 

You fall back into a dreamless sleep.

You drift in and out of consciousness after that, the pull of sleep still irresistible, but you stay awake for longer periods of time. Doctors poke and prod at you, nurses fuss over you. It’s hard to recall any conversations you have during this time, your memories melding almost into your dreams. 

People ask you questions about your name, your age, where you’re from. It feels as if you’re stuck underwater, it’s a struggle to gasp for enough air at times to answer them, but you think you find enough brain cells to rub together in the cotton wool jumble in your head, mumble the right answers so they go away. 

Your parents show up to visit you. 

‘’Llo”, you mutter. Your father looks strangely old, your mother tired. 

You’re pleased that your mother brings chopped peaches for you, less so when you realise you have no ability to swallow solid food just yet. They disappear for a hushed conversation with the doctors, leaving you with little distraction so you drop back off to sleep. 

The next time you wake, the room is dark. 

Even in the dim glow of machines beeping, you make out the faint outline of a boy you know too well, curled up uncomfortably in a plastic chair. “S‘ro”, you mumble, half asleep. 

A flurry of movement. He appears by your uninjured side, staring at you wide-eyed, as if he doesn’t believe you won’t disappear. You wonder if he’s another figment of your dreams because he stands so still drinking his fill of you, until he remembers to breathe again. 

“Hey”, he says hoarsely.

“Mmph”, you grunt. In your vague, rambling train of thoughts, you register surprise that he’s even here. “S’ work?”

His laugh is wet. “Are you seriously askin’ me ‘how’s work’ right now?” 

You frown. Why - why is Soshiro even here? 

“I’m here for you, silly”, a warm hand settles on your left arm. “Go back to sleep. I’ll seeya later.” 

You start to stay awake for longer stretches at a time. 

Your parents gently fill you in on your situation. You were touch and go for a while, your mother recounts tearfully, your head injury making the doctors doubt you’d ever wake. You had to be cut open to stop internal bleeding in your gut, fix a multitude of shattered bones in your right hip and leg. Burns, on your shoulder and arm which required skin grafts, extensive medication to keep infection at bay. 

Everyone treats you like you’re made out of glass even as your condition steadily improves, aided by the wonders of kaiju regenerative technology. Your parents fuss over you like a child, tucking you in too tight beneath starched hospital sheets. The nurses refuse to let you shower, only allowing you sponge baths which you detest. 

Soshiro’s the worst of the lot. 

At first it's endearing how protective and sweet he is. The doctors give him a wide berth, most of the nurses terrified of him, though he swears that he’s been utterly polite when you question him about it. He doesn’t allow you to do anything yourself, not even hold your own cup of water when you drink. Your bedside is overflowing with colourful greeting cards, half of them signed by him, and he brings you a fresh bouquet of flowers during each visit. 

“That boy is besotted with you”, one of the nurses who isn’t intimidated by Soshiro trills in with her unsolicited opinion. “It’s adorable.” 

He’s not”, you deny, frowning. “We’re just friends.”  

It’s a little too much. The only visitor who doesn’t smother you is Sochiro, who snaps back to his usual self the minute you show a little of your usual snark. “Did you break your head too?” you ask, when he arrives bearing a hamper of fruit. 

“Impertinent brat”, he snaps back. “I’ll have you know my father put me up to this.” 

You grin. “I suppose that’s where your brother got his manners from. Pity you don’t have any.”

He glowers at you, but doesn’t storm out of the room. Instead, he brandishes a small, silver knife and starts peeling fruit. “I never wanted a younger sibling”, he grouses. “Should’ve dropped Soshiro in the drain the minute he was born, then I’d never have to deal with your smart mouth -.” 

“Aww”, you coo. “Hoshina Sochiro, Captain of the Sixth Division, getting soft in your old age.” 

“Shut it”, he snaps, while stuffing perfect wedges of fruit into your palm. 

It reminds you of the easy friendship you had with Soshiro, not the way he’s behaving, almost as if he feels anything more than friendship for you - which he’s confirmed to your face that he mostly does not. It confuses you, the tender way he treats you, the lingering stares when he thinks you’re asleep, and you much prefer him to go back to the way he was before. 

“Stop it!” you finally burst, when his smothering becomes too overwhelming. “Treat me like your friend - not like I’m some glass figurine you’re trying to keep safe.”

A plastic chair screeches back. He stares at you. “Do you even realise how close you were to dyin’?” 

“Sorta”, you reply, though some gaps remain empty in your memories, “but I’m okay now, and ‘sides, what happened was just bad luck -”

“No it wasn’t just luck”, he replies. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Something shutters behind his eyes. “It’s my fault you’re hurt.” He angles himself away from you. “I crashed into your building.” 

“The kaiju threw you into the building”, you correct. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He lunges forward to grip your bed rail, his sudden intensity scaring you. “I could’ve been the cause of you dyin’-”

“My head’s pretty hard”, you try to diffuse the building tension with a joke. “Would take more than a fallin’ building to kill me.”

He makes a strangled sound of outrage in his throat. “Don’t. Just - don’t.” 

His tone is devoid of its usual lightness. He’s - he’s angry, scared, face twisting into a scowl, body coiling, as if preparing for an attack. “You’re upset”, you murmur. “Don’t be.” 

“You could’ve died.”

“Hey”, you beckon him forward, lifting your uninjured hand off the bed to place it on top of his. He grasps at it, a drowning man clutching at a lifeline. 

“It’s okay”, you say gently. “I’m okay.” 

“Promise me you’ll stay safe.”

“I’ll try my best”, you offer. 

An angry sound escapes through his clenched jaw, his face strained. You brush the skin of his wrist with your thumb until the too-quick staccato of his pulse steadies. 

“Go to sleep”, he finally says. “Just stay safe.” 

After that, something shifts. Soshiro resumes the mantle of his chaotic, goofy self. 

“I’m gonna yell at you when you’re better”, Soshiro huffs the next time he visits. “A daikaiju -it was a nine on the fortitude scale, y’know - decides to attack near you, and you not only choose to stay put, you run back into a collapsing building for whatever reason -” 

“I was trying to save some of the blades -” 

“How about you focus on savin’ your own damn skin -” 

You sniff, deliberately closing your eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.” 

“Oi”, he grounds out. “Stop pretendin’.” 

The reappearance of the playful banter you’re used to sharing with him puts you back at ease. “Don’t you need to sleep too?” you ask, staring pointedly at the purple smudges beneath his eyes. “In a bed, not a hospital chair that’s going to give you a crooked neck.” 

“S’fine”, he always replies. “Still way more comfortable than sleepin’ out in a forest durin’ kaiju hunts.” 

“Still”, you insist. “You don’t have to visit me so often. I know how busy you are with work.” 

He squints at you. “Do you not want me to be here?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it -”

“Sometimes work can take a backseat.” 

You beckon him forward, place a hand against his forehead. “No fever”, you pronounce. “That’s odd -  the Hoshina Soshiro I know would never say that unless his mind is addled by illness-” 

He pulls away with a splutter, cheeks a furious pink. 

But awkward moments like this remain, no matter how much you try to keep your conversations light, breezy. There’s a tension Soshiro carries, especially apparent in the broad lines of his shoulders. He’s nervy, jumpy almost, the unguarded hitch in his breath when he draws in just a little too close. There’s something he’s keeping in, deep inside his chest that keeps trying to explode out of him whenever he’s not careful. 

There’s a glimpse of that when you tell him of your plan to move back to Osaka to continue recuperating under your parents’ roof. You’ll miss your apartment where you navigated much of your young adult life, the routines you’ve built for yourself. But you’re tired of living in the hospital, sleeping on a too-hard bed, without much privacy from nurses who pop in and out of your room at odd hours at all times. Your parents agree to ferry you to check-ups and appointments, and they even got your brother to transport your plants to make you feel more at home. 

“You’re not leavin’ for good, surely”, he frowns. 

“I’m not sure”, you shrug. “Izumo Tech does have offices in Osaka, and there isn’t much tying me to Tokyo anymore. 

There’s a sudden lull in the conversation as Soshiro falls silent, face stricken. He opens his mouth as if to speak, once, twice, before shutting it deliberately,  Then his face slackens into a childish pout. 

“Don’t go”, he whines. “Who would I hang out with when I’m off-duty?” 

Caught off guard from this sudden change in mood, you refrain from pointing out that you’d each taken turns to studiously ignore the other before. “You’ll survive”, you pat his hand. “And, on the rare occasions you actually find the time away from work, you’re always welcome to visit me in Osaka.” 

“I will”, he replies, so seriously that your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“I doubt you’ll get enough time off work”, you brush him off lightly before changing the subject. 

You don’t expect him to visit, not when Osaka is two and a half hours away from Tokyo on the shinkansen, but he turns up at the doorstep of your parents’ apartment with roses, dusty pink like the flush up his neck. 

“Hoshina-kun”, your mother exclaims. “Come on in!”

Something is up. Your mother bustles around, ushers him into your room, lays out before him an offering of cut fruit. Surprised at the tableau before you, you blink, looking up from your book. 

“Don’t you have to work?” 

“I do have days off, y’know.” He says, easing you into your wheelchair. 

“Thought you said killing kaijus isn’t a nine to five job”, you remind him pertly. 

He tweaks your nose. “Don’t be smart”, his eyes crinkle as he laughs, rolling you out of the confines of your parent’s house to a nearby park to enjoy the crisp cool autumn breeze, settling you down in the shade beneath a sprawling gingko tree. 

“Well, how’s work?” 

He considers you with a sideways glance. “I refuse to answer”, he says primly. “If I do, you’ll make use of it to accuse me of being obsessed with my job.”

“Aren’t you?” 

“This is exactly what I mean”, he throws his hands out dramatically. “Shouldn’t you just be happy I’m here -” 

“Actually”, you tease. “Isn’t the train fare really expensive? Can you afford that on your pay?” 

“The Defense Force’s generous enough to give me food, clothing and a roof over my head”, he replies drolly. “So I think my bank account can take the occasional hit.” Then, he shoots another mock glare your way. “Anyway, I don’t wanna talk about work or anything related to work.” 

“Then I guess there’s nothing else to talk about”, you tap your chin thoughtfully. 

“Idiot”, he wrinkles his nose. “We haven’t even talked about how you’re doing.” 

“Me?” 

Exaggeratedly, he takes a look around. “I don’t see anyone else I could be askin’ about -” 

“You wanna hear about my boring doctor appointments?” 

His eyes are wide, earnest. “I wanna hear about everything.” 

The sudden seriousness of his demeanour catches you off-kilter. Haltingly you tell him about the long check-ups that take hours, the doctors being optimistic about your progress, the physiotherapy sessions you’ve started. You’re slowly starting to walk again, a few steps at a time, giving you hope that you’ll be on your own two feet by the time of your brother’s wedding at the end of fall, even if you have to rely a little on crutches. 

“I’m talking too much”, you say, looking down at your lap. 

“Don’t stop”, he urges. “Keep talkin’.” 

A snort. “You’re gonna get sick of the sound of my voice”, 

“What a silly thing to say”, his gaze holds yours, steady, sure. 

There’s something impossibly soft in his eyes, a tenderness in the curve of his mouth. You don’t dare to put a name to it yet, don’t even dare to look too closely at it lest you lose yourself to daydreams that can’t possibly be true. Yet, in the purpling dusk, even though the seasons dictate that there be no summer flowers this late in the fall, there’s a bud of hope in your heart that starts to unfurl, petal by petal, twining itself between the ribs of your chest. 

(i like you)

(i’m sorry)

You remind yourself that your heart is not quite healed. Stitches remain, fleshy scars pink and raised. Ventricles working overtime to compensate for the damage he’s wrought just months prior. Mercilessly, you prune those hopes like unwanted weeds, chopping away at errant stems and leaves. 

“I’m tired”, you break away from his gaze. “Shall we call it a day?” 

He makes it difficult for you to safeguard your heart. 

Once a week, he makes the trek from Tokyo to Osaka without fail, appearing at your parents’ door with a bouquet of flowers and a bag bursting with fruit, whatever is in season - peaches and peonies, apples and chrysanthemums. Picnics when it’s sunny, cafes or supermarkets when it rains. Your mother has a sudden change of heart regarding him, always asking you when he’s coming to take you out next.  

“Seriously, don’t you have work?” you demand. “You can’t keep coming down here, it’s ridiculous.” 

“Is it?” he asks quietly. 

“It is”, you reply. “It’s a waste of your time and money.” 

With careful, calloused fingers, he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. “What must I do to make you believe it’s really, really not.” 

You flinch, cramming your thrumming heart back into the confines of your chest. “You’re ridiculous”, you say as calmly as you can. If your leg weren’t still broken, you’d flee in the other direction, put as much distance as you can between you and Hoshina Soshiro, for fear of losing your heart again to him. 

He’s relentless, a quality that makes him an excellent swordsman and soldier, though it does not bode well for your heart. You spend the next few weeks keeping your conversations light, unsentimental, refusing to allow that unnamed emotion budding  in his eyes flourish any further, he remains undeterred. You catch him watching you sometimes, with something you don’t dare to name that bleeds into you, spreading the seeds of hope deep in your gut.  

“I’ll be back next week to see you”, he always says. “Stay safe.”

You should tell him to leave you alone, let you replant your heart in another pot, give it a chance to learn to stop looking towards him for his light. But the words choke in your throat, and it’s all you can do to look the other way. 

You don’t get any respite even at your own brother’s wedding. 

It’s too large, too crowded an occasion, your parents booking out a banquet hall in an upscale hotel to cram in their swarms of guests. As the younger sister of the groom, you’re expected to greet each and every guest, thank them for their attendance even if you’d much rather be at home, warm and snug in bed. Instead, your head threatens to split open, your hip’s on the verge of falling apart. You curse your stubbornness in insisting against bringing your wheelchair, the crutches you lean on cutting into the tender flesh of your underarms.  

“Did anyone tell you that you look beautiful tonight?” 

As it was in your dreams, he’s in a haori, deep blue with golden thread, but this time he looks right at you. Your mouth goes dry and you can’t seem to swallow your heart back down your throat. 

“Save your flirting for my cousins”, you retort, turning away. “They’re all aflutter at meeting you tonight.” 

He doesn’t let you flee. An arm loops around your waist, sears through the silk layers of your kimono and smoulders. “You’re cranky cos you’re tired, so let me help you.” 

You blame your capitulation on the absence of your wheelchair, not because you’re light headed from the sudden surge of helpless affection in your gut, as much as you refuse to allow yourself to believe his words. You let him steer you into your seat, palm flat against your back, heat suffusing into your skin. 

“I’ll be here if you need me”, he says simply. 

You don’t need him, you want to say, you can’t, but your mouth can’t seem to form the words when he leans in, tucks a stray strand of hair behind the shell of your ear, his touch feather light. 

“Vice Captain Hoshina!?” As you foresaw, a gaggle of younger cousins goggle at him, drag him away for selfies and autographs. You don’t get a chance to speak with him again once the wedding starts, the seating plan placing him with his parents and other business associates of your parents, a few tables away.  

The sheer scale and grandeur of your brother’s wedding isn’t what you’d have chosen for yourself, the cavernous ballroom feeling too large and impersonal, speeches dragging on for too long, but your brother and your new sister seem to radiate contentment, though you suspect the champagne toasts might have helped. 

As the sister of the groom, you’re the target of your older aunts’ inquiry as to ‘when it’s your turn next’, never mind that you burrow into your seat, trying to disappear from sight, and when that fails miserably, try to divert their attention to anything, anyone but yourself. If you had full use of your legs, you’d make a hasty retreat by now, but you’re so painfully slow on your crutches that you’re sure even the oldest grandma questioning you on your dating status (or lack thereof) would be able to catch up with you. 

“Ladies”, a smooth voice cuts in. “How are you all doin’ tonight?” 

A boyish smile with a cheeky snaggletooth works wonders on elderly ladies, you learn. It gives you the chance to slip away to the bathroom, splash water on your face, shackle your heart back in place. 

This brief reprieve doesn’t last long. Soshiro emerges from the shadows, pushing off the wall to pad quietly behind you. 

“What are you doing here?” you demand. “You should be back inside -” 

“I’m here to make sure you’re safe”, he replies. “Unless you don’t want me to make sure you don’t fall and crack your pretty head open?”  

“Stop it”, you say crossly, your crutches clacking loudly on the floor as you speed up, trying to put some distance between you two. “You’re giving everyone the wrong impression.” 

He follows right on your heels. “Perhaps I’m givin’ the right impression -” 

“Just  - just stop, Soshiro.” 

You burst through glass doors to push your way onto the open rooftop in the hope that the nighttime air will cool the heat rising in your cheeks, but you miss your step, crutches sliding on marble tiles and oof - 

Warm arms wrap tightly around you. You tell yourself it’s the shock of your almost-fall that makes you sag against a broad, lean chest, compliantly allowing Soshiro to tuck your face into his shoulders, settle an arm beneath your thighs, carrying you over onto a seat. A thick, rich fabric rests on your shoulders - his haori, you realise, the warmth from his body seeping into your skin. 

“Are you hurt?” he drops to one knee in front of you. 

The intensity of his gaze flays your chest open, exposing your beating heart, its stitches frayed. The spectre of the girl with sad eyes haunts you, leaving you terrified that you’ll suffer the same fate as her in this lifetime too. 

“I need you to stop”, you shove him back, a trapped animal brandishing its claws. “I want you to leave me alone. I don’t want your pity -” 

“Pity?!” he falls back on his haunches, gaping at you, incredulous. “Is that what you think it is?” 

“What else could it be?” you demand wetly, eyes stinging. “Nevermind, I changed my mind, I don’t want to know -” 

“Haven’t I made it obvious these past few months?” he asks, and you shake your head stubbornly, no. “What I feel for you - I’ve been goin’ crazy from the moment they told me a buildin’ fell on your head, so fuckin’ terrified I was goin’ to lose you just as I realised how stupid I’ve been -” 

Your head swims. “I don’t -” 

“I’ve loved you since I was eight. I just didn’t realise it til I nearly lost you.” 

You push aside the clouds of anger and fear blurring your vision. You see Hoshina Soshiro kneeling before you, slicing his chest open with your blade to reveal his heart, pressing it bloodied and beating into your waiting hands. 

In this lifetime, in this moment, he is yours and you are his.  

There is no guarantee that this will remain. Duty will always call upon him, and he will answer without fail. That is his destiny, as much as he is yours. Realisation crashes into you, relentless waves pulling you underwater. You will have to share him with the rest of Japan, possibly the world. This too shall end, be it tomorrow or years down the road if fate smiles down on you both. 

But even if his heart belongs to you for no more than a day, it’s enough. It’s all you’ve ever wanted. 

“You love me.” 

“Yeah”, he murmurs, moving so impossibly close that you see the violets in the depths of his eyes in full bloom. “And I kinda think you love me too.” 

Instead of answering, you tug him towards you, tangle your fingers in dark hair, let your lips press against the seam of his lips. He doesn’t give you the chance to breathe, arm curling around your waist, his hand cupping your face so he can tilt your chin up to pour himself into you. You drink him in, greedy to take what you can get, mouth open against his, lost to the raging current of want, of love that pulls you beneath the waves. 

“I think I do”, you say softly.  

Hoshina Soshiro smiles at you, wider and brighter than the moon. 

a/n: i hope this chapter soothes the anxiety from last week heh :>

squeal at me pls! muacks always <3

[theloveinc]

jo togame x reader - on possessiveness

(warning: she/her reader, pet names, alcohol, etc.)

-

Jo Togame has quite an odd way of showing possession over you.

He is, of course, always happy to fight with his fists when need be, but unlike some of his… friends, he doesn’t usually feel the need to use violence to show others that you belong to him.

In fact, if anyone asked you about it, you’d probably answer that you’d never even seen your boyfriend jealous—that even when you’re shaking your butt when you’re out with him in a skimpy little number, he’s cool as a cucumber, just like normal.

But that’s not entirely true, as there is a little something he pulls when he notices others paying attention to you the way only he ever should—

“Baby?”

Togame presses his hand against the warmth of your lower back, slow to let it creep down to the curve between your hip and ass as he approaches from behind. You’re leaning against the bar of the busy club, smiling sweetly at the bartender who’s currently adding extra cherries to only one of the two drinks you’ve ordered, now starting to sweat on the lacquered wood where they wait to be handed off.

You are a sight for sore eyes. In Togame’s mind, you always are, but there’s something about tonight especially that has you glowing and has seemingly everyone noticing. If he were anyone aside from your boyfriend, or he was two inches deeper in a nicer mood, it’s possible he wouldn’t be so … irked by the attention you’re receiving… but something about the way this stranger appears to be gunning for more than just a tip doesn’t sit right in his stomach.

“Jo!” you turn away from the show easily, smile going from cheeky to something soft when your eyes lock with his. You’re quick to abandon your previous conversation, full of what Togame observed were comments made for batting beautiful eyelashes and forcing giggles, and lean into him, standing on your tippies to press a kiss to the side of his mouth as a version of hello. “What are you doing? I was just about to find you.”

You’re not just a pretty thing, you’re a sweet thing too, and it’s clear you had no intention of finding yourself swept up into a conversation with the man mixing your drink, but nonetheless, anyone who runs tabs at a bar should be able to recognize when the only reason someone keeps responding to their frivolous comments is because they’re too polite to cut short a conversation.

“Is everything okay, my love?” you ask, as though it’s clear something is on Togame’s mind, and you thread your fingers through the soft hair at the back of his scalp to draw his attention back to you.

He has to suppress a grin thinking about the little show he’s giving your new friend.

“I’m not sure,” he responds, letting the words settle one by one, watching as worry starts to weigh down your brow. Though he’s more intent on keeping your focus away from anyone other from him, the bartender’s annoyed expression does not go unnoticed out of the corner of his eye. “The music’s making my head hurt, thinkin’ I might head out soon?”

“Oh no!” you suck in a sharp breath, your lips tightening in a concerned frown as you move to press the back of your hand to his forehead, “want me to come with?”

“It’s okay, baby. Stay. Enjoy yourself, alright?” he presses a kiss to your pout, maneuvering your hand from his face to hold to his chest. He milks the moment, pulls away from the lights, the noise, and the people to drink you in, and remind any animals who think they have a chance at something more than just your courtesy that they don’t, and never, ever will.

“No, no,” you break the silence, dropping your hands from him only to make sure your tiny purse is still attached to the chain hanging from your shoulder before linking his arm with yours, “I’m going. No reason to stay, anyway. Wanna make sure you’re okay.”

(Togame can imagine what will happen when you're home: you'll run him a hot and herbal bath, he'll coax you into the water with him, and the steam will get you both get light headed enough for the medicinal to turn into something more erotic—and by the time the both of you wake up tomorrow, naked, limbs sticky and tangled, he'll be perfectly refreshed.)

“Miss, your drinks?”

You’re half away step away when the bartender calls, but without letting go, you throw a couple hundred yen behind you without even a cold look back.

"You can dump them, sorry.”

And while you take the lead to the road, Togame looks over his shoulder and grins.

She picked me.

[lostintransist]

Seamstress | Part 7

Check out part 1 here. AO3

CW: Momma drama. If you have a bad mom relationship like I do please read with caution. Also John comes home a bit broken. He gets better but not in this part.

John appears behind you as you are stepping into your shop. When his hand pushes the door open wider from behind you startle.

“Jesus fuck me!” You jump and spin, eyes wide and chest heaving as you confirm who stood behind you.

The slightly worried look on John’s face tells you he didn’t mean to startle you.

“Sorry dove thought you heard me.”

“Apparently my thoughts were too loud,” sheepishly you push the door shut behind him and begin to flick on lights.

Waiting for you at the counter with John is your jewelry box. It looks better than before if that is possible.

“I didn’t stain it,” John runs a finger down the side and you wish that digit dragged down your side instead.

Fuck, bitch you can’t be this horny yet, he just arrived. Apparently, the earth-shattering orgasm from your vibrator last night with the taste of him on your lips wasn’t enough. When did you get so greedy?

“Why not?” You ask as you fold your arms, not one hundred percent sure your bra would be able to trap your steel-tipped nipples.

Glancing from the box to John you see a soft smile. When he looks up at you it grows.

“I noticed how much you seemed to like the grain of the wood and seemed sad at the idea of it being covered up. A few coats of clear lacquer to protect it and it was done.”

“I love it. I’m so glad you chose lacquer. I would have been happy with any choice you made but this? It’s wonderful.” Leaving the box at the counter you waved John to follow you.

“I made you something as well.” Putting a hand on the nob of the door to the back room you spun. “I know it’s not really a problem, but you have complained about going into what you call “power meetings” with only your slacks or your fancy uniforms so I made you something that should hold up against scrutiny.”

John’s arms are folded, head tilted ever so slightly to watch you with the smile tucked under his mustache.

Taking a deep breath you twist the handle and step back into the room. You hung the suit on the wall directly in front of the door so you could watch his face as he saw it. You had paid a pretty penny for the fabric, thread, and buttons. They all came together so seamlessly that even your friend who was a tailor wouldn’t have been able to know a suitmaker hadn’t put it together unless he started to pull it apart at the seams. You had also purchased the silk for his shirt and made that by hand as well.

The smile falls from his face as he steps up to the suit and runs a hand lightly over it.

“Holy fuck.”

Glancing from side to side you bite your lip.

“So what do you think?”

When he turns you know why people like blue eyes so much. John’s blue eyes are enchanting with the tears rimming his lashes. They remind you of the ocean in the photos you’ve seen of tropical places.

“I can’t think of a gift that has ever meant more to me,” he chokes out around the tears in his throat.

“Do you want to try it on?” You suggest, heart fluttering in your chest.

“I want-”

His desires were cut off by the sound of the bell.

Turning you call out.

“Sorry, we are closed today,” when you catch sight of your mom.

The warmth that had settled over you like sunlight as spring breaks chilled to the harshest of winter breezes. Shutting the door to the back room, and your joy from your sorrow you face your mother.

“You didn’t come to Christmas,” she starts.

“I told Pop I would be going to Nana’s this year.”

“You’re still mad at me,” she pouts with her eyebrows.

Your mother had skills in expressing herself without making a scene about it.

“I am not mad, I’m done.”

Your mother stepped up to the counter, slowly opening each drawer of your gift. Snatching it off the counter you placed it on your working desk next to your sewing machine.

“What does being done have to do with not coming to Christmas?”

She’s pulling that mom tone again, trying to force you into a child role whether she knows it or not.

“I do not enjoy the way I feel while spending time with you. I do not like the comments you make or the fact that even when my brother is being rude I am still in the wrong. And I am done putting myself in situations to be hurt because you happened to get knocked up and produce me.”

She had told you once that you were a birth control failure baby. She had been drinking, you had been ten.

“I did not happen to get knocked up,” she sputtered.

Taking a deep breath you point your eyes at the ceiling and pray for patience.

“That is not the point of this conversation and I apologize for bringing it up. What I am saying is that I won’t be spending more time with you until we can go to family therapy. I’ve told this to Pop several times. I will send you a few options between us and will set up the appointment as well.”

“But I am your mother!” She is getting shrill, a sure sign she is losing control of the conversation in her mind.

“And I am grown. Now I have a private appointment I need to get back to.”

“Is this because of the comment about no one paying to see you naked? I’m sorry that you were offended by what I said.”

Your jaw works as your fingers curl into talons and your shoulders stiffen.

“I am not having that discussion here and now. Pick a therapist from the list I send you or leave me alone.”

Mom looks shocked, scared even, at the tone you use. She turns leaving in a huff and you open the door to the back to see John, shirt unbuttoned and eyes blown wide as if someone dosed him with drugs.

“That’s an option? I can pay to see you naked? Is a hundred enough?”

“A hundred?” You ask, confused but slightly hurt that he thought you were so cheap.

“No? Okay, a hundred and fifty thousand?” He looks desperate and hopeful and lost and like he might combust all at once.

You choke on your spit. Did that man just offer a hundred and fifty thousand dollar bucks to see you naked!?

All it would have taken is a glass of wine, a smokey look, and an invitation to bed and your clothes would have disappeared from your body like they never existed. Like damn you had high self-confidence, forged out of hate comments online and in real life, but you weren’t worth that much. Maybe John did like you like you liked him?

He stepped forward, mouth opening to form words when his phone went off. The instant change told you it was work.

“Dammit all to hell and may it never return,” he snatched up his pants from the cot and answered the phone as he moved it to his ear, snarling. “What?”

You watched as the soldier overtook the man. His back straightened as he tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear beginning to work at the buttons at his wrists. Stepping into his space you took over the task freeing him faster than he would have managed. Helping him out of the shirt you fold it over one arm, watching as he disappears below his shirt to reappear through the head hole. You don’t offer to help him remove the pants but take them when offered without comment.

John doesn’t spare you a glance as he pulls his cargo pants up, sheathing the deliciously thick thighs he hides. When he sits to tie his boots you toss the clothes from your arms to the cot and kneel to take over that task for him. Tying them tight you stand and offer him a hand. He takes it, holding on as he stands.

Still on the phone he pulls your knuckles to his lips and turns the phone away from his mouth.

“When I get back, we are talking about this.”

It’s all you can do to nod before he dons his coat and slips into the precipitation of January.

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

The last of the snowdrops are blooming when John makes it back home. Between the knocks at the front door and the vibrating of your phone from under your pillow, you wake enough to stumble to the front door. The door opens fully before your eyes do.

John looks haggard, as if he aged ten years in the three months he was gone. A full beard had grown in, the ends ragged and uneven. His eyes flick over you. No expression crosses his face.

“John? You’re home,” the sigh in your last word pulls him through the door and into your arms.

It’s too late for your mind to come up with reasons why dragging him into your room after locking the front door would be a bad idea. Stripping him of his boots and his pants you invite him to lay under the blankets with you by laying them atop him and letting him settle into the mattress. Crossing around the bed you join him between the sheets. Laying on your side you stare at him.

Something about him felt broken and you didn’t dare hold him and make it worse.

“What can I do John?” You ask the darkness between you.

The words settle on him like the ice blown around in the wind of the gulag.

“Tell me what happened while I was gone. I don’t feel real.”

You scoot closer to him in the bed, less than a handswidth between you.

“I brought your suit home. I missed you a few weeks after you left and had nothing but the photo from the party and your gift. My mom started going to individual therapy. We tried a couple of family sessions but the therapist recommended that she do some personal work before we attempt to do much more work on fixing our relationship. My brother called me on my birthday, which was unexpected. I bet my po-”

“I missed your birthday?” John’s broken whisper cut you off.

“Yeah,” you reach out and touch his pinky. He flinches so you shift your hand back, but before it can go too far his hand chases you locking your fingers together.

“When is your birthday?”

“Valentine’s Day.”

“You must hate that.”

The accurate observation surprises you. You’ve talked with other people who have birthdays on holidays, most Christmas and New Year’s babies hate it, birthdays on big celebration days that aren’t the big big ones tend to go either way but for you, it always felt required to have a date on your birthday. Were you out because your date wanted to celebrate you or show off for the table around you?

“I do,” you let out a small chuckle. “My brother was born on May Day, he doesn’t seem to mind it. When is your birthday John?”

“July second.” He pulls in a deep breath, “Will you hold me?”

Small and scared his voice pierces into your chest.

“However you want to be held,” you answer in earnest.

“Lay back?”

You adjust to settle on your back, fixing the pillow below your head. John follows you, as cautious as an alley cat. Once his head is resting against your chest, chin tipped between your breasts you curl your arm around his shoulder next to your ribs and rest your hand on his back. The shuddering breaths that start from him prompt you to keep telling him about what happened while he was away.

“Did you know your muppets came to visit me? They all brought in their own fixes and asked to use your cot. Every one of them woke looking like they had no clue where they were and agreed that they understood why you kept coming back for naps.”

You talk until you drift into sleep, but your dreams are full of stories so maybe you talk to John until you wake.

Part 7 | Part 8

Seamstress Masterlist | Masterlist

[fashionsfromhistory]

Crocheted Evening Dress

Kostio de War

c.1938

Capitalizing on a broader enthusiasm for hand knitting that emerged in the mid-1930s, [Kostio de War] became famous for her unique hand-knit and crocheted evening gowns. Initially, she explored the idea in chenille thread, pairing sheaths in “loose, large mesh patterns” over slips of “lacquered satin,” as Women’s Wear Daily described in 1935. A sometimes enthusiast for surreal touches, she competed briefly with Elsa Schiaparelli for headlines, particularly when the latter also introduced several hand-knitted pieces in her winter 1935 collection. The U.S. press, however, found several distinct virtues in the elegantly practical garments made by Kostio de War: the dresses could be easily rolled up for travel and resisted wrinkling, while her heavier knitted metallic evening jackets could quickly dress up a simple dinner dress. In 1937, Paris-Soir reported on the popularity and practicality of knitted garments for sport as well as for evening wear, writing, “The more we lead busy lives, the more precious handmade goods become.” They announced that Mme. Kostio de War had recently unearthed in central Europe an amusing book from about 1830 containing instructions for a variety of unusual historical stitches, which she had used in crafting her latest collection: “For evening, she has created with threads of copper, steel, [and] platinum, gowns of the most rare sumptuousness.” In 1938, Denise Veber of the French paper Marianne called these “miracle” evening gowns of gold or silver very simple, but nevertheless of an almost magical (féerique) appearance. (Cora Ginsburg Auctions)

Cora Ginsburg Auctions (2020 Modern)

[funstealer]

SEED by Aoi Kotsuhiroi One-off, hand-made finger object made of Urushi lacquer, embroidered silk thread, phantom crystals, hair, porcelain.

[dee-writes-anime]

Chapter 6: The Queen Rises

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY As Sukuna’s court gathers under the watchful skies of his domain, you find yourself thrust into a stage where loyalty is tested, strength is questioned, and whispers of rebellion threaten to crack the fragile balance of power. Facing scorn from lords and a direct challenge from a menacing curse user, you must prove your place at Sukuna’s side is not a weakness but a declaration of your unyielding will. 

CONTENT WARNINGS Includes depictions of magical combat with explosive energy clashes and descriptions of physical harm such as scars and burns, verbal and physical threats are made against the reader by a rival curse user, descriptions of severe scarring, missing body parts, and unsettling imagery of injuries, intense, charged interactions between Sukuna and the reader with suggestive language, physical proximity, and implied power dynamics, references to impending war, including the threat of large-scale conflict and the manipulation of alliances for power. 

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The morning light filtered through the shoji screens of my chambers, soft and muted, casting long, lattice-like patterns across the polished wood floors. The room was quieter than it had been the night before, but the stillness wasn’t comforting—it was heavy, expectant, as though the very air braced itself for what was to come. 

I pushed back the silk coverlet, the fabric slipping soundlessly to the lacquered floor as I sat up. My body ached faintly, the echoes of the trials I’d endured still pulsing through my limbs like the lingering memory of fire. There were bruises along my arms and shoulders, faint impressions left by the jagged tendrils of cursed energy I’d faced in the labyrinth, and a faint, dull burn in my chest where my own power had coiled too tightly. 

I let out a slow breath, the exhale curling faintly in the cool morning air, and shifted my gaze to the choker resting on its lacquered stand across the room. Its crimson gemstone pulsed faintly, a heartbeat that was not mine but echoed through the space nonetheless. Today, its light was sharper, brighter, casting restless patterns on the walls like the flicker of distant flames. 

It was a constant presence now, no longer just a symbol but a tether, an unspoken reminder of the position I had earned and the power I had yet to wield fully. I hadn’t touched it since removing it the night before, yet its energy threaded through the room like a whisper I couldn’t ignore. 

The faint murmur of voices from beyond the door drew my attention. They were hushed, urgent, carrying the clipped tones of commands and responses exchanged in rapid succession. The estate had been alive with tension since the feast, its usual stillness replaced by a bristling energy that rippled through the halls like the first tremors of an approaching storm. 

Below my window, the courtyard was a flurry of movement. Messengers in muted crimson robes darted between the gates and the grand hall, their figures blurred by the faint haze of morning mist. Guards stood at the perimeter, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons, their gazes sharp and unyielding. 

Something had shifted, though I couldn’t yet name what. 

A faint pressure brushed the edge of my awareness, sharp and deliberate. The weight of it coiled around me like smoke, heavy and inescapable, a presence I recognized instantly. 

The door opened without ceremony, the polished wood groaning faintly on its hinges as Sukuna entered. 

His robes whispered against the floor, the crimson and gold catching the morning light as his cursed energy swept into the room ahead of him. It was quieter than it had been the night before, more controlled, yet no less overwhelming. It clung to the air like the embers of a dying fire, deceptively calm but ready to ignite at a moment’s notice. 

I rose to my feet, my movements slow and deliberate, as his gaze swept over the room. His four eyes gleamed with sharp intensity, two half-lidded with amusement while the others tracked my movements with a deliberate precision that made the space between us feel smaller. 

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice low and cutting as he surveyed the room. 

“Comfort isn’t something I’ve had much of lately,” I replied, keeping my tone even as I met his gaze. 

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, as he stepped further into the room. “Good. You’ll find it’s overrated.” 

I folded my arms, the weight of his presence pressed against me, heavy but not suffocating. It was different now, less like the prowling of a predator testing its prey and more like the steady hum of power acknowledging an equal—or at least someone worthy of notice, “I assume this isn’t a social call.” 

“No,” he replied, stepping closer, his cursed energy brushing faintly against my senses. “They’re weaker.” 

“And more dangerous because of it,” I said, my tone firmer. 

His grin widened, the faint glint of his teeth catching the light. “Dangerous, yes. But not to you.” 

The certainty in his voice was sharp, cutting through the faint tension that lingered in the air. I held his gaze, searching for the mockery I was used to, but found none. Instead, there was something steadier, something unspoken that tightened the space between us. 

“Stand beside me,” he said suddenly, his voice dropping lower, softer, but no less commanding. 

The words sent a ripple of heat through my chest, the memory of his proposition the night before curling at the edges of my thoughts. He didn’t push the question now, but it lingered between us nonetheless—a presence that neither of us acknowledged but couldn’t ignore. 

“And if I don’t?” I asked, my voice quieter now, but still steady. 

His grin softened into something sharper, more deliberate. “You will,” he said simply, his tone carrying the weight of certainty. 

I clenched my hands at my sides, the pulse of the choker quickening faintly as the tension between us thickened. “The court doesn’t see me as you do,” I said, the edge of defiance creeping into my tone. 

“No,” he said, his gaze narrowing slightly. “But they will.” 

The weight of his cursed energy pressed against me again, heavier now, but it wasn’t meant to intimidate—it was meant to anchor, to steady. “They’ll see what I see,” he continued, his voice low but deliberate. “Someone who doesn’t bow. Someone who survives when others would fall.” 

The air between us crackled faintly, charged with something I couldn’t quite name. There was no question in his tone, no room for doubt. 

“You think it’s that simple?” I asked, my voice softer now, though the tension in my chest refused to ease. 

“Nothing is simple,” he said, his grin widening faintly. “But you don’t need simplicity. You need to show them that you’re not just here to survive—you’re here to rule.” 

The words struck like a blade, sharp and precise, settling into the quiet between us. I exhaled slowly, the pulse of the choker steadying as I held his gaze. 

“And if they challenge that?” I asked. 

His grin sharpened, his eyes gleaming with something darker, more dangerous. “Then you remind them who they’re dealing with.” 

His cursed energy flared briefly, brushing against me like the edge of a blade before settling into the charged silence that lingered between us. 

He stepped back toward the door, his movements slow but deliberate, the weight of his presence retreating but not disappearing entirely. 

“Don’t disappoint me,” he said, his voice quieter now, though it carried the sharp edge of a command. “You’ve earned your place, little witch. Now take it.” 

The faint click of the door closing behind Sukuna echoed in the quiet room, the weight of his presence still lingering in the charged air. I exhaled slowly, running a hand along the edge of the lacquered table where the choker rested, its faint pulse a constant reminder of the role I had been thrust into. 

Before I could gather my thoughts, the door opened again—not with the commanding weight of Sukuna’s entry but with a brisk, efficient movement that made me turn sharply. 

Uraume stepped inside, their pale eyes sharper than usual, darting around the room as though expecting someone—or something—to follow them. Their normally composed expression was faintly unsettled, the edges of their movements carrying a tension I hadn’t seen before. 

“Good morning to you too,” I said, folding my arms as I watched them close the door behind them with deliberate care. 

They didn’t reply immediately. Instead, they crossed the room in a few swift strides, their gaze scanning the walls as if ensuring no unseen ears lingered within the shadows. 

“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice firmer now, the unease radiating from them beginning to seep into me. 

When they finally looked at me, their expression had settled into something closer to their usual calm, though their movements remained brisk, deliberate. “The court gathering,” they said, their tone low but carrying a faint edge of urgency. “It’s not just a formality.” 

“Clearly,” I replied, leaning back slightly. “Sukuna didn’t exactly leave me under the impression it would be a casual affair.” 

Uraume’s gaze narrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing their features before they continued. “You should understand what you’re walking into,” they said, their voice sharper now, though it wasn’t directed at me. “The lords are restless.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “Restless how?” 

��There are factions among them,” Uraume said, their words deliberate, chosen with care. “Some are loyal—those who understand the weight of Lord Sukuna’s power and what it means to stand under his rule. But there are others who... waver.” 

“Waver,” I repeated, the word settling heavily in the air. 

“They question him,” Uraume said, their pale eyes meeting mine directly. “Not openly, of course. But in whispers, in careful movements. They see his favor toward you as a sign of weakness.” 

My chest tightened, though I kept my expression neutral. “So I’m a liability.” 

“To some,” Uraume replied. “To others, you’re a threat. It depends on their ambitions.” 

I moved to the window, staring down at the bustling courtyard below. The lords’ discontent wasn’t entirely surprising, but the weight of their perceptions pressed against me nonetheless. “And the gathering today?” 

“It’s more than an announcement,” Uraume said, stepping closer. “It’s a stage. Some will use it to affirm their loyalty. Others will use it to test yours.” 

I turned to face them, my jaw tightening. “Why warn me now?” 

“Because Lord Sukuna expects you to succeed,” Uraume said simply, their voice steady. “But more importantly, because if you fail, you won’t just lose his favor—you’ll lose everything.” 

Their words sank in like a blade, cutting through the lingering haze of confidence I’d carried from the feast. “You think I’m unprepared?” 

“I think you’ve proven your strength,” they said, their tone softening slightly. “But this isn’t about strength alone. It’s about survival. About knowing where to place your power—and where to withhold it.” 

Hints of something unspoken lingered in their gaze, a quiet warning that carried the weight of experience. 

“Who are my enemies?” I asked finally, my voice quieter now. 

Uraume’s lips quirked faintly, almost a smile, though it lacked warmth. “It’s not that simple. In Sukuna’s court, allies and enemies shift as easily as the wind changes direction. Today, someone may test you with hostility. Tomorrow, they may bow to you in feigned loyalty.” 

I folded my arms, the weight of their words pressing heavier against my chest. “And you?” 

They tilted their head slightly, their pale eyes narrowing faintly. “I’m not your enemy,” they said, their voice carrying a faint edge of amusement. “If I were, you’d already know.” 

The faintest flicker of a smile tugged at my lips, though it didn’t last. “What do you suggest, then?” 

“Be careful,” they said simply, stepping closer. “Watch their words. Watch their movements. Power is only half the battle in a place like this. How you wield it—and when you withhold it—will determine how long you survive.” 

Their gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, their expression unreadable. “They’ll test you. They’ll provoke you. And when they do, remember this: nothing they say matters if they’re kneeling before you by the end of it.” 

The words hung between us, sharp and deliberate, before they stepped back toward the door. 

“Thank you,” I said, my voice quieter now, though the weight of the conversation pressed heavily against me. 

They paused, their hand resting lightly on the doorframe as they glanced back at me. “Don’t thank me yet,” they said, their tone soft but edged with something faintly like concern. “The hardest part is still to come.” 

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the room in a tense silence. 

I turned back to the choker, its faint pulse steady and insistent, as though echoing the weight of Uraume’s warning. 

The courtyard stretched wide before us, its jagged stone columns reaching toward the overcast sky like fingers clawing at the heavens. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the faint metallic tang of cursed energy, a reminder of the immense power that suffused Sukuna’s domain. Ancient trees bordered the space, their gnarled branches casting shifting shadows over the smooth stone paths that wove through the gardens. 

At the center of it all was a raised platform, its edges carved from dark, jagged stone that gleamed faintly in the muted light. Surrounding it, Sukuna’s lords and emissaries had gathered in loose clusters, their silks and armor a riot of colors that clashed against the stark elegance of the courtyard. 

Their conversations were hushed, their glances sharp as they exchanged words too quiet to carry. Unlike the feast, this was no place for celebration. This was a gathering steeped in unease, its purpose clear in the tension that crackled through the air like the promise of a storm. 

I walked at Sukuna’s side, my hand resting lightly on his arm. His cursed energy coiled around him like smoke, brushing against my senses with every deliberate step. The pulse of the choker at my throat quickened faintly, its rhythm steady and insistent as I matched his stride. 

The lords fell silent as we entered the clearing, their voices dying as their gazes turned to us. The weight of their attention was sharp, assessing, but not unfamiliar. They had seen me before—at the feast, at the labyrinth’s end—and their unease now was not born of ignorance but of something deeper: doubt, suspicion, and the simmering undercurrent of jealousy. 

We ascended the dais, Sukuna’s pace unhurried, his presence commanding without the need for words. He didn’t need to take the jagged throne at the platform’s center to assert his authority. The air itself seemed to bend under the weight of his power, pressing against the gathered court with an unrelenting hand. 

I straightened as we reached the platform’s edge, the faint hum of the choker grounding me as I met the lords’ gazes. Some held my stare, their expressions carefully neutral but their eyes sharp with calculation. Others glanced away, unwilling to meet the force of Sukuna’s silent challenge. 

“You know why you’re here,” Sukuna said, his voice cutting through the silence like the edge of a blade. “You’ve all seen what she’s capable of. You’ve witnessed her strength.” 

The words weren’t an introduction—they were a reminder, delivered with the precision of a hammer striking iron. 

“Yet some of you still question,” he continued, his tone colder now, carrying the faintest edge of mockery. “You whisper in the shadows, cling to the hope that she is a momentary indulgence. That her strength is a flicker that will fade.” 

The tension in the courtyard sharpened, the silence thick with the weight of his words. The lords shifted uneasily, their discomfort rippling through the gathered court like a wave. 

Sukuna’s grin widened, razor-sharp, as his crimson eyes swept over them. “Let me make this clear,” he said, his tone dropping lower. “She stands under my protection. Not because she asks for it, but because she has earned it.” 

A murmur ran through the crowd, faint but unmistakable. The lords’ unease wasn’t born of ignorance—it was the result of their own ambitions being stifled, their doubts clashing against the undeniable reality of Sukuna’s decree. 

I held my chin high, the weight of their stares pressing against me but failing to crack the composure I had built. These were no strangers to me—they had seen me before, judged me before—and I wasn’t about to shrink under their scrutiny now. 

One of the lords, his robes deep red and lined with gold, stepped forward slightly. His expression was calm, but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed the calculation behind his every move. “We do not doubt her strength, my lord,” he said, his voice measured. “But strength alone is not enough to hold a place in your court.” 

Sukuna chuckled, the sound low and sharp, resonating through the courtyard like distant thunder. “Do you think I’ve chosen her lightly?” he asked, his gaze narrowing as he turned to the lord. 

“Of course not,” the lord replied smoothly, though there was a faint edge to his tone. “But loyalty is not given freely. It is earned.” 

The challenge hung in the air, subtle but deliberate, and the lords around him exchanged wary glances. 

Sukuna didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze to me, his grin sharpening into something colder, more deliberate. 

“Do you doubt her loyalty?” he asked, his voice soft but carrying a weight that pressed against the court like an iron hand. 

The lord hesitated, his composure faltering for the briefest of moments before he answered. “I do not doubt her loyalty to you,” he said carefully. “But loyalty to this court is another matter.” 

Sukuna’s laugh was sharper this time, cutting through the tension like the crack of a whip. “And who here dares to claim that their loyalty to this court outweighs their loyalty to me?” 

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of his words pressing down on the gathered lords until none dared to answer. 

“You’ll see soon enough,” Sukuna said, his tone softening into something more dangerous. “Her loyalty, her strength—they are not yours to question.” 

His cursed energy flared briefly, brushing against the gathered court like the edge of a blade. The lords bowed their heads, their unease spilling into reluctant submission. 

I stood beside him, the pulse of the choker steady against my throat as the weight of Sukuna’s declaration settled over the courtyard. Whatever doubts they held, whatever whispers they exchanged in the shadows, one thing was clear: 

They feared him. And now, they feared me too. 

The air shifted as a figure stepped forward from the edge of the gathering, their presence drawing every eye like the first roll of thunder before a storm. They moved with deliberate slowness, the heavy thud of their boots against the stone courtyard sending faint echoes through the unnerving silence. 

The curse user’s appearance was nothing short of grotesque—a study in violence rendered in flesh and bone. Their dark robes hung in jagged layers, stitched together with thick black thread that seemed barely able to contain the raw power radiating from their form. The fabric was frayed at the edges, as though scorched by fire, and lined with deep crimson patterns that twisted and curled like veins of molten lava. 

Their staff was a monstrous thing, carved from blackened wood that gleamed like obsidian under the flickering light of the braziers. Jagged shards of stone jutted from its surface, their edges sharp enough to draw blood with a touch. At its top, a misshapen crystal pulsed faintly, its glow erratic and wild, casting flickering shadows across the curse user’s face. 

And what a face it was. 

The left side of their head was marred by a jagged scar that stretched from their temple to the corner of their mouth, the flesh puckered and twisted as though melted by acid. Their skin was a patchwork of scars, some thin and pale, others thick and angry red, standing out starkly against their sallow complexion. A piece of their ear was missing, the jagged edges of the wound long since healed into a grotesque reminder of violence endured and survived. 

Their right eye was a pale, clouded white, its sightless gaze unyielding as it fixed on me with an intensity that made my chest tighten. The other eye, gleaming a sickly gold, burned with malice, its unrelenting glare heavy with judgment. Beneath it, their mouth twisted into a cruel grin, their teeth jagged and yellowed, bared in an expression that promised pain. 

The curse user’s body was no less unsettling. Their hands, skeletal and gnarled, clutched the staff tightly, their knuckles scarred and bruised as though they’d spent a lifetime breaking them against unyielding surfaces. Long, uneven nails curved like claws from their fingertips, blackened at the edges and faintly cracked. Their exposed forearms were corded with sinew, the muscles wiry and taut beneath skin that bore countless overlapping scars. 

As they moved further into the courtyard, their dark energy coiled outward, brushing against the gathered lords like the icy breath of a predator. It wasn’t the overwhelming, controlled power of Sukuna—it was raw, jagged, untamed. 

The murmurs that had filled the air moments before faded into a tense silence as the curse user stopped at the edge of the dais. They tilted their head slightly, their gaze sweeping over me with the slow, deliberate precision of someone cataloging a weakness. 

“Well,” they said, their voice low and rough, like gravel grinding beneath a boot. The sound carried effortlessly, slicing through the quiet like a blade. “I wondered if the whispers were true.” 

Their grin widened as they turned their golden eye to Sukuna, a mockery of deference in the slight dip of their head. “The great King of Curses, reduced to parading around a pet.” 

The tension in the courtyard thickened, the weight of their words pressing against the gathered lords like a vice. No one spoke, no one moved, their collective discomfort a silent acknowledgment of the curse user’s audacity. 

Sukuna didn’t react immediately. He stood motionless beside me, his crimson eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable. But the faint ripple of his cursed energy told a different story—a subtle, ominous shift that made the air feel sharper, colder. 

The curse user’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened, their yellowed teeth catching the dim light as they gestured toward me with a sharp jerk of their chin. “This is what you’ve chosen to represent your court? A witch playing at strength? Tell me, Sukuna, has she bewitched you so thoroughly that you’ve forgotten who you are?” 

The words struck with deliberate force, their mockery a weapon wielded with calculated intent. The other lords shifted uneasily, their gazes darting between Sukuna and the curse user, the weight of the brewing storm pressing against them like the tide pulling back before a wave. 

“You’ve grown soft,” the curse user continued, their voice rising, laced with disdain. “Indulging a creature like this. She weakens you, Sukuna. She diminishes your reputation. Your enemies will see this for what it is: a crack in your throne.” 

They slammed the base of their staff against the ground, the sound reverberating through the courtyard like the toll of a bell. “And when that crack widens, it will shatter you.” 

The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of their challenge pressing against my chest like an iron hand. But I didn’t flinch. 

My grip on Sukuna’s arm tightened slightly, the pulse of the choker at my throat quickening as I met the curse user’s golden gaze. There was no fear in my expression, only a sharp, simmering defiance that burned against the malice they aimed in my direction. 

Sukuna’s grin widened slowly, his crimson eyes gleaming with dangerous amusement. But he didn’t speak, didn’t move. 

Not yet. 

The hall stood frozen, the air sharp with anticipation as the curse user’s mocking words settled over the gathered lords like a veil of smoke. Whispers stirred faintly at the edges of the crowd—uneasy murmurs exchanged between wary glances, though a few lords allowed smirks to curl their lips, relishing the unfolding spectacle. 

Others were less amused. Shifting uncomfortably, they avoided looking directly at Sukuna, as if fearing that their silent observations might invoke his wrath. The air itself seemed to hum with tension, the braziers’ flames flickering erratically as cursed energy rippled faintly at the edges of the dais. 

I felt the weight of every gaze, the sting of every sharp glance, but I didn’t shrink beneath it. Instead, I stepped forward, the hem of my crimson gown whispering against the smooth stone as I placed myself between Sukuna and the curse user. 

The shift in the air was immediate. 

The lords’ murmurs grew louder, their voices rippling with a mix of surprise and curiosity. Some leaned forward slightly, their expressions sharp with intrigue, while others sat back, their eyes narrowing as they waited for me to falter. 

“You have a lot to say,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet with a calm precision that carried far more weight than the venomous mockery that had preceded it. 

The curse user’s golden eye flicked to me, their scarred lips curling into a grin that was equal parts amusement and malice. “And the witch speaks,” they said, their tone laced with mockery. “Have you come to defend your master’s honor, little pet?” 

A faint ripple of laughter echoed from one corner of the hall, quickly silenced by a sharp glance from Sukuna’s crimson eyes. 

I tilted my head slightly, the faintest smile tugging at my lips as I met the curse user’s glare head-on. “You’re bold to stand here, speaking of honor,” I said, my tone smooth but edged with steel. “Bold, or desperate. Perhaps both.” 

The curse user’s grin faltered for the briefest moment, their expression hardening as a faint murmur ran through the lords. 

“I see no desperation in my standing,” they said, their voice colder now. “But I see plenty in yours. A witch clinging to the coattails of power, pretending to be more than what you are.” 

I took another step forward, the choker’s pulse steady against my throat as I allowed the faintest ripple of my own cursed energy to thread through the air. It wasn’t overwhelming—not yet—but it was enough to make the lords shift in their seats, their discomfort rippling outward like the widening circles of a disturbed pond. 

“Pretending?” I echoed, my voice soft but sharp. “Pretending is what you do when you stand here, trying to convince yourself that your words carry weight in his court.” I gestured faintly to Sukuna, whose expression remained unreadable, though his four eyes gleamed faintly with a dangerous amusement. “But they don’t. You’re nothing more than a whisper in the wind—a hollow threat wrapped in a tattered robe.” 

A murmur swept through the lords again, louder this time, tinged with approval from some and disbelief from others. 

The curse user’s grin vanished entirely, replaced by a sneer as their fingers tightened around the jagged staff they carried. “You think you can intimidate me?” they growled, their voice low and rough. “You think your borrowed strength makes you untouchable?” 

I held their gaze, the faint glow of the choker’s crimson gemstone flickering like firelight against the polished stone of the dais. “I don’t need to intimidate you,” I said, my voice calm. “Your fear is already written across your face.” 

The words struck like a blade, and the curse user’s cursed energy surged in response. The air grew colder, heavier, as their jagged power coiled outward in sharp, chaotic tendrils that rippled through the hall like the crack of a thunderstorm. 

Lords flinched, some recoiling from the raw energy as it lashed against the edges of the gathering, stirring the braziers’ flames into frenzied flickers. 

The curse user took a step forward, their staff slamming against the stone with a resonant crack that sent shards of light splintering outward. “You hide behind him,” they said, their voice rising with a cold, biting fury. “But let’s see what you are without Sukuna’s shadow to shield you.” 

Their cursed energy surged again, twisting into a jagged arc that lashed toward me with a force that made the ground beneath my feet shudder. The air burned sharp and cold, the raw power snapping like the strike of a whip as it tore toward me. 

I didn’t flinch. 

Instead, I raised a hand, the pulse of the choker igniting as my magic flared to life. The air around me shifted, the sharp, deliberate tendrils of my own energy coiling outward to meet the attack head-on. 

The collision was explosive. 

A burst of light filled the room as the two forces clashed, the resulting shockwave rattling the columns and shattering several of the delicate ornaments that lined the hall’s edges. Lords recoiled, some shielding their faces as the force rippled outward, sending faint vibrations through the polished stone floor. 

The curse user pushed harder, their jagged energy clawing at mine with wild ferocity. But where their power was raw and chaotic, mine was deliberate—shaped by precision, guided by intent. 

I took a step forward, my magic coiling tighter, sharper, cutting through the chaotic tendrils like a blade through fabric. The curse user’s sneer faltered, the golden glint of their eye narrowing as the balance shifted. 

“You think this display makes you strong?” they growled, their voice laced with fury as they pushed harder. 

“No,” I said, my voice steady as I took another step forward. “But it makes you weak.” 

The final surge of my power lashed forward, cutting through their energy entirely. The jagged tendrils shattered, dissolving into the air like smoke, as the force of the blow sent them stumbling back, their boots scraping against the polished stone. 

The room fell silent. 

Every gaze in the court was fixed on me, some wide with disbelief, others narrowing with grudging respect. The air was still heavy with tension, but it was no longer oppressive—it was charged with the undeniable reality of what had just unfolded. 

The curse user straightened, their staff trembling faintly in their scarred hand as they glared at me with unrestrained fury. “You’ll regret that,” they snarled, their voice low and venomous. 

It was then that Sukuna moved. 

He stepped forward, his pace unhurried, his crimson robes whispering against the stone as his cursed energy surged with a ferocity that sent chills racing down my spine. 

The curse user froze, their golden eye widening as Sukuna’s presence swallowed the space between us like a wave overtaking the shore. 

“You’ve made your point,” Sukuna said, his voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. “And now you will leave.” 

The curse user’s jaw tightened, their grip on their staff tightening as though they were contemplating another strike. But Sukuna’s grin widened, slow and deliberate, and the faint ripple of his cursed energy grew heavier, pressing against the room like the weight of an oncoming storm. 

“Unless,” he continued, his tone softening into something colder, more dangerous, “you’d prefer to stay and entertain me.” 

The words weren’t a threat—they were a promise, and the curse user knew it. 

They straightened, their sneer returning as they took a step back. “Enjoy your moment, Sukuna,” they said, their voice dripping with disdain. “It won’t last.” 

They turned toward the gathered lords, their golden eye sweeping over the court with calculated malice. “This is what your king has become—a fool blinded by indulgence.” 

The curse user’s voice rose, echoing through the hall with a chilling finality. “War is coming to your domain, Sukuna. And when it does, I’ll tear down this court and everything you hold dear.” 

The silence that followed was sharp, cutting through the room like the aftermath of a blade’s strike. 

Sukuna’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened, his amusement gleaming faintly in the sharp light of his crimson eyes. “Then you’d better bring everything you have,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “Because the last thing you’ll see is my shadow swallowing yours.” 

The curse user didn’t reply. With a sharp crack of their staff against the stone, they turned and strode toward the hall’s entrance, their energy trailing behind them like the ghost of a storm.  

The sound of the curse user’s footsteps faded into the distance, but their words lingered like a poison seeping into the air. For a moment, the hall was silent, the oppressive tension hanging heavy as the gathered lords processed what had just transpired. 

And then, chaos. 

Whispers rose first, sharp and urgent, like the rustling of dry leaves in a rising storm. Lords turned to one another, their voices rising with each passing moment, their fear and unease spilling over into frantic exchanges. Some gestured wildly, their silk sleeves fluttering like banners, while others kept their words low, their gazes darting nervously toward Sukuna as though afraid he might catch wind of their panic. 

“What does this mean?” one lord whispered harshly, his face pale and tight with tension. 

“They’ll attack!” another hissed, his voice trembling. “If war comes, none of us will—” 

“Silence!” a woman snapped, her fan snapping shut in her hand with a sharp crack. “Do you want him to hear you?” 

But the murmurs continued to build, rippling through the court like waves crashing against the jagged rocks of Sukuna’s presence. A few shouted outright, their voices laced with accusations and fear. 

“He’s made us vulnerable!” 

“This witch has brought ruin to our doorstep!” 

“She’s a liability!” 

The words cut through the air like blades, sharp and unforgiving, each one carrying the weight of the court’s mounting anxiety. 

I stood beside Sukuna, my chest tight as I processed the magnitude of what had just transpired. The curse user’s retreat wasn’t a surrender—it was a declaration of war, a promise that blood would be spilled, and that Sukuna’s dominion would be tested in ways even his lords feared to imagine. 

The pulse of the choker at my throat quickened, its energy threading through me like an anchor, grounding me as the storm of voices grew louder. I refused to look away, refused to let the weight of their stares and accusations crush me. 

Sukuna remained seated, his towering presence unshaken as he watched the chaos unfold. His expression was calm, almost amused, as though the shouting and whispering were nothing more than a distant echo of a storm that couldn’t reach him. 

And then he moved. 

Rising from his seat with a deliberate, unhurried motion, he stepped forward, his crimson robes pooling around him like molten fire. His cursed energy surged, coiling outward in a wave that pressed against the gathered lords like an iron hand. 

The room fell silent in an instant. 

Every voice stilled, every head turned, the weight of Sukuna’s presence swallowing the chaos as though it had never existed. The lords froze where they stood, their gazes fixed on him with a mixture of fear and reverence. 

Sukuna’s crimson eyes swept over them, two half-lidded with faint amusement, while the others gleamed with a sharp, predatory focus. His grin widened slowly, deliberate and menacing, as though savoring the weight of their collective fear. 

“Are you done?” he asked, his voice low and resonant, cutting through the silence like the crack of a whip. 

The lords flinched, their discomfort palpable as they bowed their heads, some murmuring faint apologies under their breath. 

Sukuna stepped forward, his movements slow but deliberate, his cursed energy rippling through the air like the distant rumble of thunder. He stopped at the edge of the dais, his gaze turning to me briefly before sweeping back to the gathered court. 

“Let them come,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of absolute certainty. “I’ll enjoy this.” 

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike, their finality pressing against the lords with a force that left no room for argument. 

His grin sharpened, the faint gleam of his teeth catching the light as his crimson eyes burned with anticipation. “War is not a threat to me,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, almost a purr. “It is an opportunity. And I suggest you remember that.” 

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, their fear barely concealed as they bowed their heads again, their voices stilled by the suffocating weight of his presence. 

Beside him, I straightened, the pulse of the choker steadying me as I met his gaze. His expression didn’t soften—not for me, not for anyone—but the faintest flicker of approval glinted in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of my place at his side. 

The storm had come. 

And Sukuna stood at its center, unshaken, unrelenting, and utterly unafraid. 

The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of braziers casting shifting shadows across the lacquered walls. The faint hum of cursed energy lingered in the air, sharp and steady, as though the estate itself was bracing for what was to come. 

I stood near the low lacquered table at the center of the room, my fingers brushing against its polished surface. Uraume sat cross-legged at the opposite end, their pale eyes sharp and focused, their usual composure carrying a subtle edge of tension. 

Sukuna leaned against the far wall, his crimson robes pooling around him like molten fire. His four eyes gleamed faintly in the flickering light, their sharp intensity fixed on the map spread across the table. 

The silence stretched, heavy and expectant, until Sukuna finally spoke. 

“They’ve been planning this for some time,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. His tone wasn’t angry—if anything, it carried a faint edge of amusement, as though the idea of an impending war was more of an inconvenience than a threat. “They wouldn’t dare move against me without reason. Or desperation.” 

Uraume nodded, their fingers tracing the edge of the map. “The curse user who appeared today,” they began, their tone measured, “is Kaito of the Obsidian Claw. A known figure in the western regions. He’s ruthless and ambitious, but until now, he hasn’t had the power to challenge you directly.” 

“And now he thinks he does,” I said, my voice calm but edged with defiance. 

Uraume’s gaze flicked to me, their expression unreadable. “He wouldn’t have issued a challenge without allies. This isn’t just his doing. There are others—likely curse users and lesser lords dissatisfied with Sukuna’s rule. Their rebellion isn’t born of strength, but of collective arrogance.” 

Sukuna chuckled, the sound low and sharp, reverberating through the room like the tolling of a distant bell. “Arrogance is easy to crush,” he said, his grin widening. “But collective arrogance? That could be entertaining.” 

I glanced at him, my brow furrowing slightly. “You’re treating this like a game,” I said, my tone sharper than intended. “But they aren’t bluffing. Kaito isn’t the type to back down, not after a declaration like that.” 

Sukuna’s gaze shifted to me, his grin softening into something colder, more deliberate. “And why should I be worried?” he asked, his voice laced with mockery. “Do you doubt my ability to handle this?” 

“No,” I replied evenly, holding his gaze. “But dismissing them entirely would be a mistake. They’re betting on that arrogance.” 

The air between us crackled faintly, the weight of his cursed energy brushing against my senses. But I didn’t falter. 

“She’s right,” Uraume said suddenly, breaking the tension. “Kaito knows he can’t match your power alone. He’ll rely on numbers, on alliances that give the illusion of strength. He’ll strike where he believes you’re vulnerable—through your court, your lords, even your borders.” 

Sukuna’s grin widened, his eyes narrowing with sharp amusement. “And let him try. It’s been far too quiet around here. A little chaos might do everyone some good.” 

Uraume’s expression didn’t change, but their tone shifted, carrying a faint edge of urgency. “This isn’t just about the court, my lord. Kaito’s challenge today wasn’t just aimed at you. It was aimed at her.” 

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. 

I straightened, the pulse of the choker at my throat quickening as Sukuna’s gaze flicked back to me. 

“Of course it was,” Sukuna said, his voice dropping lower, almost a purr. “They see her as the crack in my foundation. The weakness they can exploit.” 

“They’re wrong,” I said sharply, my voice cutting through the tension. 

Sukuna’s grin widened further, his expression gleaming with dangerous satisfaction. “Prove it, little witch,” he said softly, his tone both a challenge and a command. 

Uraume’s gaze shifted between us, their pale eyes narrowing slightly. “If Kaito believes she’s the weak link, he’ll target her directly. He’ll aim to discredit her, to drive a wedge between her and the court. And if he succeeds, it won’t just weaken her—it’ll reflect on you.” 

The weight of their words pressed against the room, the charged silence stretching taut. 

I exhaled slowly, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “Then I’ll face him,” I said, my tone steady despite the tightness in my chest. 

Sukuna chuckled, his voice low and resonant. “Oh, you’ll face him, little witch,” he said, his crimson eyes gleaming with sharp intent. “And when you do, you’ll remind him why he never should have dared to stand against me.” 

Uraume’s lips pressed into a thin line, their expression unreadable as they inclined their head. “If we’re to prepare, we’ll need to gather intelligence—confirm his alliances, his movements, and the full extent of his plans. That will take time.” 

“Time I’ll give you,” Sukuna said, his tone soft but carrying the weight of command. He turned to me, his grin softening into something sharper, more calculating. “But when the time comes, you’ll be ready. Won’t you?” 

I met his gaze, the pulse of the choker steadying me as I straightened. “I’ll be ready.” 

Sukuna’s grin widened, his satisfaction gleaming faintly in the flickering light. “Good,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Because war is coming. And I intend to enjoy every moment of it.” 

Uraume inclined their head, their sharp, pale eyes lingering on Sukuna for a moment before flicking to me. There was something unsaid in their gaze—a quiet warning, perhaps, or an acknowledgment of the tension that crackled faintly in the air between us. 

“Then I’ll see to the preparations,” Uraume said, their tone even but carrying an edge of finality. 

Sukuna dismissed them with a wave of his hand, his focus already shifting. The door clicked shut behind Uraume, the faint sound swallowed by the thick, charged air of the room. The glow of the braziers cast flickering shadows across the lacquered walls, the firelight catching on Sukuna’s robes as he shifted. His cursed energy pressed outward in slow, deliberate waves, brushing against my senses like smoke curling around a flame. 

I stood still, my heart thrumming steadily against the pulse of the choker at my throat. Sukuna didn’t speak immediately. He turned instead, his movements slow and deliberate, his crimson robes pooling around him like molten fire as he leaned against the low table. 

When he finally looked at me, his four eyes held a dangerous gleam, their sharp intensity leaving no room for misinterpretation. 

“You’re holding your own well, little witch,” he said, his tone carrying the faintest edge of amusement. “But tell me—are you truly as fearless as you pretend to be?” 

I lifted my chin slightly, refusing to shrink under the weight of his gaze. “I don’t need to pretend,” I said evenly. “I’ve stood before you, haven’t I?” 

His grin widened, slow and predatory, as he pushed off the table and began to move toward me. The air seemed to thrum with his presence, his cursed energy coiling tighter, sharper, as though testing the limits of my composure. 

“Brave words,” he murmured, his voice low, a velvet rasp that sent a shiver racing down my spine. “But bravery and foolishness often walk hand in hand.” 

“And which do you think I am?” I countered, forcing my voice steady despite the tension tightening my chest. 

He stopped just a pace away, towering over me, his gaze burning with unspoken intent. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” he said softly, the corner of his mouth curling into a grin. “You’re still standing, which is more than most can say. But standing and enduring are two different things.” 

I didn’t flinch, even as his cursed energy brushed against me, warm and suffocating, its weight settling against my skin like a second heartbeat. 

“Maybe you’re testing the wrong person,” I said, my voice sharp despite the heat building between us. 

His grin deepened, his teeth catching the light like the gleam of a blade. “Oh, I know exactly who I’m testing,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower. 

Before I could respond, he moved closer, his hand bracing against the wall beside my head with a sharp crack that sent a jolt through the air. His other hand found my waist, his grip firm but not painful, pulling me flush against the cool surface of the wall. 

The heat of him was overwhelming, his cursed energy pressing against me with a force that left no space for air, no room for doubt. His crimson eyes burned into mine, their sharp intensity leaving my chest tight, my breath shallow. 

“You’re different,” he said, his tone softening into something more deliberate, more dangerous. “You don’t tremble. You don’t break. And I can’t decide if that makes you clever—or reckless.” 

“Maybe it makes me neither,” I said, my voice quieter now but edged with defiance. 

His grin shifted, softening into something darker as his nose brushed lightly against my temple, his breath warm against my skin. “No,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. “It makes you mine.” 

The words sent a rush of heat through me, the weight of their implication leaving me momentarily breathless. My hands twitched at my sides, caught between the instinct to push him away and the maddening pull that drew me closer. 

“You assume too much,” I said finally, my voice steady despite the storm building between us. 

His laughter was soft, a low rumble that vibrated against my senses. “Do I?” he asked, his tone dripping with mockery. “Or are you simply afraid to admit that you feel it too?” 

I turned my head slightly, my gaze locking onto his with a sharp defiance I barely felt. “Feel what?” 

His lower hand shifted, his thumb brushing lightly against the curve of my waist. “This pull,” he said softly. “This fire between us. You’re not blind to it—you’re just afraid of what it might burn.” 

The air between us crackled like lightning, the pulse of the choker quickening against my throat as his cursed energy coiled tighter, pressing against me like a vice. His gaze dropped briefly to my lips, the motion deliberate, maddening, before returning to meet mine. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” I said, my voice sharp but quiet, each word deliberate. 

“No,” he said, his voice low, a quiet growl. “You’re afraid of yourself.” 

The words hit harder than I expected, a blade that carved through the tension with unsettling precision. His upper left hand moved to tilt my chin upward, his claws brushing lightly against my jaw as he brought my face closer to his. 

“I see it in you,” he murmured, his tone carrying a dark satisfaction. “The power you keep caged. The fire you’re too scared to let consume you. But it will, little witch. One way or another, it will.” 

My breath hitched, the weight of his cursed energy suffocating, the heat of him leaving no space for thought, only sensation. His lips hovered just a breath away from mine, his gaze unrelenting, as though daring me to close the distance. 

“Stop playing games,” I said, my voice trembling between defiance and something far more dangerous. 

He chuckled softly, the sound low and resonant as his teeth grazed the edge of my jaw, the motion deliberate and maddeningly slow. “This isn’t a game,” he said, his voice a velvet rasp against my skin. “This is inevitability.” 

The words hung heavily between us, the tension suffocating as the pull between us became unbearable. And then, just as suddenly, he pulled back, his cursed energy retreating like a tide, leaving the air cold and empty. 

“Think on it,” he said, his grin sharp and triumphant as he stepped away. “You won’t resist forever.” 

He disappeared into the shadows, his presence lingering in the faint hum of the choker and the wild thrum of my heartbeat. I leaned against the wall, my chest heaving as I fought to steady myself, the storm he left in his wake raging long after he was gone. 

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE I'm trying my hardest to keep up a schedule of putting a new chapter out everyday, but my college classes have started up again, so be forewarned that I may not be able to have a new chapter out as consistently. I'll try my best to keep up, but know you have my sincerest apologies if I fail to make it.

TAGLIST @slutlight2ndver @surielstea @duhhitzstarr @arcanefeelings @numbuh666 @tejan-sunny @lavenderandoranges @after-laughter-comes-tears @maomimii @theplacetoputfics

[devieuls]

ˋ Haunted . ☉

Qimir x Ex Jedi Fem Reader < SERIES >

Warning of the Serie: MDNI. Sith Lord Qimir x Fem ex Jedi Reader.

(during the series)

SMUT: Dirty Talk; Bites; fingering; Blood; Spit; Jealousy and Possessiveness; Foreplay; violence; Swearing; Teasing; Unprotected Sex; betrayal; oral sex; dacryphilia; outdoor sex; jealousy BDSM. Dom Qimir ANGST: toxic relationship, self-harm, derealization, suffering, Requited / Unrequited love, prejudices, bullying and insults. There will be flashbacks in this series

Aged characters: Qimir 35 y.o / You 22 y.o.

Synopsis: In a twisted web of light and darkness, two opposites are facing each other, dancing on a thin thread called fate. What happens when light and darkness dance on a wire called destiny, two eternal opposites that inevitably attract each other and create something perfectly powerful and chaotic to unite the power of two in one? The answer emerges in a journey of tension and attraction, where yin and yang discover that their opposition is nothing but a reflection of a deep and unexpected connection. This is the story of how destruction is akin to peace, how the moon one day decided to save the sun, how darkness is not so dark and evil so bad. A journey towards change and desire, where opposing forces merge into a future that no one could have predicted.

(Following some events of the series)

Lenght: 5.8k

Recommended song: here

TW: THE SERIES WILL BE FULL OF DELICATE TOPICS!

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· · ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── · ·

⠀⠀⠀Chapter IX: Seeing you

“Let’s go home.” you hissed coldly, pulling up your hood that had fallen during the battle. You didn't even turn to give a final glance at Sol's body. You reached out and retrieved Mae's lightsaber, placing it at your side before walking toward the exit of that place, letting the flames consume the green lung of the temple, burning the last roots that still tied you to it, abandoning the memory that had returned to you of your old master.

Qimir lowered his gaze in silence, wiping a lonely tear that wrinkled his face, feeling your pain for you, following you out of that memory with your ex master, sensing that faint flame extinguishing within you.

He nodded before following you outside, using the Force suppression once again to cover both your tracks, especially yours, which had become stronger. More chaotic.

Your footsteps echoed on the lacquered floor of the temple, light yet firm, as if each step was a declaration of war against the world around you. Qimir walked behind you, silent, his mood palpable like an oppressive shadow. There was something different about him, something you had never felt so intensely before: a profound melancholy, almost tangible, as if the weight of shared memories had settled on him as well. The silence between you was almost deafening, broken only by the dull sound of your steps bouncing off the stone walls.

You had noticed that tear streaking down his face earlier. He had shed it in your place, while inside you, there was only apathy. Nothing but a merciless void, an absolute coldness devouring you from within. Your gaze was cold as you advanced through the temple corridors like a ghost wandering through the ruins of the past.

"Why so emotional?" you asked with a cynical voice, sharp like the blade of a knife. The gray smoke, caused by the fires you had unleashed, began filtering through the corridors, carrying with it the acrid scent of destruction. You kept walking, changing direction to avoid the wave of Jedi knights heading toward the Hall of a Thousand Fountains. "After all, he was my master, not yours." Every word was laced with an almost unnatural coldness. You couldn’t understand why Qimir was so troubled, so emotionally involved. He hadn’t killed Sol. You had. It was your sentence. "I don't understand why you have such a dark aura" you concluded without turning around, ignoring the murmurs of the Jedi calling out to gather as many people as possible to help save the hall.

You turned the corner, the faint light of the torches reflecting off the polished surfaces of the walls and floor, the once-sacred temple now reduced to a scene of ruin and betrayal. The carved columns and lush plants that adorned the corridor seemed more dead than alive under the oppressive veil of smoke. You stopped for a moment, breathing in the thick air, as Qimir’s voice reached your ears like a deep, distant whisper.

"It's because… I saw your memory." Those words hit you like a punch to the gut, stopping you in your tracks. The cold that enveloped you cracked, if only for an instant.

That flashback, that memory so private, a fragment of the past you wished you could erase forever, had now been seen by him. Your blood boiled within you, but your gaze remained empty as you turned to face him. You clenched your jaw, your hands balled into fists, and you looked at him with a menacing glare, full of a disappointment that scratched at your soul.

"You went into my mind?" Your tone was venomous, almost suffocated by disgust. It wasn’t just an invasion of your privacy; it was a wound reopening, your pain exposed, bare, vulnerable. To him. And that enraged you. Your voice, which had been steady just moments before, now trembled ever so slightly.

Qimir sighed, running a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on you. He approached slowly, his imposing figure towering over you, yet without any threat, only understanding and presence. Not that he could have intimidated you in the state of mind you were in.

"No." His reply was simple, but loaded with sincerity. "I think the Force connected us."

A hollow, icy, ironic laugh escaped your lips, almost hysterical. It was ridiculous, a clumsy attempt to justify an act that couldn’t be justified. The Force? That same Force that now seemed foreign, distant to you? Your laugh died on your lips as you looked at him with disdain.

"Of course. obviously. The Force." you replied sarcastically, the acidity in your words palpable. You turned to continue walking, your steps quick and determined toward the exit. "It was just a stupid memory" you muttered, trying to convince yourself that you didn’t care anymore. But inside, something stirred, a thin wave of pain you tried to suppress. It was all that remained of you, the memory of who you once were.

But Qimir didn’t relent. His voice reached you like a warm caress, and it was almost unbearable to endure. The fact that he understood you more than you understood yourself, as if he were part of you and your mind was his.

"Y/N… I feel it. That action stirred something within you." His voice was softer now, almost fatherly, as if he were trying to reach the last fragment of you that could still be saved. His words echoed in your head like an annoying refrain. He didn’t want to let you go, and that hurt. A dull pain, smothered beneath layers of hate and anger. The cold inside you seemed to melt only to make way for an even greater void.

"It’s not like that." you replied, sharp as a blade. The emptiness inside you deepened, devouring everything that had once been warm, human. You didn’t want to listen to him, didn’t want to feel understood. You didn’t want to be saved.

Qimir fell behind, following you as your steps led you toward the temple’s exit. The corridors grew darker and narrower, the smell of smoke more intense. The columns adorned with ancient symbols seemed to weep, covered by the soot from the fire and the chaos you were leaving behind. The walls, decorated with Jedi tapestries, once symbols of serenity, now stood as witnesses to an impending end, consumed by the fire slowly devouring them from within, like a cancer.

You reached the exit, the cold wind hitting your face, carrying with it the scent of ash and ruin. The temple behind you was dying, like everything else inside you. And without turning back, you felt that something fundamental had broken forever. You paused for a moment, letting the saturated air fill your lungs.

You felt Qimir’s intense gaze on your back, like a blade piercing you without restraint, digging into your thoughts and being, an invisible weight that made you clench your jaw, your blood boiling beneath your skin. Compassion. The way he looked at you, filled with a compassion you neither sought nor wanted, made you clench your fists until it hurt. You couldn’t bear that silence laden with pity any longer. You stopped, your breathing heavier than expected, while the sound of your boots echoed in the empty temple.

You turned abruptly, a surge of anger shaking the air around you, facing him with a gaze that could burn.

"Are you going to keep doing that for long?" Your voice was sharp, a breath of venom that caught him by surprise. Qimir looked at you, confused, with that slight tilt of the head that betrayed his attempt to understand what was going through your mind. You stared at him with a mix of rage and defiance, your arms crossing over your chest, creating a barrier between you and him.

"Looking at me like I’m some orphan mourning the only parent she has left?" The words came out like a whip, harsh, cruel, spoken with such intensity that they could have hurt anyone. Your voice vibrated with a fury you tried to mask behind a wall of acidic sarcasm. You felt exposed, naked before him, and that emotion made you seethe even more.

Qimir remained impassive, his face serious, almost stoic, as he watched you without moving a muscle, unfazed. His gaze stayed fixed on you, but there was no anger in his eyes, only deep regret. Then, with placid calm, he approached slowly, his eyes penetrating yet serene.

"You weren’t ready." His words, though spoken gently, hit you like a truth you didn’t want to accept. His voice was calm and serious, as if he were merely stating a fact. That disarming calm made you clench your fists, feeling your nails dig into your palms.

Qimir had just passed you, his figure moving ahead with composure, as if your outburst hadn’t affected him at all. He walked with the same steady pace, heading toward the ship without looking back. You stood still for a moment, your gaze fixed on his retreating form, your breath quickening, while a storm raged inside you. His words echoed in your mind. "You weren’t ready." A wave of frustration hit you like a flood. How dare he? How dare he reduce everything to that simple phrase? You were no longer a child, no longer that insecure and vulnerable Padawan. You had done it. You had killed Sol.

You turned sharply, now following his steps, your breath sharp and quick, fueled by your rage, and every step you took seemed to pull you deeper into the abyss.

"I did it. And I succeeded. Because I was ready." Your words were charged with a desperate anger, defending your choice, your decision. But there was an echo of vulnerability beneath that anger you couldn’t hide.

Qimir stopped for a moment, his back straight, his presence solid and unshakable. His gaze darkened as he responded, still not fully turning to face you. And when his words finally came, they hurt more than you wanted to admit.

"And now look at you." His voice was colder now, like a blade piercing straight into your chest. "You don’t even seem like yourself anymore." Each word was a heavy judgment, pushing you deeper into an abyss you refused to recognize. "You needed time to think. To reflect, grow, and learn. To gradually let go of your Jedi side. Instead, you destroyed your own balance."

You stopped in your tracks, your muscles tense like cords about to snap, feeling your heart pounding furiously in your chest as if it were about to burst. Inside you, something broke, and the silence that followed was deafening. An unrelenting fury erupted within you, a force you could no longer contain. You clenched your fists once more, your breathing irregular as his words continued to tear you apart from the inside.

"I’m not a child." Your voice came out cold, sharp, but with a slight tremor that betrayed the emotional storm overtaking you. Qimir paused, turning slowly toward you, and his gaze, almost fatherly, pierced you once again. But this time, there was a hint of disappointment in his eyes, a disappointment that made you feel even more vulnerable, as if the ground beneath you were giving way, making you want to scream at him until it hurt.

"But you’re acting like one." His words were a dagger straight to your heart. Your breath caught, and for a moment you couldn’t find the words, but the rage inside you exploded like a volcano. The air grew heavier, and every fiber of your being silently screamed your pain.

Without thinking, you stepped forward with determined anger, pointing your finger on his chest with fierce intensity, as if you wanted to pierce him with your own hand. Your voice cracked between a scream and a sob you didn’t want to let out.

"You know nothing about me!" Your breath was ragged, your voice trembling with rage and pain, but he remained unmoved, as if he already knew what you were about to say. You stared at him with fierce intensity, the trembling in your hands becoming more evident with each passing moment.

Qimir stood motionless, his gaze filled with an almost painful calm, a level of understanding you couldn’t bear. His tone was measured, almost serene, as he replied in that warm voice you despised at that moment.

"I know enough," he said, his voice deep and loaded with unyielding calm, "to see that killing Sol killed a part of you. And I understand. You weren’t ready. If you had been, you wouldn’t have kept that memory." His voice wrapped around you, suffocating, making you feel smaller and smaller under the weight of a truth you didn’t want to accept. "Or you wouldn’t have taken his lightsaber, keeping it with Mae’s." Those words hit you like a whip, and your heart clenched in a knot of pain you could no longer unravel. He had seen. He had understood.

"I’m not a damn child!" you screamed, your voice cracked by emotion, almost hysterical. Your body trembled as you backed away from him, your breath labored and disordered. "I don’t need you to understand me," you continued, your voice desperate, while inside you, something seemed to piece back together only to shatter even harder. Tears began to fall, silently, without you even realizing it. An invisible torrent streamed down your face as your body wavered under the weight of everything you had repressed. "I don’t need words of comfort while you think I’m grieving over someone who killed my only family! I don’t care about Sol, I don’t care about killing him, I don’t care about any of it! I don’t care." Your words erupted like a storm, a tornado of emotions that had finally found their way out.

The silence that followed your words was deafening. Qimir looked at you, unmoving, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, a mixture of pain and understanding that drove you even crazier.

"And stop looking at me like that," you whispered, almost pleading, your voice now broken, fragile. Your heart was crumbling, piece by piece, as you desperately tried to maintain the wall around you, now shattered. "I said stop looking at me like that…" Your voice was almost unrecognizable.

The air felt as heavy as a ton of bricks around you, each breath a boulder crushing your chest. Qimir approached, slowly, as if walking on tiptoes through the minefield surrounding you. Each step he took seemed to amplify the chaos within you, the tornado of emotions ravaging everything you once were.

"And don’t come any closer, damn it." Your voice exploded hysterically, a desperate scream you could no longer hold back. A roar of pain masked by anger, a desperate warning you knew wouldn’t stop Qimir. Your heart pounded frenetically, almost painfully, as every muscle in your body tensed to the extreme, as if simply standing were an impossible task. Every thought, every emotion clashed with the other, making you feel like you were about to explode.

Every step he took, drawing nearer with an almost unbearable slowness, squeezed your heart tighter. Why wouldn’t he stop? Why did he insist on trying to break down the wall you were desperately building around yourself?

"I don’t need you. Or him. Or anyone else." The words spilled out of you, a mix of hatred and desolation. You were lying, but that lie seemed like the only thing that could give you a semblance of control in that moment. Each word was like a heavy stone thrown into the void, and you hoped it would make you feel stronger, more detached. But it didn’t work. "I don’t care about the Jedi, the Sith, or that Force nonsense." The last word left your lips like a hiss, your tone almost empty, as if all those emotions were already draining what was left of you. The fire inside you was dying, and all that remained was ash, a hollow emptiness consuming you from within.

Qimir paused for a few seconds, listening, his gaze fixed on you—understanding, but not patronizing. He allowed you to be who you were in that moment: fragile, broken, in pieces. He said nothing. His silence was devastating, as though he understood everything, as if he could see through your lies, through the wall you had built. He didn’t need to speak, because he knew your words, your anger, were just armor to hide the pain.

"I don’t care about anything…" you repeated, but this time your voice cracked, the tone less certain, less fierce. Did you really not care?

Qimir began moving again, slowly, ignoring your initial warning. And when he got close enough to brush against your skin, you didn’t push him away. He gently took your wrist, his touch disarming. The contact made you tremble, and before you could react, you found yourself wrapped in his embrace, a warmth you hadn’t remembered feeling in so long. That warmth shattered you completely. You cried. You cried into his chest, your sobs muffled by his protective embrace, and with each sob, the last barrier you had built to protect yourself began to crumble.

"I don’t need you." you sobbed, your voice now a whisper devoid of conviction.

"I know" he replied softly, gently stroking your head with a tenderness you had never wanted, but now seemed to desperately need. He let you break down, knowing that in that moment, no words could ease the pain consuming you.

"I don’t care that I killed him. It doesn’t matter, really, I don't" you repeated, almost as if trying to convince yourself, but deep down, even you knew those words were hollow.

"It’s okay, I know" he responded, his voice a safe refuge, a place where you could let go, if only for a moment. His answer was a comfort, but not a true response, just an echo of everything you had lost.

You clung to the edges of Qimir’s black tunic with such force that your nails dug into the fabric, as if in that desperate grasp you could find the stability you so deeply lacked within yourself. His chest was solid, warm, a fleeting shelter from the storm still raging in your heart. You could no longer hold back the tears; they flowed like a silent but devastating waterfall, as your face sank into the dark fabric. You felt his breath, deep and calm, like a distant melody trying to soothe the turmoil devouring your soul. And strangely, it began to work.

“It’s okay to let it out. He was someone you cared about.” His voice, a whisper in your hair, had the softness of a blanket wrapping around you on a freezing winter night. Qimir didn’t push you, didn’t judge you, but each of his words sank into you with an inescapable truth. And that gentle tone… it stirred something even more painful within you. Perhaps it was a memory of who you used to be or who you had wanted to become.

“He was no one.” Your voice, fragile and trembling, fought against the reality you so desperately tried to deny. But that denial was crumbling with each word you spoke. Sol wasn’t “no one.” His ghost still clung to you, you could feel him in the chaos swirling within, in the cold air around you, in the light breeze that stung your face as you tried to regain control. He had been everything: mentor, confidant, guide, father. And now, he was gone. And your soul felt empty, like an abandoned shell.

Qimir took a step back, but his words remained, cold and sharp, like knives slowly carving into your heart.

“You need to accept the truth, or what you did will never bring you any peace. You killed him, y/n. Because he killed your sister, didn’t he? And he was important. You did it, and you’ve severed yourself from him.”

Those words hit you with a devastating force. Like lightning, they tore through the silence you had built around your pain. Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt every muscle tense in a suffocating grip. You couldn’t deny it.

“You said you were ready. If you were really, you’d-”

“He was like a father…” The whisper that escaped your lips surprised you, cutting off his words. You hadn’t even been aware of wanting to say it, but there it was, alive, full of truth. Qimir watched you with unrelenting calm, and for the first time, there was no judgment in his gaze. There was understanding, but also a push, a need for you to face what you had been running from.

Qimir smiled, but it was not a kind smile; it was bitter, cruel in its awareness. “He was.” he confirmed, and you felt his breath slow, almost measured. He lifted your chin with two fingers, the touch firm yet strangely gentle. His eyes locked with yours, a dark mirror in which your suffering reflected, distorted. “And you killed him.”

Those words echoed in the emptiness around you. There was no more room for lies. Your tears kept falling, silent rivers, and your sobs grew weaker, stifled by the crushing realization tearing you apart. You did it. Qimir didn’t let go. Every word he spoke was another stone, adding weight to your burden.

You swallowed, your throat tightening like a noose. A tingling sensation crept to the tip of your nose, a familiar sign that more tears were on the way. You didn’t want to cry anymore, but the tears came anyway, silent, unstoppable.

“And I killed him…” Your voice was a broken sound, cracked by pain and awareness. The words fell heavy, like boulders shattering the oppressive silence of the room.

“Even though he was important and the last thing tying you to the Jedi.” He was forcing you to feel the weight of the truth, to confront every facet of your pain. You hated him for it, hated his unshakable calm, as if none of this affected him. But a deeper part of you, the part that couldn’t lie, knew he was right. You gritted your teeth, your face twisting into an expression of pain and suppressed rage. You wanted to hate him, to scream at him, but you couldn’t summon the strength. His calm infuriated you, yet there was something hypnotic in the way his voice softly slid into your thoughts, like a whisper sinking deep, dismantling every defense you’d built.

“Say it, y/n. You killed him even though he was like a father.” Qimir’s tone grew heavier, his words falling like stones into the silence, weighty and unavoidable. Every statement was a knife, cutting deeper into your soul, stripping away each layer of falsehood you’d built around yourself.

“Not for Mae, not because he abandoned you in Khofar. You did it to detach yourself from something that was never truly yours.” Qimir continued, relentless, but now there was a tenderness in his tone, as if he were guiding you through the darkness. His words were sharp, but the harshness from before was gone; he seemed to be leading you toward some essential truth, toward a revelation. His eyes followed every shift in your expression, observing, measuring your reactions, while his hand remained steady, your wrist still trembling in his grasp.

Anger flared up again, like fire igniting beneath your skin. Your fists clenched, but you couldn’t find the words. Every time you wanted to shout, his voice would cut through, digging deeper, exposing everything you’d always tried to hide. Each of his words left you feeling naked before him, vulnerable.

“It’s not like that…” you whispered weakly, your voice tinged with anger, frustration, but mostly fear. Fear of admitting that perhaps Qimir was right. “I was a Jedi.” Your voice came out with force, as if speaking the words could make them true. But you knew it was just a defense, an illusion you were trying to build to shield yourself from the truths he was slowly unraveling.

“No. You never were.” Qimir’s voice was firm, without a hint of hesitation. “Kind. You said that to Sol, only to please him. You never truly wanted to be a Jedi. You never felt like one, and that’s why you gave it up. That’s why you left. You only found someone who, for the first time, seemed to see you, only you. Not Mae.”

His words pierced you like poisoned arrows, making you tremble with both rage and pain. You clenched your jaw, tears continuing to stream down your face, burning like acid. You desperately tried to pull away from him, to break the contact that made you feel so vulnerable. But he didn’t budge, his grip firm and secure like a vice.

“You never really cared for Mae. Sure, you mourned her death. But you’ve always envied her. Hated her… because your mothers always seemed to prefer her. She, who was always ahead of you, better, more attuned to the Force” he continued, his tone sweet like bitter honey. His words were a punch to the gut, an uncomfortable truth that had tormented you your whole life, a shadow you could never dispel.

“Enough…” you whispered, your voice broken, a stifled scream that you couldn’t release. You could no longer bear that pain, that cruelty masked as kindness.

“Did you really want to be ‘kind’?” he asked, his gaze piercing, cold yet sweet at the same time. He seemed almost curious, as if trying to gauge how far he could push you. “How could you truly believe you could become that, if deep down… you wanted Mae to die. To be truly dead. You knew she wasn’t when you were still a child, but you liked the idea.”

“It’s not like that…” you protested, your voice trembling, a thin thread of anger and despair fading with every word. You tried to deny it, to defend yourself, but his words seeped through your defenses like water dripping into a crack.

“But Sol saw you, didn’t he? He chose you over Mae; for the first time, you were the one. And you liked it. That’s why you left Brendok without looking for her corpse, that’s why you said you wanted to be ‘kind’; you knew the Jedi Masters would have rejected you if you had truly answered. Y/n, you could never have been a Jedi if you had responded honestly. You’ve always been consumed by jealousy, anger, fear… by the darkness.”

His voice was low and warm, almost a whisper, but each word was a blow that sank you deeper into the abyss. Every sentence he spoke opened a wound you thought was closed, and now it was bleeding, a sharp and dull pain that clouded your senses.

“Stop, please…” you moaned, your body trembling, your hands clutching him, searching for a foothold, an anchor in that ocean of confusion and despair, feeling vulnerable.

“Yes, it is. What would you have really answered Sol that day if his gaze hadn’t pleaded with you to respond as he wanted? Who did you want to become? Who did you really want to become, y/n?” His voice turned hard, imperative, and his gaze pierced you like a blade. It was as if he were forcing you to look within yourself alongside him, to dig deep to find the answer you had always feared.

“I… I don’t know” you whispered, panic engulfing your mind. You felt the world collapsing around you, everything you believed yourself to be disintegrating under the weight of his words. Your hands trembled, your body rigid like a taut string, and your eyes darted frantically around, searching for an escape, something to cling to.

“You know… say it, y/n. That day you cried, you lied to be accepted. To fit in. Say it, what did you really want?” he insisted, his tone softening yet becoming more dangerous. Your glassy eyes locked onto him, and you felt your mind emptying. A distant echo reverberated in your head, the truth surfacing from the darkness where you had imprisoned it.

“To be truly myself…be accepted.” you finally whispered, the words almost inaudible, devoid of life, as the weight of that revelation crushed your soul. The truth had emerged, bare and simple. Qimir nodded slowly, his expression cold yet understanding.

“Exactly. And who are you really?” Qimir continued, not loosening his grip, his voice growing warmer as if he wanted to guide you out of that darkness. Each of his words was a step toward liberation, a painful yet necessary path. You could no longer hide, not from him, not from yourself. You were collapsing, yet at the same time, you were reconstructing yourself, piece by piece.

“I am me…” you murmured, the words slowly unrolling with a newfound awareness as you lowered your gaze to your hands. You breathed more slowly now, your chest rising and falling in a more regular rhythm as a sense of peace began to break through within you, a strange and unexpected calm.

“You are darkness, y/n. You are anger, frustration, envy, disgust, desire. You are freedom, confusion, chaos, strength. You are yourself. You killed Sol to kill yourself. Not him, but the false, unhappy person you’ve always been. Living a life that never felt like your own.” His voice was warm and enveloping, and as he spoke, his fingers caressed your cheeks, wiping away the tears that continued to flow. Every gesture was delicate, almost loving, as if he were trying to soothe the pain he had just inflicted. You felt his strength, his presence, and that sensation of warmth filled you, sweeping away the coldness that had surrounded you.

“I wanted to be free.” you finally asserted, your tone stronger, more certain, as you looked into his eyes and saw your liberation reflected there. His smile softened, and his eyes sparkled with a new light as he pulled you closer, resting your head against his chest. “I am free…” you murmured, closing your eyes. The warmth of his embrace was a refuge, and for the first time in a long while, you felt a profound peace spreading within you, banishing the shadows that had accompanied you for so long. You could feel his hand moving through your hair, his breath gently rocking you, and in that moment, you allowed yourself to truly feel.

“My good girl…” he whispered, his voice vibrating with a tenderness that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. “How could you face a world that wouldn’t accept who you truly are, if not by pretending?” You closed your eyes, surrendering to that feeling of peace, of freedom, that you had never experienced before. Your mind emptied, your emotions settled, and for the first time in as long as you could remember, you truly felt… yourself.

“Now do you understand? You never belonged to that world, you never embraced your darkness, and you became weak” Qimir whispered, his voice like a gentle caress to your mind, penetrating your despair like a dense shadow spreading across a gloomy sky. You turned to look at him; he gazed at you with an unshakeable calm, his deep eyes full of a strength that seemed to pull you into an abyss from which there was no escape.

“I see you, y/n. I’ve always seen you. And I know this is the right path you should have walked all along. Mae… she didn’t have what you have” he continued, his warm hand resting on your face, his thumb tracing the outline of your lips, drawing a line of fire across your skin. You felt your heart race, a mix of anger and desire swirling within you.

Your gaze dropped, trying to escape the weight of his words, but Qimir’s hand gently moved under your chin, lifting it firmly, forcing you to look at him again.

“You’ve been… cruel” you whispered, your voice a thin thread, broken and fragile like shattered glass. He smiled softly, a smile that sent shivers down your spine, laden with a twisted sweetness that seemed to touch the deepest chords of your soul.

“You would have remained trapped in a loop of self-deception, never accepting your true self,” he murmured, his fingers softly caressing your cheeks now. “Now you’re like me. You’ve lost everything, you’ve hit You have touched the rock bottom, and you’re free to be. To exist as you truly are.” His voice was a hypnotic whisper, weaving into your mind, making you feel both vulnerable and powerful at the same time. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the turmoil inside you, then sighed deeply and nodded faintly.

Then, without warning, he grabbed your shoulders and turned you toward the still-burning temple, the dying flames illuminating the structure. “You died. There. Today. Alongside your master.” he said, leaning toward you, his warm breath brushing your ear, making you tremble. “And you have been reborn. Stronger. You could have everything, if only you would let yourself be guided.” His words were a dangerous mix that slipped inside you, sowing confusion and desire. You slowly turned your head, your gaze lost in his, and for a moment it seemed as if the world had stopped. His closeness was both suffocating and reassuring, his warmth enveloping you, and you felt yourself falling, falling for him, into that darkness that had always been there, waiting for you.

“You want me to become your apprentice,” you murmured in a thin voice, a bitter sarcasm masking your fear and hesitation.

“I want you to become my pupil. My acolyte” he replied, his voice dropping lower and deeper, almost a low growl that resonated in your chest. His eyes scrutinized you with an intensity that took your breath away, as if he wanted to see every thought, every hidden emotion inside you. “I still want to be completely yours, but let me help you blossom… We could have everything, y/n.”

His gaze was hypnotic, a living flame drawing you in closer. You looked down, your breath becoming heavy and irregular. You felt lost, trapped between the desire to escape again and the urge to surrender completely to him. Slowly, you turned, raising your eyes to meet his, your heart racing as you approached. And then, without thinking, your lips pressed against his.

The contact was like an electric shock coursing through your body, a fire igniting within you, burning away every uncertainty. His lips were warm and strong against yours, and for a moment, the world ceased to exist. Your hand moved instinctively, seeking the hilt of his lightsaber, the cold metal fitting perfectly in your palm. You gripped it firmly, feeling the power it contained, like a heartbeat resonating in sync with yours. Qimir didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands moved slowly, gently but decisively, settling over yours, enveloping it with a possessive grip. His thumb caressed your skin, while his tongue brushed against yours, inviting you to join him in a dance of desire and power. You felt his warm breath mixing with yours, his body pressing against yours, as the kiss deepened, became more intense. Each movement of his lips was a promise, a whispered secret that made you tremble with longing.

And in that moment, as the world seemed to burn around you, as the temple crumbled like the past you had left behind, you understood that this was how it was meant to be. That he would be your master, your guide, the one who would protect you. That you would follow that darkness, embrace the power flowing through your veins.

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TAGLIST: @neteyamtanhi @blossomedfloweroflove @muffledgorillaviolence @princessakirika

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Notes :

I missed a little bit of dark Qimir. this man is so bipolar fr fr.

Anyway, I’m still stuck at the front chapter, I read it in loop. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, let me know

-Mel

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚

[abyssalbrews]

Kintsugi

High res versions of the art, a Foundry VTT module, and other formats, as well as a full compendium of our 100+ items can be found on our Patreon

Though I’ve never practiced it myself, I’ve heard of an ancient art of taking broken pottery and turning the repair into something beautiful by restoring it with lacquer mixed with gold. It’s a fascinating process to behold and truly does give a broken piece a new sense of life while not rejecting its history. This armor seems to have at one point undergone a similar destruction and repair process, but whatever magics were used during the restoration truly are something phenomenal.

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[hallcyscomct]

scarlet lacquered nail draws lazily about the rim of a wine glass that wears the stain of an equally rouge kiss . there's a small squeak when otherwise a operatic hum may break out . other touch is pressing deep into the corners of her sockets as the daylight blue hue from her tablet lies to her in reporting a healthy profit and loss for q3 . the holiday party is in full swing , but she's more content here , on the stern as ' jingle bell rock ' morphs into a white noise , threading with the ambient joy . chilling air licks at her cheeks from the balcony . glass is retired gently on the skyscraper's ledge . rapping knuckles draw her ear , but not her attention . " no , darla , this office is still very much occupied . "

[bebemoon]

look for the name: ELENA-MARIJA

dolce & gabbana strapless deconstructed gingham gown w/ blue crinoline and lace trim, s/s 2oo6

{hair} raffia and pearl spike-studded hair accessroies + straw-wrapped braided tresses @ simone rocha s/s 2o2o

dolce & gabbana romantic porcelain cameo choker, c. 1992

columbian straw heart-shaped purse

italian or french gilded and painted carved wood ladies shoes of pierced and carved gesso and lacquered wood w/ exaggerated pointed toes painted with tulips and dog roses, the upper with lace-effect piercings with faux latchets and eyelets for threading ribbons; c. second half 17th century

[hey-heigo]

Chapter 23

ohhh baby we back in it now

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

byakuya pov finally

bonus headcanon coming into play here: byakuya being Wasian

shoutout @digitaldollsworld for helping me conceptualize byakuya's mom! both of us are Sick about her

Content warning tags: wall-punching, grieving/mourning, unreality (dreaming)

< previous - from start - next >

There’s a woman standing in his office.

Byakuya stands behind the cracked-open doorway, peeking through - though, part of him does rile up with the indignity of having to spy into his own office - at the intruder, standing in front of his desk, back facing the door.

He can’t see her face. But he can see her flax-yellow hair, tied back with a wrinkled, silken scarf that’s probably the most expensive thing she’s wearing. Her cotton jumpsuit is so stained and faded that hardly any of the original blue is still there. Her canvas shoes are discolored with mud.

She would look more out of place, if the shabbiness of her hadn’t seeped into her surroundings. The carpet is splattered with crusted clay, and shards of stone stick out of the plush threads like thorns. The mahogany surface of his desk is creaking and bent under the weight of a large cube of fleshy, white marble, splintering under the lacquer.

As he watches, she lifts her bare hands - ugly, roughened, thickly muscled fingers, nails cracked and filthy - like a conductor before an orchestra. She pauses, head tilted like a bird, thinking, and Byakuya inexplicably finds himself holding his breath; and then, she places her palms against the stone.

The surface of it warps and distends beneath her touch, first like a swollen balloon, and then like clay, twisting and following her hands like a swimming fish. And he watches, fascinated despite himself, as she bends and shapes it, twisting pieces off, smoothing edges down. She pinches out a piece in the middle for a nose, smoothes down a sharp edge for a sloping curve of a cheek, flicks her nail sharply beneath the brow to pull out a crease for an eyelid.

It’s magic. In seemingly no time at all, there on his desk is a bust; the head of a man brought to life, caught in a soft, gentle expression. The sculptor pauses, and steps backwards to take in her work.

There’s something reverent about it, and Byakuya suddenly has the feeling that he’s witnessing something not meant for him to see.

But he creaks the door open slightly more to get a better look, finding it strange how he was more curious than angry, even despite the intrusion. As he approaches, the bust’s eyes suddenly flick towards him, and immediately the serenity is replaced by a solemn, pinched brow, the smile replaced by a severe slash of a frown. And Byaukuya realizes he recognizes this face.

The marble-wrought head of Kijo Togami is sitting on his desk, scowling at him.

“Byakuya?”

He turns to the woman. She’s facing him now, though she has no face to speak of - it is blurred and unfocused, like a distant background character of an impressionist oil painting, the features mere shifting smears against a flat plane - but he knows her. He knows her.

“Byakuya,” She repeats, the syllables awkward on her tongue. She’s speaking French, and she sounds distant. Muted, underwater. But her voice still has the same, oddly musical quality to it that he remembers, making everything she said sound like a lullaby. “Bijou. Did I not tell you to stay out of my studio?”

Her studio?

“This is my office.” He protests back. He can’t tell if he’s speaking Japanese or not; every word feels clumsy and foreign, like he’s just learned how to talk. “What are you doing here, Mother?”

She just sighs. Shakes her head, her featureless face. There’s no anger in it, no loving exasperation either; just a neutral disapproval of his presence. His unwanted existence in her space. “Bijou,” She says again, and the nickname irritates him. A sweet-sounding endearment that was ultimately empty, a placeholder for her to refer to him by, because his own name was too clumsy to speak with her accent. “When did you become so grown? When will you stop being so cold?”

The stone Kijo Togami is still frowning at him. In this instant, both the man he calls ‘Father’ and the woman who had birthed him - one painfully-detailed stone, the other indistinct flesh - stand before him. One silent and forever displeased, the other sweet but hollow-sounding and entirely uncaring that they shared any blood at all.

“How strange it is, that you look so much like me,” She sighs, raising a hand to his face. He flinches away from it, the sandpaper sharpness of her palms, the filth that stains the creases of her skin, the heat that comes off of it like a kiln. “And yet, you are so much like him.”

—

He wakes up with a gasp, eyes snapping open.

He’s greeted with the pitch darkness of his ceiling, cut through with a thin slash of white from his bathroom light, streaming through the cracked-open door. A reminder he had taken to preparing for himself before he went to bed, that his eyes were still there, and he sighs and presses a palm to his chest as he stares up at it. Feeling his heart pounding beneath his fingertips, then slowing, in time with his breaths.

A dream. He can’t remember the last time he dreamed so vividly, but he had been subjected to some unpleasantly…shocking events the last few days (he won’t call them traumatic, he’s witnessed far worse in his life). The details of the dream are already slipping away as he tries to recall it, like sand between his fingers. It’s hardly important.

He lies in bed a moment longer, trying to see if sleep will come, but even with the adrenaline fading he’s wide-awake. Annoying, but not surprising, considering how he had spent much of the day before napping in short, fitful bursts. He pushes himself upright, reaching under his pillow for his handbook; may as well make use of the time.

The clock on his handbook reads: three AM. His neglected stomach gurgles as he squints at the dim glow of the screen, and he sighs. He hasn’t eaten since Celeste’s little tea party the day before, and he might as well go to the kitchen now. There likely wouldn’t be anyone wandering around to disturb him. And with Ishimaru gone, there was no one left to seriously uphold the nightly curfew; he drags himself out of bed with a grunt, grabbing his bathrobe off the end of his bedpost as he goes.

He’s not expecting the trap that he finds when he opens the door, however. The first step he takes past the threshold is accompanied by a loud, startling crunch, and he jumps backwards, just barely stifling a shriek. He throws his hand against the light switch, digging it into his palm as he flicks in on, and at once the yellow glow streaming from his room illuminates the something round, brown, and somewhat deflated sitting in the hallway.

For a moment, he thinks it's some kind of rodent, dead and trodden under his foot. But closer inspection reveals it to be packaged bread, only slightly crushed in its plastic wrapper. There’s no note, but he can guess who the offering is from.

He sighs, picks it up by the corner, and tosses it behind him towards his trash can as he leaves.

The hallways are dim, and almost silent if not for the dull hum of the school’s inner machinery. The whoosh of air conditioning, the muffled clang of pipes. None of the construction that Hagakure had reported days ago, not even when he strains his ears.

But he does catch the quiet murmur of conversation as he passes the bathhouse, and he pauses, staring at the light that streams from behind the curtain, the quick-flicker of shadows moving from inside.

“It wasn’t your fault!”

He freezes, standing just outside. That was Chihiro’s - no, Alter Ego’s - voice. 

“I know Master wouldn’t resent you.” It continues, earnest and bright. “And based on my data…I don’t think Kiyotaka would blame you either!”

“But it was my fault,” Mondo’s voice is strained and hollow, grieving still. “If I hadn’t left them alone - if I’d tried to just talk to him -”

Byakuya shifts slightly. He doesn’t want to be here, to have to witness Mondo’s continued breakdown. He still hasn’t forgiven the other boy, but having to see him stuck in the depths of misery was…unpleasant. And he’s not so petty to want retribution while the target of his ire was in such a state.

He tiptoes past, giving the bathhouse entrance a wide berth. From inside, he hears more indistinct voices, one low and gravelly from crying, the other electronic and gentle. And then-

“Brother, what are you looking so down for?” This one was new, but chillingly familiar. Loud and overeager and belonging to someone who was supposed to be dead. “You-”

Crash.

The sound of crunching metal. In the quiet of the hallway, it’s as loud as an explosion, and it makes Byakuya jump. Before he can reconsider, he’s sprinting into the bathhouse, throwing aside the curtain.

It takes him a moment to process what he’s seeing. Owada is standing, partly-hunched, one hand punching against the wall of lockers hard enough to warp the thin metal door. Someone is standing beneath him hands raised in self-defense - it takes Byakuya a moment to recognize that it’s Makoto, dressed in the white and dark blue of his pajamas, lacking the signature green of his jacket - and from somewhere behind Makoto, there’s a dim, neon-green glow, and a confused, worried voice.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-!” 

“Don’t do that,” Owada snarls, drowning out Alter Ego’s stuttered apology. The locker door rattles where his fist is pressed into it. “Don’t just- wear his face, don’t you dare-”

“M-Mondo, it didn’t mean to! It was just trying-” Makoto breaks off, apparently noticing Byakuya. “B-Byakuya-?!”

Byakuya was immediately beginning to regret his decision to involve himself in the first place. “What is going on here?” He demands, crossing his arms and glaring imperiously.

Instead of replying, Owada pulls away, withdrawing his hand and retreating to slump over on the bench, despondent and unresponsive once more. Makoto twitches, turning between Owada, then Alter Ego, and back to Byakuya. “Um…”

“It’s not their fault!” Alter Ego pipes up hurriedly, its voice echoing tinnily from inside its locker, and Byakuya could feel a corresponding vibration from the handbook tucked in his shirt pocket. “It seems Mondo wanted to ask me a question, and Makoto was just helping to convey that-”

“I don’t care.” He snaps, and Alter Ego falls silent. “Neither of them are supposed to be here in the first place, and especially not after hours. Are the two of you trying to draw Monokuma’s suspicion? Endanger Alter Ego?” Makoto flinches a bit at that. Owada doesn’t even move. “Don’t you care about getting out of here at all?”

He’s not really expecting a reply, so he’s surprised when Owada speaks up. “ ‘Course not.” He rasps, so low and hollow that it was like he was speaking from the depths of a pit. Or maybe he was the pit, swelling with black-matter misery. “I…don’t care about anything anymore.”

Well. That’s to be expected. But even despite that, he finds himself a bit rattled. He’s been at the receiving end of anger, venom, screaming anguish and even vehement hate at this point. But this emptiness Owada is exhibiting was new; It seems like this school is insistent on teaching me new things, he thinks, and feels his lip curling up with the bitter irony.

“So you’re content to waste away? Throw away that anger that you were so proud of?” He raises a scathing eyebrow. “Go ahead and do that, then. I won’t stop you. But at the very least, spare the rest of us the dramatics of your little episode.”

“Byakuya!”

He twitches a bit, irritated. Makoto’s voice is shrill despite being hushed, and laced with anger; he’s standing stiffly next to Alter Ego’s open locker, hands trembling at his sides.

“What, Makoto.” He snaps, and only belatedly realizes that this was the first time he’s actually spoken to the other boy since the trial; in his irritation, he went and broke his own self-imposed vow of silence against him.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but doesn’t immediately shrink away either at the acidity of Byakuya’s tone. If anything he stands up a little straighter. “It’s only been a day since…you know.” He says, and his words are slow and careful, meticulously chosen. Like he’s in a trial again, trying to soothe skittish tempers - though Byakuya feels the exact opposite of ‘soothed’ by it - “Mondo asked to talk to Alter Ego. I went with him. It got a little heated-”

“A little? Is that what you call this?” He points at the locker next to his head; the one that Mondo had punched, the dent a clear, dark blotch of shadow in the middle of the flat green surface.

“That -” Makoto winces slightly. “We weren’t really expecting-”

“No, clearly not. And not thinking either, I imagine.”

“I-”

“I suppose safety and logic took second priority over trying to be helpful, hm? Since that’s all that’s important to you?” He’s not sure where these words are coming from, filled with acid. But it feels good to talk, to spit out every miserable thing that he’s feeling, that he’s felt because of Makoto. “You were so very kind to help me during that trial, after all.”

“Okay, that’s not-”

“That must be why you’re here now, I imagine. Sneaking out at this late hour past Kyoko, just so you could babysit this useless mess.” He sneers. “Did you decide to make Mondo your next pet project, trying to be his little assistant like you were mine?”

“Oh, for-” Makoto takes a deep breath, presses his hands to his eyes. “Can you shut the fuck up?! For one second?”

Whatever else Byakuya was about to say, dissipates like smoke out of his slack-jawed mouth. Even Owada seems to twitch up at this, the only sign of surprise he could give, compared to Byakuya’s shock.

Makoto is quiet for a few seconds, and the only sound is the quiet hum of pipes, and the sound of his breathing, shaky but slow. He pulls his hands away from his face after one more shuddering breath. “Okay. I’m okay now.” He says this part quietly, as if it were more for himself than anyone else. Then:

“It’s not fair,” He addresses Byakuya, and his voice is almost steady. “I’m trying my best, I’m trying to keep us all alive.”

“Yes, and you’re doing-”

“No! Shut up! Just listen!” He snaps, and Byakuya’s teeth click as he shuts his mouth, effectively cutting off the rest of his sarcastic remark. “Right now, the best thing we can do is to survive together. We’re just going to play into the mastermind’s hands if we can’t trust each other. Why doesn’t anyone get that?!”

His voice actually cracks on the last syllable, and he sounds close to hysterics. Byakuya simply stares, dumbfounded for a moment, before:

“...You’re going to say that? After what just happened?” It’s so ridiculous he could almost laugh. Trust? In this school, in this game? After everything that’s happened? “We all trusted Ishimaru. Where did that get us? Where did that get Chihiro?”

No sooner has that name left his mouth, does he try to bite it back. Feeling all at once mortified that he would stoop so low, that he would let himself be pushed to such a level. But it’s too late to take it back - at the sound of those names, Owada jerks again, and Makoto actually takes a step backwards, as if struck - so Byakuya keeps going. “This isn’t some-some fairy tale where everyone can learn to get along by talking about our feelings. None of us have any unity left - if even Ishimaru can snap, then there’s no telling who might strike next.”

“Stop,” Makoto grits out. “Taka - it was an accident. Just a stupid accident.” And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? That none of this was supposed to happen at all; if the coincidences hadn’t lined up terribly, horribly perfectly. “He didn’t mean for Chihiro to die!”

And Chihiro didn’t mean to get killed either. But he manages to swallow that thought, bitter and heavy in his throat. “His intentions didn’t change the outcome.” He says instead, cold and flat and utterly, completely empty.

Silence falls on the room. The lights buzz, the pipes hiss; the old, outdated screen of Alter Ego’s computer hums softly, contemplatively. There’s the muted, metallic thump of the water heater, somewhere inside the wall.

And then Owada speaks up.

“What should I do?” He asks hollowly. He’s looking up now, directly at him. His hair is limp, pompadour undone and falling over his face, obscuring it in streaks of dirty yellow. “I…they’re dead. I couldn’t-” He takes a slow, shuddering breath. “It was my fault. But I don’t know what to do.”

His words are pleading and genuine, as if Byakuya could give a proper answer; he hesitates, still uncertain of what to do with this…empty shell of a punk.

He glances towards Makoto, and then the dim green glow still emanating from the open locker. “Do you care what you do with your life at this point?”

“Byakuya…” Makoto starts warningly, but Owada interrupts him.

“No.”

“Then use it to protect Alter Ego.” If Owada has any sort of misgivings or protest about this, Byakuya ignores them. “That’s Chihiro’s last work, after all. It’s the least you can do to guard it.”

“Is…” Owada’s head turns towards the locker, then back. “Is that…okay?”

His hesitation is understandable. Even if Alter Ego was nothing more than a clever program, it did still wear the face of the boy who Owada’s friend inadvertently killed, and whose corpse Owada had tried to conceal. And that wasn’t even considering if Alter Ego would be cooperative in being protected by him, though there wasn’t much it could do about it.

But Alter Ego is the one who speaks up. “I hope we get along well, Mondo!” It chirps, a smile clear on its voice. And Mondo simply stares for a moment, before burying his face in his palms, and begins to cry.

__

“Are you going back to your room?”

He stops, and turns. They’ve left the bathhouse, Mondo departing first after sobbing his eyes out, and Makoto insisting he go rest in his room - though he probably would’ve ended up staying in the bathhouse all night if he could’ve gotten away with it - and Byakuya, having ended up spending an hour more than he wanted to dealing with it all, is tired once more..

“Where else would I be going?” He scoffs. Makoto is standing just in front of the bahthouse curtains, his face entirely concealed by shadow.

“I…” He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I noticed you didn’t really…eat a proper meal yesterday. I could go make you something?”

It’s tempting, for a moment. Byakuya clenches a hand in his robe, pressed against his stomach to stifle any unwarranted growls. “No.” He says firmly. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Oh…are you sure? Because-”

“Makoto.” He falls silent. “I told you that there’s no need for us to uphold the deal we made. Your assistance is no longer needed.”

“...But, this isn’t because of the deal, I just-”

“I’m not so low that I’d need charity from you.”

He goes quiet again. Quiet and still, and there’s something off-putting about how he looks. Outlined by the yellow lights of the bathhouse but otherwise completely in darkness, his silhouette sharpened without his jacket. “...Is it really that hard, trusting someone?”

For as angry as he’d been in the bathhouse, now he’s more like his usual self. Quieter, and unsure. The one person out of place in this school, designated unremarkable and then made remarkable because of that.

An unremarkable life. No wonder he couldn’t understand.

“You’ve never had to worry about it before,” He says. “I imagine your life is like a sheep’s. Completely oblivious to the danger around you, as long as you stay inside the fence.

“But the world isn’t as kind as you think it is. And people can always be swayed, no matter how much you trust them, or how much you think they trust you.” He’s seen it happen. He’s exploited it himself, even. “At this point, it would be safest to stop associating with anyone. If you had any brains at all, you would do the same.”

Makoto lets out a sigh that’s almost a laugh, though it’s bitter and mirthless. “Kyoko said the same thing,” He mutters, half to himself. “So you won’t feel safe unless you’re alone? Even though there’s only ten of us left?” He shakes his head, and the motion is a little dizzying, the messy shape of his hair blurring into a dark mass. “How many more people need to die for you to feel safe?”

He sounds angry again, but it’s a colder kind of anger. Resentful and resigned. When did you become so cold?

“...I won’t be safe until I’m out of here.” Byakuya replies steadily, though the hand clenched in his robe tightens slightly. “Even if I could keep everyone in my sight, it’s not like it’d be easy to tell if they were holding a weapon.”

Silently, he adds: And thanks to you, they know that as well.

Makoto doesn’t say anything in reply, so Byakuya leaves. Quickly, in case his stomach threatens to grumble again; his hand doesn’t leave his robe until he’s safely inside his room, door locked behind him.

He almost treads on the bread again, stepping on a corner of the packaging and jumping at the sharp, crinkling sound. It takes a little bit of fumbling in the dark until he finds it, squeezing it through the plastic.

He’s tempted, for a moment, his fingers already searching for the serrated edge to tear it open. But the image of Makoto standing at the bathhouse entrance jumps to his mind; still and shrouded in darkness. A strange, statuesque parody of his usual self.

He throws the bread across the room and climbs back into bed.

< previous - from start - next >

[thekimonogallery]

Batik Light Jacket Mid-Showa Period (1940-1960) A silk haori featuring batik-technique grape-vine motifs with urushi lacquered thread highlights (see detail images). Batik is a technique rarely utlized in Japanese textiles - a craftsman may have been enamored of Indonesian batiks.

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x Cadash

Chapter Rating: T

AO3

start at the beginning

Chapter 3 Excerpt: Arlathan

Evening two of three celebratory festivities before the end of week peace talks, and tonight he dons a mask over his eyes. It is of simple make and an opaque teal with rose golden thread rimming the outer edge. It matches his robe of the same color, rose gold accents an artistic representation of sunset reflected on water. For tonight, the theme is tidal.

Combing fingers through his loose auburn strands, Solas weaves his way around the outskirts of the dance floor, exchanging pleasantries and smiles where they are due.

“Ah, Solas!” Anaris calls to him, a wispy vine of a man with a half mask made of broken fish bones. It barely covers his right eye, curving along the angle of his high and sallow cheekbone, making it obvious who he is. He’s always been one to barely comply with the festivity requirements, but never be boring about it. Wine sloshing over the edge of his glass as he lifts it in a purposely clumsy manner, Solas side-steps. With a subtle flash of magic, brief in his eyes, the wine returns to the glass. “I see the years have not dulled your senses. Still so sharp of mind and quick reflexes.”

“And I see that you have carved out some time from your verdant life to join us tonight.” A floating frozen wave passes by them, the cusp lined with perfectly balanced drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Solas helps himself to a flute of champagne. Raising the glass to his lips, he eyes Anaris curiously while sipping.

The grey haired mage spins a glossy spider-silk-like strand around his ashen finger and speaks in his hypnotic rasp of a cadence. “Oh, you know me. I love parties.” He sips from his wine glass, palest blue eyes darting around the ballroom. “The food, the wine, the melodies.” His knicked left ear twitches, making the shark teeth mixed with golden bells on the chains of his earrings faintly clink and chime. The soothing sound is lost in the rising forte of ballroom strings.

Solas quirks a brow and briefly lifts his fluted glass in acknowledgement. “I do know you, and deeds you’ve done. Reveal the real reason you’ve come.”

He clucks his forked tongue, the ball piercings shimmering briefly. “Oh Solas.” His voice dips lower, almost singing the last syllable of his name, a mirthless chuckle escaping his lips. “Do you not take pride in your cleverness? You can’t expect me to spill my secrets.” He wags a finger at Solas and continues. “For that would spoil all of the fun. And I daresay, it’s hardly begun.”

He downs the remainder of his wine, clacking one of his long lacquered nails against the glass before passing it off to Solas. He circles his mouth with thumb and forefinger, then pulls his pocket square from his black vested robes that swirl in a faint whirlpool pattern. The longer Solas stares into the center, the more he must fight back the feeling of drowning. He averts his gaze and gulps in air. One flick of Anaris’ wrist and the napkin unfurls, twisting and transforming into a crystal cane. He offers a slow and slight bow of his head, a crooked smile plastered on his lips, eyes staring at something across the room.

He waltzes away without another word.

Solas watches as Anaris’ long black sleeves sweep the floor as he retreats, disappearing from view once he slips in amidst the dancers. It is most likely a mistake to let him out of his sight but there are plenty others like him who could prevent Anaris’ mischief from becoming too great a burden. Sighing, he casually leans against the marbled pillar nearest him and sips some more of his champagne. It’s sharp and pops in his mouth like candy he would sometimes indulge in from the stalls in the market square. But it goes down his throat in liquid ice, and leaves an aftertaste like summer rain smells. Strange and saccharinely sublime.

Spying the floating refreshments, he delivers his empty glass and heads up the stairs, desperate for a breath of fresh air from the balcony.

He hides his smile when he catches sight of Lady Cadash. She wears a dress of pastels, the asymmetrical, layered ruffles shifting in the cool night’s breeze. As he studies her, he thinks of coral and her long blue locks are loose and spilling over her shoulders like low tide waves. She is radiant under the moonlight, leaning over the glass railing.

“Good evening, Solas,” she says without turning around.

“How did you know?” He inches closer to her.

“You have a distinctive shadow. Too plain for the other elves.”

“Too plain?”

She gestures offhandedly. “You are gorgeous of course. It isn’t a flaw. I just noticed your attire’s beauty lies in the subtler, simpler details. The others are more—how do I say this—loud. Also, you’re too tall to be a dwarf.”

“You think I’m gorgeous?”

“Do not make me rescind my statement…”

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