#white painted wood spindles

[rokberglez]

Mudroom in Boston Example of a mid-sized laminate floor and black floor entryway design with beige walls and a white front door

[minterupt]

Transitional Basement in Dallas Mid-sized transitional walk-out basement idea with a beige floor and light wood floors, gray walls, and no fireplace

[shibaraki]

THE WHITE RABBIT ┊ GOJO SATORU

synopsis: you’ve been instructed to begin making appearances at the pleasure district. choosing the right man to flaunt was imperative for your family's image. who better to pick than the top courtesan?

tags: NSFT, AFAB reader (called ‘angel’ toward the end), strangers to lovers, courtesan gojo (no curses au), sex work, alcohol consumption, inspired by edo period japan, sexual tension, mutual attraction, reader is a customer from a well known family, feelings realisation, other characters present, fluff + angst, loss of virginity (reader), body worship, finger sucking, bathing, vaginal oral sex + fingering (reader receiving), unprotected vaginal sex (pull out method), hopeful ending 

wc: 14k+

The dense woodland that lies between the main city and the Pleasure district appeared unearthly in the late evening. If you looked up toward the capillaries of the canopy, you’d find the trees would breathe even on a windless night. East and West, spindling arms of cedar seemed to reach for you. 

It unsettled you. The atmosphere felt polarised, as if it were drawing your rickshaw in and manipulating your direction despite having entered willingly. You thought this might be what it’s like to cross from one plane to another, a coniferous bridge between worlds. 

Such a description was befitting of your destination. The Pleasure district truly was another world in its entirety — a place wherein the rules of the mainland could not reach. A creature that laid its own law and shaped you to its own customs. You could no longer put it off. You were of an appropriate age, and it was your turn to enter the beast. 

The maw is bright where the clearing breaks, illuminated by hues of orange and red. Carmine wood with slightly curved pillars, before you stands a grand archway nestled between two walls built to encase the district. 

Large hand painted lanterns light up the wide open road as you are carried through the swelling crowds. Patrons part around your intrusion as they turn to stare, curious about who you might be. You knew that both the private escort pulling your rickshaw and the expensive fabric fashioned elegantly around your shoulders would be enough to display your family's social standing.

Still, the attention and judgement is stifling. You distract yourself with focus on the establishments lining either side of the street; the air is imbued with an amalgam of sweet scents, thick enough to feel it on the roof of your tongue as you breathe. People with delicately painted faces adorned in jewels call out to you from the balconies, the distinct and striking pluck of a shamisen ringing in your ears.

Logically this place was a place of business, yet the innocent, naive part of you felt guilt simply for ignoring their greetings. But you could not stop to contemplate their suitability or good looks, for your family had already arranged a banquet with the finest house in the district — the Michizane house.

As the rickshaw comes to a slow stop you feel tension return to your chest, wrung tight like cloth. The teahouse appears to be two stories high and quite large when compared to its neighbouring buildings. Decorating the outer walls are intricate patterns of wood lattice, the wide open entrance lit up with an inviting glow. Waiting by the door is the owner, a striking man by the name of Nanami Kento.

He steps forward and bows deeply in greeting, peering up from behind the thin frame of his glasses to where you are perched as he straightens. Not a blonde hair out of place. “It is a pleasure to meet you, and an honour to host your banquet at my establishment,” he says. His words are dipped in a rich timbre that settles warm in your bones. 

Insecure of your inexperience, you try to steel yourself as you reply, “I’m grateful for your time, Nanami-san”.

If he senses your nervousness he doesn’t mention it, rather he extends his arm to assist you down from your seat. In doing so you take a moment to contemplate his garments — he wears a grey toned hakama over his pale blue kimono with a matching haori, embellished with the teahouse crest. 

You take his open hand, habitually tugging the silk of your own kimono closer to your skin. Nanami casts his eyes toward the floor as you descend out of respect for your modesty, and while you felt it wasn’t required it was appreciated all the same. 

“I’ll be waiting for your return,” your long employed escort, Norimitsu, lowers his head to bid you goodbye. Having known the man for most of your life, it comforted you that he wouldn’t stray too far. 

Nanami remains stoic as he leads you into the teahouse. There are various open rooms housing guests of all class and background, conversation and laughter easily heard through paper thin walls. You are beckoned through a teal-dyed curtain, through which you find a large sliding door. He smoothly pulls it open for you, revealing a large parlour. You take note of the hearth built into the floor, and the small alcove of hanging scrolls that houses a single sword stand, displaying a katana. At the further end of the room, three screen doors have been tucked away to connect the space to a modest pond garden. 

“I trust it is to your liking?” 

You startle, glancing back at Nanami to find him at respectable distance. “It’s wonderful,” you answer at the end of an exhale, feeling like you had stepped into a dream. There are already a few attendants present, one knelt by your assigned seat on one side of the low tea table in preparation. 

A delicate sound reverberates through the room, and your gaze is drawn to a young man draped in a green kimono so dark that it is almost black. There are subtle gold finishes along the square sleeves, and gold flowers embroidered into his obi. Laid out in front of him is a wooden koto. 

“Please take your seat. These young men will tend to you as you wait for the Courtesan to arrive,” Nanami startles you out of your reverie, inclining his head forward as another gentle strum of music dances through the quiet. You overturn your hand to clutch the inside of your sleeve, embarrassed to have been distracted. 

“Will they take long?” you ask. 

Nanami’s expression shifts with his exasperation, nudging the frame of his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as it wrinkles. “Courtesans of The Michizane House are skilled. Their beauty is venerated and they are praised country wide for trysts with virtue and vice,” he regards you with an almost apologetic look, “what they do not excel in is punctuality”. 

You can’t help but smile at his tone. It sounds like he knows them well, as if they are children he were lovingly admonishing. “You’re well acquainted with them?”

“Unfortunately,” he meets your eyes and when the light refracts in his irises, you notice they’re the colour of earth. “Though my personal relationship with them is no reflection on their ability to service you. They are regarded highly for a reason”. 

“As is expected. In a place like this, personal and business affairs are kept separate for a reason,” you muse softly. A sudden blanket of exhaustion rests itself on your shoulders, reminded that you were here for duty and not pleasure. “I’ll take my seat. Thank you for your hospitality, Nanami-san”. 

You take your seat in silence, knees sinking into the plush silk pillow as you greet the waiting attendant. On the opposite side of the table there are three other cushions lined up and equally distanced, indicating the number of Courtesan you would be meeting with. For a patron of high standing such as yourself, a banquet was custom. Money opened many doors and the House Managers knew that well — thus you were afforded much more freedom for choice, their top earners given to you on a silver platter.

But even so, the district was fickle for tradition and rules. During the banquet you weren’t to interact casually with the Courtesans, as it was their duty to appeal to you without bias. It could be through seduction, art, music and dance; each one given an equal chance to advertise themselves in whatever manner they saw fit. 

After deciding your final pick you would meet with them a second time at the Michizane house, only in the company of their personal attendants. An opportunity to get to know one another better and cautiously test the waters. If the chosen Courtesan was not to your liking you would still be able to send for another and there would be no quarrel. 

The third visit would be your consummation. Visiting with a Courtesan three times meant solidifying your relationship, and it would be forbidden to take another. You’d heard from many that taking a partner of the night was to be treated as seriously as a marriage, some even went as far as incorporating the exchange of nuptial cups. It was supposed to be romantic, if not slightly archaic. A beautiful lie. 

You knew too well that you were not here for pleasure, but still you yearned for love, just as any other person does.

Behind you is the gentle sound of running water in the gardens, but you are taken by the koto player's song, and the fluency at which he plays it. Three ivy picks adorn his right hand, plucking with plectra on the thumb, middle and index fingers. His left hand presses and pulls the silk string behind the bridge, adding enchanting bends and vibrato to the melody.  

“His name is Fushiguro Megumi,” the boy to your side murmurs, “here. This will help you relax”. You flinch as a ceramic sake cup is suddenly offered to you, reflexively taking it with a small bow that leaves your attendant bemused. 

Bringing it towards your lips, you inhale the slightly sweet aroma before tipping the cup into your mouth, finding it a little dry on your palate. “Thank you,” you tell him. “And what is your name?”

There's a minute tilt to his head as he answers, one of confusion. With the movement, his dark hair curtains his cheek and somehow it makes him look even younger. “My name is Yoshino Junpei. I am a trainee at the Michizane House,” he replies. 

“Oh?” you smile as his chest puffs with pride at your apparent surprise, “you must show a lot of promise then”. 

���Thank you!” you think he might start to shake with excitement, a glimmer in his eyes that was not there before. He bows deeply, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his yukata. As his back straightens he continues, “But it is not just me. Fushiguro is also a Courtesan in training”. 

You glance towards the trainee in question. He too is dark haired and pale skinned. If he sat still you thought he might look like a porcelain doll. His eyes remain closed as his fingers spin a saccharine harmony, though you can see there are smatterings of red across his cheeks. He must’ve overheard you. 

“Then I would say The Michizane House has a keen eye,” you say. Junpei smiles, his mouth strained at the corners with careful hands reaching for your empty cup. 

“I just thought it important to let you know… as trainees we cannot be chosen to service you”. 

You nod sagely. Of course you had known that before your arrival, yet as you process his words and the implication hung between them, you feel your composure slip. “Oh—! Junpei, I never intended to pursue either of you. I was only appreciating his music”. 

Your voice is low, hushed as not to embarrass the other boy any further. Junpei’s eyes widened like a fawn faced with an arrow, the bottle of rice wine almost slipping from his grasp. “Forgive me, I misunderstood and spoke out of turn I— I understand if you’d like to request another—”

Irrespective of etiquette, you cover his hands with your own to still the trembling. “There is nothing to forgive. You were informing me so that I wouldn’t get hurt, were you not?”

He inhales deeply, the air bloating his lungs, exhaling the anxiety from his limbs. Junpei bows again once you release him. “You’re a truly kind person,” he rasps. 

“As are you,” you offer him a gentle smile, hoping he wouldn’t see the fraying edges. Seeing him so frightened at the thought of displeasing you was unsettling. You knew that it could be difficult for those working in the district, but having been sheltered most of your life you never quite understood the consequences. 

Realising the sudden silence, you meet Megumi’s pensive stare across the room. His arms are held in suspension, anticipating your anger. “I assure you everything is alright,” you steady your voice in hopes he’ll hear the sincerity, “please do continue”. 

His eyes narrow in fleeting suspicion. Gradually the melody bleeds back into the room, and Junpei returns to serving your drinks. This song is different, you note. It is light and hopeful yet poignant. 

Yes, to have these two young men punished for such meaningless offences would be abhorrent. 

There is movement in your periphery, low humming voices behind the screen door. You see multiple silhouettes through the lattice frames as Nanami moves into view, the pinch in his mouth smoothing when he sees you’re watching. 

“The Michizane House is at your service”. 

You knew to expect something unearthly, yet nothing could prepare you for the picture the Courtesans painted as they entered the parlour. 

The first is a kind faced man introduced as courtesan Okkotsu Yuta. His robe is a gold silk with a pale obi, over top he wears a moss coloured uchikake made of tulle that has been painstakingly dotted with camellia blooms. His hair is dark and neatly parted to loosely frame his face; the only jewels he wears are around his wrists and neck. At first glance he seems young, but his eyes tell otherwise. 

“Come, Rika,” he calls softly. 

A small girl trails behind him, timid as she greets you but confident in her given task; once Yuta is seated she hastily kneels beside him to straighten the fabric pooling around him and makes quick work of pouring his drink. 

As he introduces the next Courtesan — referred to as Choso, a name quite peculiar to you — Nanami is forced to move slightly back in order to make room for his frame. He’s broad, bigger than most men you had seen, though you could attribute that to the mountain of garments he wore. Light ripples on the sheen black kimono, glowing along the painted gold floral prints. Dotted across the fabric are embroidered chrysanthemum blooms; the obi is hefty where it is tied to his front, and you thought it looked as if he were holding a bouquet 

You have no doubt his hair is long. It must’ve taken an impressive amount of time to comb and style it — parted into two sections and held either side of his crown with black cloth, ornamental hairpins with cascading red beads passing through each bun. 

Forged from left cheek to right, curving seamlessly over the bridge of his nose, is a line of black paint. An innate part of you flares in alarm as he seeks out your furtive gaze in passing, like you were some sort of prey animal. 

What fractures his stoic demeanour are the children at his side in simple black robes, identical in height and appearance. The only thing setting them apart was the elaborate lines painted on one of the boys' faces to match with his elder. They press their small hands flat to their obi’s and bow in a deep but clumsy manner. 

“Hi, I’m Yuji! It’s nice to meet you!”

“I’m Sukuna, we’re honoured to join you”.

Their voices overlap yet their greetings are given out of sync. You clasp your sleeve against your palm to cover your mouth, repressing a grin as Sukuna’s eyes narrow towards his unassuming twin. Not wanting them to be scolded, you quickly incline your head forward. 

“Thank you for being in attendance,” you reply. Choso visibly softens, immediately understanding your show of kindness, and extends both arms to cradle the back of their heads. In doing so he encourages them forward toward his seat.  

It’s quite brotherly of him, you think. Children are sometimes abandoned or sold to houses in the district, so you wondered if he had mentored them himself. It would explain his fondness for them. 

Finally, a man in a cascading layer of pale blue over pink. Gojo Satoru approaches gracefully and you are reminded of a crane. Fine silks hug his body and ripple as he moves, slender and beautiful, wading through pond water and rain. The ornaments tucked into his moon white hair sway with every step, creating hypnotic little sounds that announce his presence to the path he is walking on. 

He regards you with bright mirth, as if he can hear your thoughts, and perches himself on the rouge cushion directly opposite. Again, you cannot help but compare him to a doll, held together by silk and string. You thought you might tap a finger to his porcelain cheek and find it hollow. 

With the best earners now present, the banquet finally begins. An opulent spread of food is set along the tables and bottles are replenished. Lower ranking Geisha are in attendance to provide entertainment as you gauge one another. While his own attendant is tasked with providing music, Satoru beckons one of the smaller pink haired boys to his side. Yuji, you remember. You can tell that he is much more free spirited than his twin brother. There’s a youthful air about him that makes you want to pinch his cheeks. 

Choso doesn’t seem angered by it, casting a glance toward the pair but making no move to rein him back to his side. With unspoken permission, Yuji shines under the responsibility of pouring Satoru’s drink. You can’t help but watch with an endeared smile as his tongue peaks out from the corner of his mouth in concentration, slowly tipping his elbow up to fill the cup. 

Amused by the boy, you almost miss the palpable shift in atmosphere. Looking up, you find Satoru scrutinising your reactions, haunted eyes filled with unexpected curiosity. Even at this distance, you feel it on your face like spring. 

Naturally, both in asking and in passing, you had heard much about Gojo Satoru. He was renowned for his services and heartbreak in the district, and has been permanently moored to the spot of best earner. Not only was he a perfect picture of decadence, he was also skilled in conversation and the arts — a beautiful man that wielded both sword and fan. 

Your family had personally suggested him to you, while still offering their approval for any of the top three; and you were more than qualified to choose any of them. Yet being in their presence now, choosing Gojo felt daunting. Quixotic. As if, despite all his previous conquests, your inexperienced hands might finally be the ones to sully him. 

Lost in thought, you have been staring back at him far too long. His lips are salmon pink, a reflective sheen to them. They curve into a pleased smirk, like you were a naive lamb leading itself into a wolf's mouth. 

Your brows pinch then, eyes averted to Junpei’s pale hands where he steadily refills your drink. It is swallowed in full, the initial sting diffusing into a muted warmth throughout your body, and he doesn’t comment on the cup's emptiness only moments later. 

In part, Satoru’s flagrant arrogance mystified you. It was difficult to tell whether he was peacocking to impress you, or if he really was confident that you’d pick him. Frustratingly, his assumptions weren’t baseless. 

You’re aware the others are more than suitable. Okkotsu Yuta was known for being gentle and firm. Authoritative, but in a way that puts your mind at rest. For one night, his fantasy could cast off the things that plagued you, leaving you adrift and carried by the tide’s cupped hands. Thinking was not something you need worry about. 

Informants spoke of his popularity with newcomers. First timers. You understood why they’d choose him — Yuta appeared to have an uncanny command over his expression, always kind, surrounded by an air of empathy. It is present even now, as he watches Rika perform her dance. Eyes fond, following the practised flicks of her fan as the melody clothes her. 

Choso was venerated as something of a romantic, and adored by experienced customers. His large, oppressive demeanour played well into the guise of gentle giant. He was shamelessly attentive and passionate with his servicing. This kindness was different to that of Yuta’s. It was the type anyone could fall in love with, which admittedly frightened you. 

The way Gojo Satoru carries himself is different from his peers. Selection banquets provided a short window in time to leave behind a lasting impression. Unable to yet get close, Courtesans played to the best of their strengths in the hopes of planting a seed into their clients' hearts. 

Such intentions were clear when looking at Gojo. He is carefully carved porcelain. Everything about him has been curated to serve a purpose. It seemed to you that even his garments were worn not just because of their elegance, but because they were so distinctly reflections of his mouth and his eyes.

Highly experienced, widely recommended, and dutiful at maintaining professional lines. Satoru’s prestige allowed him more freedom than his fellow Courtesans. Having earned so much for the district, Gojo was able to reject clientele if he so wished, and he often ended relationships if they began to cross boundaries. Knowing he could outright refuse you — and at the very least, hold you to account — without concern of backlash, eased some of your anxieties. 

You surmised that he would be the safest option. In choosing Gojo Satoru, you might further elevate your family's standing without worry of developing unwanted feelings. Perhaps, in knowing the background you came from, he had already come to such a conclusion himself. 

Still, his confidence grated on you. 

The evening grows older, and along with it your own gusto. Limbs heavy, capillaries filled with wet sand. Alcohol has heated you from the inside out, just enough that it is a little easier to smile sincerely. Nanami returns during the late hour, as the banquet naturally comes to an end. You cannot deny it had been a success; food and sake always did taste better in company, twice as much when married with mellow ballads and delightful performances.

Custom dictates you should not exchange words directly before the second meeting. These men were products for you to choose from. Still, you make sure to hold their line of sight while bidding them a proper goodbye. One by one, their svelte bodies bend forward into a respectful bow, and you are reminded again of your place in this pocket of the world. 

Nanami escorts you to your carriage, undereyes faintly darker than they had been earlier. You can respect that through his fatigue, the man maintains perfect posture and conduct. Norimitsu awaits by the entrance, having bided his time circling the district. 

In leaving the teahouse that night with a dull ache in your knees, you continue to recall the delicate echo of Gojo’s hair ornament. 

The days are long, longer than usual. You assist in the family business as always, but restlessness threads its way into your musculature, and you can’t seem to get anything done to completion. A letter confirming your choice of Courtesan had been sent the morning after your return, and you would attend a second meeting by the weeks end. 

You endure their lighthearted teasing with a strained smile. “The men must’ve made quite an impression,” they said. “Especially that Gojo Satoru. I’ve heard he’s a sight to behold”. 

You’d heard a lot, too. Plenty. Too much. The ornate bells had followed you all the way to your hometown. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo. Gaggles of women and men had approached you, hoping for details about him as if he were a creature tied to myth. 

While it was tiresome, you couldn’t begrudge them. Gojo was not a man many could afford. Their best bet would be to attend a procession, if only to see him from afar. Untouchable. The thought weighs heavily as you watch the anxious curl of your fingers in your lap. 

The Michizane House comes into view, your body rolling with the movement of the carriage as it cradles you. Taking up much of the forked road ahead, you think the building elegantly traditional in a way that the others aren’t. Yaga, the manager, is awaiting your arrival. Known for his philosophy of letting things speak for themselves, his property is clearly not exempt from such beliefs. 

Lined with rouge lanterns, a dream of autumn-tide. It’s inviting and promises warmth, not at all salacious, almost palatial in appearance. Men and women draped in gorgeous raiment call out to passers by kindly, knelt behind iron bars, displayed for selection in latticed parlours.  

Norimitsu is escorting you a second time. While still young, he’s tall and thick shouldered with a round belly. You knew him jovial, as something of an older brother, but to others he came across as the type of man you wouldn’t want to anger — hence why he was designated as your guard. 

“Are you looking forward to seeing him?” 

No more than you are looking forward to attending to your duties the next morning. Above all, this was work. Or so you tell yourself. 

As if he’d read your thoughts, over the bustling crowds you hear, “I do hope you’ll at least try to enjoy your night”.

Presumptively, “I expect Gojo won’t make it so easy”. 

Norimitsu chuckles as you come to a steady halt, then circling the rickshaw to assist you down. Tabi clad feet kick away any stray rocks in your path, and you step down with bated breath. 

Your escort bows as Yaga announces his presence, stepping out into the road to formally greet you. It drew some attention — the manager of The Michizane House was not often seen by any average customer. “I’ll be waiting,” he tells you. 

The pip of anxiety in your chest does take root, lissome branches curling around each individual rib. Yaga is not very personable; that’s your first lesson learnt. Rumour has it that he enjoys making dolls in his free hours. You suspect such gossip is only humorous due to the man’s rough exterior. 

“We are honoured to service you at The Michizane House,” he politely recites. You nod shortly on the end of an exhale. Alongside his love of craft sits the love for his employees. At the very least, you knew that Yaga treated the Courtesan well. 

The atmosphere changes the further into the maze you go. Tobacco, sake and sex permeates the air. Drunken laughter dissolves into quiet groans, sounds muffled behind cupped hands, a sharp slap of skin meeting skin. A fog follows — clientele chain smoking between rounds, faint grey clouds seeping beneath screen doors.

While the houses found success in abiding by their traditional values, some boundaries were a tangible, malleable concept in the district as long as money was involved. Desire could be stretched, moulded into whichever form you wanted. Here, within reason, you could do as you pleased. A mandated space to revel in your desires; scratch the itch away from the rigidity of civilised society. 

In hindsight, choosing the Courtesan had been the easier part of the arrangement. While Gojo would be there to fill silences and guide the conversation, deftly covering for whatever social qualities you so clearly lacked, that would only be enough for tonight. You ought to decide upon your own itch. 

Come the third meeting, how could Gojo Satoru sate your hunger? 

“Satoru’s private quarters are just up ahead. He will be joining you shortly,” Yaga continues as he guides you out onto the veranda, where there is a beautiful garden; bamboo hedges and interwoven bushes, a winding road of pale sand lining a miniature pond. There are stones left hollow, dwarfed peach trees and azaleas. You inhale with relief as your lungs are cleared by the crisp night air.

Gradually, the awkward thud of your shoes against wood is overlapped by another’s more practised, commanding footsteps. Each step is accompanied by the quiet tinkling of a bell. A Geisha, presumably, that you’ve yet to meet walks out into your intended path, their presence overwhelming. 

Yaga regards them cordially, “Maki”. 

Long, regal fabrics that dance in lavish shades of indigo and gold. The very cosmos stitched into their clothing. Maki. They bow and the moonlight reflects around the crown of their head, highlighting a jewelled comb tucked neatly into a bun — a style common amongst well ranking women. 

“Yaga-sama,” comes the formal reply. You stiffen when her golden eyes sweep over your form. She’s notably tall, and you felt she would still tower over you even in the absence of the Okobo strapped to her feet. Maki bows to you wordlessly, then returns to her pace. The small bell housed in the hollow of her shoes begins to sing. Thud, chime, thud, chime. 

As she passes with a sidelong glance, a stream of moonlight illuminates her face. Handsomely pretty, you think. Her features are distinctive, angular. There is a fleeting thought that she reminds you of Megumi. 

You remain close to Yaga’s heel as you enter another part of the house. The screen doors are painted entirely opaque, and there are less patrons here. While these quarters appeared to be far more private, still you hear the muffled, unmistakable, sound of sex from the end of the hall. 

“Here,” Yaga’s voice snaps you out of your nervous reverie as his arm extends to open one of the rooms. It is atleast a good distance away from the other… occupants. 

Sliding the screen across, a well sized room is revealed. Pale tatami flooring, dark knotted wood panelling. There is a low table and cushions set out beside the far alcove, where you might ponder the two decorative scrolls that hang there. At the foot is a small ceramic bowl, already cradling a lit stick of incense. 

What truly demands your attention is the large wall mounted byobu, kept on the far side of the room over a large futon. It is a quiet depiction of nature, polychrome and laden with silk brocades. To the South are a small herd of rabbits, prancing through a mountainous valley adorned with blushing maple trees. North are a flock of cranes, wings spread as they glide across the skies.  

You wondered how often Gojo would find himself looking at it. Did it provide comfort, or did it leave him wistful? 

“Please be seated and make yourself comfortable. The attendants won’t be long,” Yaga gestures towards the tatami with calloused fingers, “rest assured, The Michizane House will accommodate you well”. 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” you reply, the words rolling off the tongue with ease. Formality is what you know best. Chin tucked to sternum in a placid bow, you first rush to remove your geta before entering the room on socked feet. 

The screen behind slides shut and you are left with silence. Suddenly your obi feels too constricting, and the silk of your kimono weighs heavily across your shoulders. Approaching the low table, you clutch at drapes of fabric as you kneel to be seated. This would be your final moment of respite for the remainder of the night, and yet all you can think of is how you are now set in motion towards inexorable change. 

There is a restrained knock from the door. Giving your permission, it slides open with a soft hiss to reveal the young man that you know to be named Megumi. This time he adorns deep purple, a garden of peonies both red and pink sewn into his sleeves. Balanced atop one of his pale hands is a tray of cups and sake. He bows forward, a single amethyst peony hairpin tucked behind his ear. 

Tucked at his side and falling short at the hip, is one of the twins. His clothes are slightly disheveled, as expected of a child his age, but it’s well hidden by the violet geometric pattern. Cheeks as pink as his hair, you’re presented with a wide beam. 

“Hi!” he chirps. Yuji, then.

Megumi lightly knocks his knuckles atop the boy’s crown in admonishment. As Yuji reaches to protect his head from a second strike, the trail of his sleeves pool into the crook of his arms. 

“That was mean!”

Lacking discretion, though not without trying, the older attendant mutters, “Don’t act so familiar with the customers. Greet them properly”. 

Yuji looks at you, visibly mustering up a sense of professionalism. He forces his mouth thin, and an unsettlingly placid sheen coats his once bright eyes. His head bows forward, still gracelessly. “Good evening. We are hon— honoured to serve you”. 

You become aware of the dead weight of your robes around your shoulders. A prickling of discomfort under your skin. He’s just a baby, after all. 

Kindly, you answer, “I’m honoured to be here”. 

In return, you are given a toothy grin. The two step further into the room and begin their preparations without instruction. Megumi sets the tray down on the low table, so careful that it barely makes a sound. Yuji rearranges the remaining cushions, one moved suspiciously close and the others appropriately spaced. 

Whenever Satoru arrives, a bright spark follows. There’s something different about him this time. His exuberance tempered, but still crisp; again, you are reminded of the breaking of spring. It rolls into the ambiance, and you find yourself irritatingly giddy. 

“You’re here,” he says. Tonight he’s wearing a simple, light blue yukata dotted with little white rabbits. It drapes effortlessly on his frame, loose around his shoulders and partially open at the chest to reveal a toned expanse of pale skin. 

Yuji and Megumi scramble to his attendance, while you are struck by just how relaxed he is. You can’t look away from him. There is a clink to your left, the neck of a small sake bottle meeting the rim of your cup. “…I am here,” comes your careful reply. “Thank you for accepting my letter, and for joining me”. 

He smiles at that. It is unexpected and entirely genuine. Satoru actually looks at home here. There’s still a professional air to him as he settles beside you, tactile in his touch and deliberate with his words; you parse through them but find no smarm, only that he feels warmer. 

Stilted conversation is not a thing of this world. Where words fail you, he is there to pick up the slack, peeling back the layers of your life with unassuming questions. The year you were born and the zodiac that comes with it, where you grew up, what business your family dabbled in, if you had siblings to care for — you, pleasantly light from the sake, breathing in tones of sandalwood, answer a little too freely. 

Satoru hums as though he were feigning thought. “I have no blood siblings, but I’d say that our precious Megumi here—” he reaches out to the boy with lithe fingers and tousles Megumi’s hair out of place “—is quite like a little brother to me”. 

The younger man cringes away from his touch looking suitably disgruntled. His features are sharp, but still soft in a way that betrays his youth. Yuji laughs. 

“I’ve been wondering, why is it that the other attendants make an effort to match clothing with their Courtesans, but you and Megumi don’t?” you ask, absentmindedly toying with the sleeve of your kimono. 

Satoru observes you for a moment, guileful eyes dragging from the nervous tick to your own, searching for something unbeknownst to you. You fear you might’ve offended him, but then, “Megumi dislikes the things I wear. He calls them ostentatious”. 

Satoru’s mouth twists into a childish pout as he pointedly glares at the boy in question, and for a short breath the faultless mask is gone, “He doesn’t even know what that word means”. 

Megumi snorts and quickly schools his expression, blank faced when he meets Satoru’s gaze, “I’d like to see you spell it”. 

“Oh? Trying to embarrass me infront of a customer?” If he’s attempting to scold his attendant, then he’s failing spectacularly. Voice saccharine, cloying in his throat as he tries not to laugh, Satoru says, “Yaga will have you out on the street”. 

“I wish he would”. 

You watch their interactions from behind the lip of your sake cup. The taste is sweet, fitting for the moment. Skin warming, it sits well in your stomach and has a pleasant buzz thrumming through your veins. “Are they always like this?” you whisper. Yuji nods with his whole body. 

“Don’t misunderstand,” Satoru smiles down at the two of you, his big hand reaching to cradle Megumi’s head once again. His attendant’s glare visibly softens and allows it. “We squabble like any other family”. 

The word ‘family’ stands out in your mind like a stray thread. You pick at it, tentatively, “Is it possible you have blood relatives here? I saw another Geisha here who looked quite like you, Megumi”.  

“You must’ve met Maki-san,” the younger man replies. There’s an obvious glimmer of respect at mention of her and for reasons you can’t place, it saddens you. “We share descendants. She is a distant cousin”. 

“Curious that you both ended up at the same house”. 

Satoru quietly sips his sake, licking at the inner corner of his mouth as he looks to Megumi, seeking permission to speak. Even more curious for a high ranking Courtesan. Megumi nods in silent acquiescence, and you halt when their collective attention turns on you. 

As your cup is refilled, Satoru weaves a sullen tale of a small dark haired boy born to a wanted man and a runaway Geisha. Though riddled with illness and partly malnourished from her time in the district, his stouthearted mother carried him fully to term before passing after childbirth. Left with an infant, his lover's debt and a target on his back, the man snuck his son into the district where he wouldn’t be touched and sold him to the Michizane house. 

“That boy was our Megumi. I saw his potential and took him under my wing. The rest you can guess,” he concludes fondly, though there is a tightness by his eyes. You wonder whether Satoru struggles to balance his gratitude and his guilt. 

Incognisant of the troubled atmosphere, Yuji claps his chubby hands together. Appled cheeks strain where his grin stretches wide. “It’s just like me and Sukuna-nii!” 

Megumi huffs and reaches over to pinch the swell between his fingers. The sleeve of his yukata hangs over the low table, slipping up his forearm to reveal a pale sleuth of skin. “Worm. Our stories are nothing alike”.

“No,” Satoru hums thoughtfully. “Yuji and Sukuna were left outside in a rice sack like a couple of drowned kittens”. 

Megumi shakes his cheek, and it draws the younger boy's lip up to reveal his pink gums before letting go. You listen, horrified, as Yuji giggles. “S’cause they thought Sukuna-nii was cursed. But he’s just really cranky!” 

“Is that right?” you faltered. Satoru takes your unease as a sign to lean in closer, shoulders brushing. 

“Yeah. But it’s okay, ‘cause he’s my cool big brother. Choso too! He looks a bit scary, but he takes real good care of us”.

“You really love your brothers, don’t you?”

“Choso plays temari with us in the gardens when he doesn’t have customers,” Yuji flashes the charming gap between his front teeth as he rubs at his sore cheek, earthen eyes squinted with happiness. “If you spent the night with him, I bet he would play temari with you too!”

Satoru’s hand crosses your line of sight as he reaches out to poke at the young boy's waist, dainty bangles slipping down his wrist. “What’s this, kid? I didn’t invite you here so your brother could gain favour with my customer,” he bemoans, pinching and prodding at baby fat beneath the fabric. 

Yuji stutters into peals of laughter at his theatrics, his arms folded close to protect his stomach. It’s obvious that Satoru does it to prevent Yuji from worrying — to let him act out, as a child should. The sound is so joyful it’s contagious, and the corners of your mouth curve into a helpless smile. 

None of this had been what you expected. The many whispers you’d heard before tonight tell you clearly that this second meeting is an unconventional one. You figured the younger ones were invited to set your mind to rest; not once did Satoru make a pass in their presence. As the evening wore on you felt your inhibitions slip further, anxieties along with them, and enjoyed yourself as though you were in the company of good — albeit, touchy — friends. 

Eventually, the attendants are given leave. Megumi bows deeply, Yuji mirroring him, but then you are thrown an easy wave before the shoji doors slide shut. With no boisterousness to fill the silence, you and Satoru sit quietly and listen as their light footfalls gradually disappear. 

Then, Satoru reaches for your sake cup. Stifling heat flushes through you in anticipation of what he might do. Your tongue peeks out to wet your bottom lip as he brings it to your mouth. “Here,” he murmurs. “Let me”. 

Hand poised by your cheek, you hold the decorative beads pinned behind your ear back while you bend to take a sip. The weight of his stare is unnerving, and inexplicably tempting. You release a pleased little noise at the woody aroma. It’s not unlike the sandalwood incense permeating the room. 

He leans into your space and you hear a shallow intake of breath. After a beat, he confides, “It’s my favourite”. 

You’re immediately disappointed, then you squash it. “Well. Thank you for sharing it with me,” your reflection stares dolefully at you from the bottom of the cup. “For sharing all of this with me. It was unexpectedly… fun”. 

He pouts, and doesn’t miss the way your eyes fall to his mouth. ”I’m not at the top without reason”. 

Sensing Satoru’s mischief, you hasten to deflect from your obvious slip up. “It’s a compliment! I just meant that this was different from what I was expecting”. 

“In a good way?” he coaxed. 

“Yes,” comes your ginger reply. You spare him an equally cautious glance. “I appreciate you letting them stay so long. I’m aware you didn’t have to”. 

After a long silence, Satoru sighs. “Admittedly this isn’t how I usually do things. But I knew I needed to take a different approach tonight”. 

“And what approach is that?” 

“To be myself,” his eyes sweep over your form. “Can I touch you?”

You startle. “That—! We aren’t supposed to be intimate until the third meeting”. 

“Not like that,” he reassures, the corners of his mouth slightly downturned as he fights a smirk. “Though it’s interesting that you would immediately assume something dirty”. 

“We’re in a pleasure district. What else would I assume?” you argued, directing a glare to your lap, “I just didn’t want to overstep house rules”. 

Satoru clicks his tongue, and the sound ricochets throughout your chest. If you had feathers they might’ve been on end, inflamed and splayed out in defense. 

“Are you determined to make this difficult for yourself?” his tone lowers, a warm and playful lilt to it that pulls the breath from your lungs; As if he was actually enjoying his time with you, despite how intransigent you were being about it all. The back and forth was unexpectedly natural, and you think, in part, that is what startled you. “I’m supposed to be seducing you, you know”.

Satoru moves impossibly closer, thighs pressing together. You pull your kimono tighter, feeling exposed under his scrutiny, “And you plan on doing that by aggravating me?” 

“No,” he draws the word out, ducking forward to meet your eyes. “You’re skittish. I thought I might hold you, that’s all”. 

“You want to… hug me?” 

“Hold,” he emphasises. “There’s not a romantic bone in your body, is there?”

Nettled, you lift your chin to glare at him, “I was under the impression you didn’t have any either”.

“You wound me,” he seems all too pleased by your sudden childishness. “Come here, then. Let me show you the difference”. 

You hesitate as his body turns toward you, arms raised a fraction and waiting for your consent. His kimono has loosened further, revealing the defined planes of his stomach. 

Closing the distance, you are pulled into his depths. Tense still, but as promised, Satoru does nothing besides embrace you. Heat seeps through silk garments, an arm secure and branding around your waist while a hand brushes reassuring strokes along your back. Tucked against his chest, soft redolence of floral spice coils around your nose and fills your throat like air. 

With eyes closed, you listen to the pitter patter behind his ribs. His pulse is unexpectedly quick. 

“Are you nervous?” 

It’s surprising that you would be the one to ask. He hums pleasantly. “I wouldn’t call it nervous,” one by one, lissome fingers ascend the length of your spine, “if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the body is always honest”. 

Satoru’s words are flint struck against steel, blood warm and rushing to fill the capillaries as you suppress a shudder. He cradles you securely and gently, as one might hold something precious to them, and your body is alight with it. Lured into a false sense of safety, surrounded by free spirited little white rabbits lovingly sewn into cloth. 

You think you might be one of them now, too. Prey. Lured into the jaws of a man that has eaten his fill many times before — you taste good, but you’re no different. You’re just a rabbit. 

He laughs at your awkwardness and it reverberates, tapering off into a long hum, “Breathe. Stop being so stubborn and let yourself enjoy this”. 

Exhaling at his instruction, you grimace through the obvious quiver and peer up at him. His features are sharper from this angle, cut deep by the shadows. He’s beautiful. A paste of clays moulded into porcelain with smithsonite irises. It isn’t a wonder why people flock to purchase his time — he’s a spectacle.

“Can I ask you something?” 

Then his eyes smile, wrinkling at the corners. It reminds you that he is human. “You don’t need my permission,” he assured. 

I do, you think. 

“Do you believe in love?”

You ache when he laughs again. This particular grin looks brittle up close, and there is a pervading sense of loneliness in it that you can’t shake. “Love is what I sell. Does that answer your question?” 

“Is it?” you ask, lips pressing into a flat line. You were bored of being spoon fed fairytales. “What you sell is short-lived desire”. 

He quietens, regarding you for a moment with dim eyes and you worry that you’ve been cruel. Amidst the silence you think he might be asking you the same thing — is it?

“Well, there’s no shortage of desire,” he says, though mostly to himself. The comment is wary, as if he’d fought something and lost, but his self assured veil is fixed. “They come here to fulfil a dream, one that I can give them. Same as you”.

Just another rabbit. You weren’t sure whether it was his lack of flaw or the idea of him treating you as any other customer that left such an unpleasant taste in your mouth. 

“I think you’ve mistaken me,” you reply curtly.  

“I don’t think I have,” he murmurs, reaching down to smooth over the curve of your cheek, speaking with amused cadence, “you only loathe that choosing me makes you exactly like everyone else”. 

“Gods. You are so—!”

Satoru intrudes into your space until his nose bumps precariously against the skin beneath your eye, practically gleaming with expectant amusement, “—Loveable?” 

Your fingers curl tight into his kimono, lest they find themselves around the pale column of his throat. “Irritating,” you fumed, reflexively pouting. 

“Yet here you are”. The pad of his index finger then presses to your jutted lower lip. He hums, seemingly incognisant of the way your entire body has frozen. “I think you like it,” he says, his voice warm and amused. “I think you like me”. 

“I don’t,” you reply. Too quickly. 

He laughs, “Then I’ll get you to like me over time. Think of it like slowly boiling a frog”. 

“That’s an awful idiom to use. What happened to supposedly trying to seduce me?”

Slowly, his finger skims over your cheek to the shell of your ear. You hold your breath. Close enough to count each white eyelash, to see the individual shadows they cast. He follows the curve with lidded eyes. Over the lobe to your jaw, down to the small gland in your throat, pulse quickening under his touch. 

“Hm, I don’t know,” he plucks your wrist from your lap and brings it to his lips. “It seems to me that it’s working”. 

Rocked by the intimacy, your tight fisted hand unfurls. Satoru watches intently. He begins at your inner wrist with a feather light peck, his lips softer than your imagination allowed, leaving behind a warm impression on your skin. 

He carries on over to the heel, then another, deliberate where he kisses your heart line. You remind yourself to breathe and the exhale comes like a tremor as he nuzzles into the shallow of your palm. Pink lips drag along your thumb, pressing a kiss to the pad with a fleeting dip of tongue, searing against the whorls and lines. 

The air is electric. Satoru repeats the motions for every one of your fingers, his gaze never wavering from yours. There’s heat spreading down your neck, prickling along your spine, pooling in your belly. His mouth quirks, equal parts knowing and amused. 

“What do you think?” he speaks with warm, alluring cadence. There’s a desperate lilt to it that you like. It sounds as though he were just as affected by this as you. “Will you choose me again?” 

That evening with Satoru left you feeling like a convalescent child. Fatigued, indulging in familiar home comforts. It wasn’t anything he did; not delivering gentle touches, nor his well practised whispers. More it was your own reactions — jittery and diffident as a newborn foal — that plagued you on sleepless nights. 

You realise that at some point a subconscious part of your being began to seek his approval in some way. To experience his pleasure, aside from yours. Not only in spite of proving yourself worthy company, but because you— 

A long groan builds in your chest, heels pressed harshly into your eye sockets. This is the exact opposite of what you thought would happen. 

—You truly did come to like him. Selfish as it may be, you wanted him to think of you while you were away, just as you thought of him. 

Gojo Satoru had crawled into your skin; made a home between your fourth and fifth rib. Your family are ecstatic, enthused by the arrival of a letter with his name inscribed on paper in heavy strokes. You tuck it away into your sleeve and read it later in the privacy of your room. 

He asks that you visit again. He makes a promise to kiss more than just your hand, if you permit it. You swallow thickly at the thought, the ink trembling in your grip where you hold it a few inches over open flame. How is it he beguiled you this easily? What had happened to your steadfast resolve? Diminished in a single meeting. 

You tuck the letter under your pillow with a sigh and write back. 

That fateful night begins with an awe inspiring procession stretched many metres down the main road. Your family had insisted on commissioning the event. Hand picked Michizane House attendants, all dressed to mirror one another, walk forward slowly wearing stoic expressions. Lantern bearers, apprentices and servants followed close at the Courtesan's side. 

There in the centre is Gojo Satoru, breathtakingly beautiful. His feet swooped outward in his approach and glided forward with trained precision, standing proud, tall and regal despite the many colourful, heavy robes and accessories swallowing his body. 

You stand by the shop in wonder, surrounded by the crowds reverential whispers. The passing mention of your name encourages you to stand taller, to show the same dignity and grace that Satoru has shown. His eyes stare right ahead — right at you, vivid blue and divine in the lamplight. Under all the cloth and jewellery you see vestiges of boyish excitement. He looks happy that you’re here. 

The onlookers seem to hold their breath as he closes in. Your heart beats wildly in the back of your throat, incognisant of the gentle pitter pattering rain from above. You’ve never seen anything like it. Waterfalls of red, gold, green spilling from his front. The geta on his feet are scuffed, scratch marks stark against the black. You cannot imagine the hours put into perfecting such a precise walk. 

Norimitsu hurriedly produces an umbrella and holds it above you. Shoulders already damp with rain, you didn’t mind it. Satoru peers down at you through wispy, dove feather eyelashes, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in ovation. 

You are ushered into the shop. 

The time between stepping into the genkan and being taken to Satoru’s quarters is a rush. Your new partner is taken elsewhere for assistance with removing his heavy garb. A young girl you’ve never met offers you a clean dry towel and leaves you idly waiting. 

Patting at the damp skin around your collar, you take in the surroundings. It is undoubtedly Satoru’s room, now lit only by lamplight. Golden, flickering shadows veil the space, creating a close and intimate ambiance. There is a luxurious futon in place of the low table covered in fresh bedding and pillows. You swallow at the sight of it. 

“This won’t do”. 

You yelp, covering your mouth to muffle the noise. Satoru stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, hand still holding open the screen. He steps forward and slides it closed with a quiet hiss. You take in his state of undress; a thin pale robe draped around broad shoulders, tied loosely to emphasise a tapered waist, open at the front to expose his chest. Gone are the delicate ornaments and grand fabrics spilling forth from his obi. Brought back down to earth — back to you. 

Lost in your appraisal of him, you almost miss the pinch in his brow. He cups your throat with featherlight pressure, rubbing his fingers together as he pulls away. “You’re wet,” his frown deepens briefly. You witness the moment that his thoughts connect to sex, only to smother them in favour of keeping you comfortable. 

“You can say it, you know,” you offer wryly. He blinks, and the discontent melts to give way for mirth as he realises what it is you’re referring to. 

“Well I can’t now. It loses all impact”.

Satoru takes the towel from your grasp. He hooks a finger into the fold of your kimono and you exhale, feeling knuckles brush over your breasts. “I’ll have Megumi draw you a bath. I can’t have you getting sick on our special night”. 

Right, you think. His geniality and carefree air made it so easy to forget that this was little more than a transaction. “Please. Don’t tell me you got us nuptial cups”. 

“Okay,” he chimes, flattening his palm against your chest to iron out the creases he’d left. “I won’t tell you”. 

You clutch at his wrists, swimming in the loose fabric of his sleeves, “Satoru��!”

“A hot bath should help you relax. We don’t need to jump right in,” he murmurs firmly. Voice low and quiet, a pleasant hum in your ears. His hands are splayed over your hips now, stroking in small circular motions. “I’ll be gentle. Soften you up until you’re ready for me”. 

Your nerves lessen steadily into a simmer. Amusement curls in the corner of your mouth, “A slow boil?” 

Satoru grins; small, affectionate and sincere as he leans in, brushing his nose along the underside of your jaw. You feel a warm breath ghost over your skin. “Yeah,” he says. “Like a slow boil”. 

The Michizane house was prized for more than just sex. You are pointed to a darkened, private bathroom and overwhelmed by the scent of eucalyptus. There is flora carved into the walls, topped with extravagant vermillion gables. Megumi rises from his knees, a sash drawn across his chest to keep his sleeves back, his silhouette blurred by steam. He nods as he greets you and sets a small stool over the grate. Rigid, you take in the large, kiln shaped tub.

Megumi bows, staring over your shoulder when he rises. It reminds you of the man standing patiently at your heel, maintaining a short distance as you acclimate to reality. You thank Megumi and he stoops beneath the curtains to leave. 

Anxious as you were, the bath is calling to you. Tendrils of white dance on the water's surface. Wordlessly, you start to undress, loosening your obi until the neck gapes open and pools at your shoulders. The careful press of Satoru’s hands does not startle you. He helps slide the damp material over your shoulders while you untie the cotton belt around your waist.

Your kimono flowers open. Exhilaration frissons through your body and heat gathers under his fingers. All that’s left are your thin underclothing. You tremble as you reach back to undo the final knot. Satoru peels the layer back, stripping you bare. The temperature is pleasant on your exposed skin. Bumps arise over your arms and breasts, nipples perked up, senses sharpened. You can feel his sinuous movement in the air behind you, fingertips brushing the small of your back. 

“Get in,” he quietly instructs. 

The water is perfect. You dip your toes in first. Knee bending to climb in, your thighs part as you go; Satoru takes a sharp intake of breath that sparks like flint in your belly. Slowly, you sink into the depths, muscles bled of their rigidity. You sigh and tip back to rest your head on the edge. 

“Better?”

You peek at him from beneath half lidded eyes. Satoru has taken up station by the bathtub. He looks comically large on the small stool. His arms are folded by your head, and he lowers into the cradle, cheek turned to watch your face closely. Lazily, you reach to curl a stray strand of white, gossamer hair around your index finger, saturating it with water until it holds a curl. 

“A lot better,” you admit. It’s surprising how little you care that he’s seeing you naked. Maybe it was his commitment to honouring your boundaries that made this so much easier. A supposed sexual being, an ethereal creature of the night, so deliberately keeping his gaze above your collarbones. Picture perfect obeisance. “Will you just sit there?”

Mischief returns to his eyes. “Oh? Were you expecting something?”

“Don’t tease me,” you mumble. This is all so new to you. “I just thought you might…”

When your voice weakens with uncertainty, he presses. “Might?” 

“Bathe me”. 

You see his expression light up in the dim shadows. Satoru deigns to respond, rather, he turns to grab a bowl smaller than his palm. Inside it is a bar of perfumed soap and a cloth. He scoots closer with the cloth between long fingers, disturbing the water as he soaks it. You observe, hazy, as he lathers it with soap and moves to run it over your bicep. You lift your arm out of the water in synchrony, swallowing the swell of emotion in your throat as he covers your hand and gives a deliberate squeeze. 

“Did you enjoy the parade?” he asks. The question echoes in the otherwise silent room, almost as quiet as the rippling water. You nod, too lost in the delicious pressure of his hands as he washed over your shoulders in practised, comforting motions. He huffed a laugh under his breath and continued down the planes of your back as you sat forward. 

The words are cloying on your tongue. “You looked beautiful,” you tell him. “Just watching made my feet ache. How many years did it take to learn that?”

“That’s what you were thinking about?” he needled. You shudder at the innocent pass beneath your breasts, barely hearing him. “You were supposed to be enchanted by me. Not worrying about my ankles”. 

“I was,” you insist, voice slightly slurred. The loss of tension has left you loose lipped. “You were so incredible. I could hardly believe you were walking in my direction. I can hardly believe you’re at my side now, bathing me”. 

There’s a wealth of emotion in his eyes that you aren’t privy to. Satoru hums amusedly and bends to kiss your wet shoulder. He takes a copper jug from the shelf and fills it with water, shielding your face when he pours it over you to rinse away the bubbles. Eventually, he whispers for you to get up. 

“Best get out before you prune,” he smirks. Satoru snakes an arm around your waist as you stand. Uncaring of how wet his robe would get, he balances you against his broad chest, leaving behind the wet impression of your hand. You feel something warm pressed to your temple. It is only when you are dry, wrapped in a thin robe of your own, that you realise it was another kiss.

You’re perched on your knees in the centre of his futon. Legs numb under your body, skittish heart jumping behind your ribs. You feel more naked than ever before. Somehow the suggestion of nudity is far more overwhelming than the latter. 

Satoru sets a tray of sake cups on a tray, setting it beside the futon. You are awash with relief to see that they are the house’s regular cups. He must notice, because he chuckles. 

Pouring you a shallow cup, he asks, “Have you ever bedded a man?”

There’s a tremor in your hands when you receive the sake from him. Between sips you reply, “No”. 

“Are you scared?”

There is something in his voice, in the way his demeanour shifts, in how his face softens; it alleviates the panic. The waves become bearable. You can’t find it in yourself to fear what he might think of you now, not when he’s looking at you like he loves you. 

“I’m not scared,” and it’s the truth. 

You like it when he smiles. When he finds you funny and the bridge of his nose wrinkles. It’s no wonder some guests are dragged out kicking and screaming come morning. 

“Why didn’t you choose Yuta?” Satoru splays out beside you. He lay on his hip, legs angled toward you, elbow propped up to rest his head. There is little left to the imagination. His belt hangs low, showing the firm plains of his abdomen. Your sights linger on the fair hair leading from his navel, growing thicker below the confines of his robe. 

“Yuta?” you echo. 

He nods, reaching across your lap to pick up his own cup. The sake leaves behind a sheen on his lips. You track the swipe of his tongue, leaning into his heat. 

“Yuta is widely known to be a favourite amongst newcomers. Virgins especially,” he says. Had it not been for his neutral tone, you might’ve rushed to defensiveness. Empty drink set aside, his hand waves dismissively, “Apparently I’m too intimidating”. 

“I can see why people might think that. You are sort of… otherworldly, at first glance”.

“Then why did you pick me?”

After your third night together the relationship would be sealed. You would be forbidden from accompanying another Courtesan. While it was not a traditional relationship, it still spoke of a high level of commitment and dedication to one another. Pride reared its lion head and you struggled to find the right words. Telling the truth would expose your feelings like a shorn nerve. Lying wouldn’t sit right with you.

“This isn’t one sided,” you tell him instead. “You could’ve turned me away. You chose me too. Why?”

“Because I wanted you,” he says plainly. Then, Satoru, far braver than you, takes your face into his hands, sweeping over your cheeks. You can taste his breath, sweet from the sake. “My world is all about desire and I’m no different. I want you”. 

Satoru wears the warm lamp light well. Painted in strokes over every muscle and curve, it softens him. You let him take your weight, gently guiding you as you recline against the futon; thick and plush beneath, you are ensconced with his body heat as he presses chest to chest. Your thighs part naturally to make room, hooking lazily at either side of his waist. 

His lips brush your own in a whisper of a kiss. “Wait,” you gasp, instinctively gripping his shoulders. Satoru doesn’t pull away nor does he push. As you asked, he waits. “What if I’m terrible at it?” 

Blinking slow, he rubs his nose along your cheek. Eyelashes tickle you like a moth's wing. “Sex isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being present,” your fingers slide up the back of his neck, curling into his hair. Your eyes fall closed as he tilts to kiss each eyelid. “It’s about doing what feels good and letting go. Let me take care of you”. 

Satoru’s mouth is hot and softer than any silk you’ve worn. He takes his time with you. The kiss begins tenderly — unexpectedly chaste, but never parting for long.

It touches something deep within you. The feeling intensifies as he parts the seam of your lips with his clever tongue, and when your fingers tighten at the back of his skull, he moans. You shudder under him, thighs reflexively clenching. 

His hand comes up to cradle your crown as he gently coaxes your tongue into his mouth to suck on it, the other cascading the length of your bare calf to your thigh and kneading. Squeezing. Appreciating every inch of you. Satoru slips beneath the hem of your robe. You whine, trying to follow his lead. 

“Yours first,” you pant, pawing at his clothes. Hair mussed from your hands, Satoru looms above you with kiss bitten lips pulled into a grin. You stare as he opens his robe, letting it slide naturally over his shoulders and casting it aside. 

Your hands find smooth milky skin. He settles with his arms braced either side of your head and lets you touch. Fingertips trace the lines and divots of his stomach, feeling his muscles flinch under your touch. He’s a marvel to look at. But what you like best are the noises he makes — each part of his body is a new string to pluck. 

The white hair around his cock is trim and surprisingly soft. He’s pale with a subtle curve, the tip blushing dark pink. Of course his cock would be pretty, too. He’s big. You think he is. You wouldn’t know, not really, but long enough for you to worry. 

With newfound curiosity, you trail a finger from root to crown, spreading the prespend around his slit. You wrap yourself around his length and smile when he twitches, hips involuntarily bucking into your fist. Exhaling a shaken breath, “Can I touch you, too?”

“…Okay,” you hold his gaze and let him see the need there. A part of you wanted to be looked upon as an equal, rather than a fledgling; such thoughts you know to be ridiculous. Surely the power imbalance should lie with you, and yet. 

You turn your cheek to the pillow while he parts the robe. It’s different here. Hugged by a dewy orange hue, the darkness makes the room smaller and casts your body in another light. You’re relaxed, laid flat. A shadow curves around the soft, lower part of your stomach. Your breasts lay slightly uneven, no longer held in place by a bust belt. Your legs are spread and draped around his waist, cushiony next to what looks to be cut straight from porcelain. 

“Gods. You are divine”. 

Satoru sits back on his calves, palming at your own. The oil lamplight flickers in his crystalline eyes and he looks ravenous. He’s looking at you. 

“Satoru…” You ignore the urge to cover your face as he lifts your legs to hook one over his shoulder. You are already breathing heavily and he hasn’t touched you yet. He must know. 

With reverence, Satoru turns and presses a kiss to the arch of your foot, smiling when you reflexively kick. “Ticklish?” he murmurs. The next is pressed to your ankle, drawn out and warm, holding your gaze as he does it. “How cute”. 

Your hands twist in the sheets. He continues up your calf to your knee, then further, forging a path of lascivious words between your thighs. A shudder wracks through your body at the ghost of his breath over your sex. And when he blows lightly, purposefully, you can feel how wet you are. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. So quiet it might not have been for your ears. Heat spreads under your skin. You’re equally frustrated and aroused as he continues on, abdomen flexing where he brushes a kiss to your navel. “You’re so beautiful”. 

Satoru rubs his cheek over your stomach and takes a deep, contented breath. His hands smooth along your waist, kneading and squeezing at the flesh but never enough to bruise. Your heart jumps as he cups your breasts, mouthing the valley between, gently pushing them together to flick his tongue over each nipple. Wet with spit, he blows again, smiling as your skin pebbles as though it were reaching for him. 

“You’re perfect,” he continues, returning to his place over you. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, now. The kind a man gets when he’s hungry. “I love how reactive you are. Look at you”. 

“Satoru,” your voice echoes, desperate and barely recognisable. His face is warm in your hands — there’s a ruddiness to his cheeks that is unmistakably a blush. You’ve never felt so desired. His eyes watch as you wet your lips, and you try to pull him closer. “Kiss me again”. 

“Another?” He sounds so breathless. Even so, Satoru barely yields, holding rigid over your wanting mouth. “Where, angel? Here?” He kisses the skin below your eye. “…Here?” His lips press to the line of your jaw. 

You whine. Strengthening your grip, you force him to align with you, “Here”. 

And he does, licking into your mouth in teasing, practised motions. He tastes like his favourite sake. Teeth sink into the fat of your bottom lip, pulling gently and letting go, connected by a thin string of spit. Half lidded eyes fall to the laboured rise and fall of your breasts, his fingertip circling around your pert nipple. 

“Talk to me,” he pinches the nub between his fingers. Exhaling a short moan, you push up into the touch. “I want to hear all your sweet little noises. Will you do that for me?” 

“Feels embarrassing,” you confess thickly. The vulnerability is overwhelming; your body continues to betray your true feelings with glaring clarity, all while his own remains hidden. “It’s— it’s a lot. I want you to feel good, too”.

“Good?” A fair brow arches. Satoru rolls his hips down in one smooth motion. He slides through your folds, weighty and hot. The head of his cock bumps against your clit and you both groan in synchrony. “This is what you do to me”. 

“Me?” 

“You,” he answers easily. The thick baritone of his voice quakes through you. Your pulse throbs as he reaches down to cup your pussy. “I wanna kiss you here, too. Can I?” 

The heel of his hand alleviates the ache. Your hips instinctively grind against him, pleasure gathering low in your belly. “Yes,” you nod frantically, wanting more. “Please”. 

“So well mannered,” he teases, thumbing your lower lip. The playful air has you opening your mouth, tongue pressed to skin. You feel his cock twitch. His fingers shift where they’re splayed across your cheek and he taps your jaw. “Get these nice and wet for me”. 

Satoru smooths the pad of his thumb over your tongue, learning the grooves of your teeth. Heat flushes through you. The soft wet sounds of spit pooling into your cheeks rings in your ears as he pulls back, only to slide in another. Two, his middle and index, splitting them so they frame your tongue and stretch your mouth. 

“You really are gorgeous”. 

Embarrassment floods through you, yet somehow, his earnest praise only feeds your arousal. You buck against the hand that has slowly begun to grind against your pussy. Sex is about feeling good, he’d said. It’s about letting go. 

You meet his eyes and steel your resolve. Cutting free of shame you wrap your lips around his knuckles and suck unabashedly. His lashes flutter, jaw slacking with a drawn out groan. “There you are,” he murmurs, retracting his fingers. They’re coated in saliva, glistening. 

Before you can mourn the loss they’re sliding over your clit and the complaint dies in your throat. He spreads you open. Pupils dilated and gleaming, he descends your torso and rolls his tongue forward obscenely to flick the bud of your clit between the V of his fingers. 

Your hands take root in his hair. He is undeterred by the clench of your legs either side of his head. He leans forward to consume you completely, eyes falling shut in a show of pure indulgence. Covetous, he verbalises his satisfaction with a rumbling in his chest and it vibrates against your sex. 

The beat of your heart ricochets through your stomach. Satoru’s tongue glides over you, languid and soft. Wherever a pleasured sound falls past your lips he maintains rhythm and pace. “Fuck, Satoru. That’s—” you keen when he gently sucks your clit between his lips, finger hooked and pressed to your entrance. 

Satoru’s sinks into you, a careful back and forth, relaxing the tension with his tongue as he works his way in. It's foreign. He’s bigger, longer than yours. Not unlike the reverential way he treated your mouth, he pulls out when you’re comfortable and pushes in another. 

“Does it hurt?” he asks. You blink through the warm haze. There’s a sheen of spit and arousal covering his chin. 

You shake your head no, “Feels… feels really good”. 

“It’ll feel even better soon,” he promises, maintaining a delicious rhythm. Fingers curl upwards inside of you, a come hither motion towards your belly. That intense feeling tightens and your body coils in on itself, thighs flexing against his ears with hips bucking into his hand. 

“Oh—!” He angles his head to unrelentingly flicker his tongue over your clit and your heels dig into his back. “Satoru!”

The breath is caught in your throat. From your fingers to your toes, something all consuming forces your muscles rigid and your spine arches upward like a bow as you crest. Then the air is pushed from your lungs. All at once, the sensation lessens, diffuses, and warms your body from the inside out in gentle pulses. 

You hear the fond intonation of your name. It sounds so natural in his mouth. You’re awash with afterglow. Was sex always like this? You felt as though you were floating. Releasing a satisfied sound, you slump into the futon. Satoru laughs and the room glows a little brighter. 

“Done already?” he asks, massaging your calf. There is a hint of pride in his voice. “We have all night together, you know”. 

“No,” you mumble, teeth worrying your lip as you push up onto your elbows. He’s hard, you notice. Hung heavily between your bodies. You want that power at your disposal — to render him as useless as you. “I want you to cum, too”. 

There’s a pinch in his brow. Satoru shifts with you and squeezes at the fat around your hips, “You don’t need to push yourself”. 

You try and fail to articulate it, stringing together a breathless request, “No I—I want you to cum because of me”. 

Satoru laughs and the sound dwindles into a light groan as he squeezes himself. “Angel. All of this is because of you”. 

“Then fuck me,” you say. “Properly”. 

The lamplight flickers, moving the shadows on his face. He’s gazing at you from above, big, hungry. Exhilaration frissons down your spine. Satoru manoeuvres your hips, dragging your lower half unceremoniously into his lap and slipping a spare pillow beneath you. 

When the head of his cock catches, you instinctively clench. “Breathe for me,” he coaches tenderly, and you let the tension go. The stretch is unfamiliar and uncomfortable, but as you exhale the sting lessens until there is no pain at all. Skin to skin, Satoru lingers patiently in the cradle of your hips, letting you adjust to his length. 

“Move,” you rasp. “Please”. 

He pulls out with an indelible pace. You’re still sensitive, but it feels good in an odd way. Melting into the sheets to savour the drag of his cock. Your breasts shake with every rock of his hips, blue eyes enraptured and following the movement. Bending to cage you in, Satoru captures your lips in a deep kiss, groaning loud into your mouth with his hand laid flat and pressing to your belly. 

“Taking me so well,” he rumbles. “I knew you would. Wanted you the second I saw you”. 

That sensation returns. It begins like a trickle, the heady pleasure slowly seeping and growing in intensity until it’s an enormous wave. He indulges, and you arch into his touch as he continues to transverse the length of your body to tuck into the crook of your neck.

“Fuck. Feel that?” the words press against your jugular. His hips rear back for emphasis, “You keep sucking me back in”. 

Inhibitions lost, you tether yourself to him, nails embedded in the pinked skin of his shoulders. You stutter out a warning, “Fuck, Satoru. I think— I’m going to—!”

“There you go,” he punctuates the demand with a firm thrust. Eyes squeezing shut, your arms lock around the expanse of his back, toes curling as your legs seize forcefully around his waist. More overwhelming than the first, you clench down on his cock as you’re tipped over the crest. 

Satoru carries you through it with the languid undulation of his hips, peppering kisses to your cheek. His own broken whines are hot against your skin. Your arms are limp, still clinging enough to keep him close. You don’t want to let go. 

That thought passes just as his breath hitches and he abruptly pushes up from your chest. Gripping the base of his cock he pulls out, he fucks desperately into his fist and cums over your bare stomach. Satoru exhales a long moan and the sound tapers into a sigh. 

Regaining his bearings, Satoru murmurs your name again. You watch dazedly as he lifts his head. The corner of his mouth curls up into a satiated smile as he notices you’re already looking back at him. Leaning to press a kiss to your forehead, the room falls unnaturally quiet. The dregs of afterglow slowly dissipate, and reality creeps into the forefront of your mind. 

“Are you in pain?”

There’s urgency in his expression and you realise he has sensed your change in mood. “Not…” you wriggle slightly beneath him. “Wow. No pain. I’m just a little sore”. 

“You felt incredible,” his face softens with relief and glances to where your bor bodies once connected. You grimace as he drags a finger through the cum on your belly. “Rest here. I’ll fetch something to clean us both up with and have Megumi bring some water to drink”. 

What follows is akin to a lovesick haze. A memory before you can even register it. You awake to the brilliant ochre of the morning, swaddled in thick blankets and laid next to a warm body. Satoru has you cradled to his naked chest, rising and falling with shallow breath, sleeping soundly. 

The sunlight has flooded into the room and that is enough to conclude that it is long after dawn. Your ears prick at the sound of movement in the rooms around you, and the events of last night flash unbidden through your mind. Noises like that are commonplace in a pleasure house — still, you hope nobody heard you.

Cautious as not to wake him, you lift your head to survey your surroundings. The atmosphere is so starkly different during the day. All the allure and taboo is gone. It is just a man's bedroom. The only space that truly belonged to Satoru. 

It tasted bitter in your mouth. 

“What’re you thinking about?”

Satoru had roused so easily. You wonder if he always slept so light. “I was thinking that…” you pause, giving your next words some thought. “I think you don’t… belong in this place”. 

Satoru readjusts himself and meets your gaze from above, bracing over your body with one arm. His head tilts, lazing against his shoulder as he watches you, tracing a lithe finger over the swell of your cheek. 

“Oh? What will you do?” his voice is tired, lilted as if he were mocking you. But he’s smiling, too, and it is unlike the others — soft and sad. His vulnerability leaked through the crescent-shaped indentations you’d left behind. “Will you buy my freedom and deprive my other loyal customers of their fulfilment?” 

“I don’t care about their fulfilment,” you mutter, eyes falling to the space beneath the linens where your legs are still entangled with his. He laughs. 

“You’re more selfish than I thought,” his fingertips smooth along your jaw, gently tilting your chin up and forcing you to look at him. “And then what? You’ll keep me all for yourself?” 

It reveals a lot, you think, that his first assumption is you’d still expect him to serve you somehow. All Satoru has ever done in his life is give, give, give. He was beautiful, strong and skilled, and such gifts from the Gods were obligated to be shared. 

But as he said, you are selfish. When his thumb skims along the bow of your lips, they stretch into a promising smile. “No,” you tell him. “You can go anywhere you like”. 

It’s a pleasure to watch his expression wane, the push and pull of hope and disbelief. Now, his eyes are brighter than you’ve ever seen them. “Anywhere?” he breathes. 

“Anywhere,” turning into his palm, you kiss the heel and feel a tremor rush through him. “Be whoever you want. Just Satoru”. 

A brief silence stretches thin. And then he laughs again, an abrupt sound. Satoru dips to press your foreheads together; close enough that you can see the dreamer's expression on your face reflected in his own pupils, and individually count the striking white lashes along his waterline. 

“Selfish and cruel,” he murmurs fondly. Instead of warmth, you suddenly feel cold. “Even if that were possible, I have responsibilities here. Megumi, Yuji and the others are here”. 

“But—!”

“—I have influence. High ranking customers. I keep those kids safe here, and I bring in enough money that they can enjoy their youth before they’re made to work,” he continues. As it goes on, his voice is steadily harder; the cradle along your jaw firmer. 

Brows pinched, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed forward. Your nose bumps against his cheek, lips awkwardly aligned — you let him kiss you. It’s too quick, and almost punishing. 

Pulling back, he rasps, “It is my job to sell dreams. Not yours”. 

That’s right. How could you forget?

He cups your face again, as though he didn’t want to let go. The pad of his thumb strokes over your cheek, tracing a shallow crescent shape beneath your eye. You’ve never felt so helpless.

You leave the Michizane house soon after with a smile painted on your face. It will not slip, not until later in the night. You cannot allow Yaga to question Satoru’s treatment of you. A courtesan’s duty is to appease. Norimitsu scans your body, entirely lacking subtlety, and steps forward to assist you into the rickshaw without a word. You’re thankful for it. 

When you do not return to the shop, a letter arrives. The parchment is perfumed with a comfortingly familiar scent. Satoru inscribes his longing onto the page. He’s asking if you’ll visit with him again, and in the bottom corner he has cleverly convinced Megumi and Yuji to sign their names alongside his own. Your chest tightens. 

Weak, you reach for your ink stone and brush.

Satoru sold dreams — and yours had been to be loved. You wondered if that was his dream, too.

[pictureinme]

Fic idea: reader takes kitten out on a picnic for her birthday or their anniversary and treats her the way she deserves to be treated and like reader gives her all these cute gifts and treats and it's just a cute moment

thank u so much for this request !!! i felt so inspired by this ;-; it may be a bit more than you expected !

autumn breeze

patricia ‘kitten’ braden x f!reader word count: ~1.2k tags: romantic fluff, established relationship, marriage proposal, kitten appreciation hour is in full effect

(ao3)

Kitten walks blindly through the park, unaware of just how beautiful the falling leaves look across the grass. You’re guiding her through winding paths, all the way to a secret spot you paid the caretaker off to leave undisturbed.

Her outfit was as beautiful as ever, and the only criteria you gave her was to dress for the season. While she giggles incessantly, you take it in: a roomy brown sweater which nearly enveloped her hands, tucked into orange corduroy flares, paired with brown mule heels.

You uncover Kitten’s eyes, revealing the surprise she has been anticipating for a week now. Her eyes darted quickly, taking in the set-up before her: a yellow gingham blanket, and atop it was an overflowing picnic basket. She could only imagine what else could be awaiting her, but she could definitely see a familiar wine bottle and accompanying glasses.

“Oh, darling…” Kitten’s hand comes to cover her agape mouth.

You grin, hugging her tightly from behind, “Happy anniversary, my love.”

“Even bought my favorite wine…” She spins around, and her hands come to rest on your shoulders. Her eyes are sparkling, hints of tears threatening to spill. “Thank you, (Y/N).”

“Don’t thank me just yet!” You guide her down to the blanket, kicking off your flats before sitting. “You haven’t even seen the records I brought.”

Kitten daintily takes off her heels, grinning almost maniacally as she kneels on the fabric, “Do tell!”

“I brought all of our favorites,” gesturing to the case against your hip, she notices you had the portable record player, as well as your book of 45s. “Goldsboro, Rubettes, Sweet… even some Stevie!”

You rifle through the binder, and pull out your Bobby Goldsboro “Honey/Danny” single– something you bought for Kitten on your second date. She glowed when she unwrapped it, revealing the orange magenta label with her favorite song’s title plastered onto it.

Kitten holds the record carefully as you set up the portable player, its wood grain stark against the gingham, a holdover from your parents’ generation. She places the disc onto the center spindle, and you place the needle. The sweet, sweet sounds of adult contemporary fill the space.

The warmth of the afternoon lay dappled on the ground, wrapping the two of you in something like a yellow aura. Kitten’s nails were adorned with an orange polish, with delicate flowers– painted by you– in white. Her hand is on top of your own, and you bathe in the feeling of contentment. The autumnal breeze was cool, but welcome.

From her reclined position on the blanket, she hums, “We should probably eat before whatever it is goes stale, hm?”

“Perhaps,” you groan as you move from your own lounging, “You do tend to be the voice of reason.”

You shuffle towards the picnic basket, and hand her the bottle as well as the glasses. Opening it further reveals to Kitten the true lengths you went to for this event: cucumber sandwiches, various berries, cheeses, and crackers, and even more she couldn’t see.

“Goodness, you pulled out all of the stops, didn't you, dear?”

Laughing slightly, you take the bottle back from her and pop the cork, “I’d pull the stars from the sky if it could make you happy, my love.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes as you pour the Sauvignon blanc into her awaiting glass, “Oh, such a poet you are.”

You pour your own glass as she takes out the sandwiches and charcuterie set-up. Kitten splits the sandwich triangles between the two of you.

“Thank you, my love,” Kitten bites into her sandwich, careful not to smudge her meticulously painted lips, “Truly.”

“It’s our third anniversary, and you always do so much for me,” you pop a cube of chèvre into your awaiting mouth, “You deserve so much more than this, Kitten.”

Cocking her head, she hums, “Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourself! Can’t remember the last time we could do something so romantic together in public…”

You bite your lip slightly as her lidded eyes meet yours, “Me neither, I had to bargain for this spot, you know. Sold all our assets away!”

“Shame, I was just about to blow it all at the slots tomorrow night with Charlie.”

“And you weren’t going to invite moi?” You hold your heart in faux offense, “Now I don’t feel so bad about auctioning off your precious silk slips.”

“You did not!”

Laughter erupted from your throat, “Dear, I would never do such a thing! You really must pick up a book on sarcasm.”

Rolling her eyes yet again, Kitten smiles as she tosses a blueberry in her mouth, “Silly, silly girl. On our special day, too.”

You grin widely, and the pair of you continue to eat away at your borderline rabbit food and white wine. The way her head is thrown back after a particularly raunchy joke you made, or how her blonde curls bounce when she’s truly excited, you couldn’t get enough of it.

The two of you make it through almost all of the records before you decide to reveal the true surprise of the afternoon.

“Doll, could you check the basket for me?” You coyly ask, busying yourself with cleaning the stray napkins and empty berry containers. “I’m sure I forgot something.”

She cocks an eyebrow, “You, forgetting something? Believe it when I see it, love.”

You watch as she leans over the picnic basket, moving her locks from her eye-line to properly check. As she investigates, you feel your heart begin to race. What if she said no, what if–

“(Y/N)!” Kitten practically shrieks when she finds the so-called missing item. “Is this what I think it is?”

She moves back to sit in front of you, an expression of pure joy written all over her face.

“Patricia ‘Kitten’ Braden, saint of my heart… will you marry me?”

Her hand was held open to reveal a golden ring, within the center was an oval diamond cushioned by two smaller ones.

“Oh, God, yes, yes!”

Before your hand reaches to slip the ring onto her finger, she’s caught your lips in a kiss that would’ve knocked off your feet, had you been standing. You could feel her heart beating out of her chest, and you raise a hand to cup her cheek.

“I love you more than anything in the universe, my Kitten. I know it may not be easy, getting married and all, but–”

Kitten shakes her head slightly, a tear falling from her eye, “Don’t say such things right now, we’ll be okay.”

Nodding, you smile through what you realize are your own tears, and take the ring from her still outstretched hand. You hold her left hand in yours, and slowly slip the delicate ring onto her finger. Her breath hitches, and so does yours.

“Please tell me I’m not dreaming, darling,” the desperation in her eyes made that knot in your throat hurt so much more.

“Far from it,” you kiss her sweetly on her plush lips, “This is as real as it gets.”

[cjgladback]

So this blocking thing! It's good for more than just nuisances. I haven't knit a lot of garments yet with fiber that responds to blocking, and what I have has been like...socks where it seems unnecessary because the whole thing will be in tension while worn. But also I just don't have large pinnable surfaces, as one typically needs when the point is to soak a piece of fabric and then stretch it out to pose in the shape you want it to be until next soaking. What do I have? The ability to stack waterproof objects on a small patch of flat counter space. And thank goodness because that definitely saved this hat.

Anyway! I am happy to have used my extremely inconsistent first skeins of support-spindled yarn (see the post with them all laid out here) for a project I'll probably actually use once it's chilly again. It is comfortable, even if I'm a bit disappointed in the colorwork legibility. This is how the chart looks:

But I didn't quite manage matching gauge yarns, I'm low on practice/experience keeping tension for stranded colorwork, and probably just aiming for too loose a fabric anyway (should've found a path to increasing stitches and using smaller needles on that section) so it's very blobby.

I do have some of that green and "matching" oyster skein left, as well as a little of the finest oyster yarn I used for the ribbing. So if I use them together again, I'll probably hold the two oyster threads as one. Speaking of, I had way too much of the underplied lace yarn and wasn't happy with my first run at an even more open lace panel, so ended up frogging that back and making these sections with the lace yarn held double. Worth it! Much happier with this result. And I can see why underplied yarn has been said to do lace well; was cool how open it already was before blocking.

Image descriptions below:

[ID: Four photos of a slouchy, off-white beanie with some green colorwork being knit, blocked, and worn. The hat is constructed with a solid top of thicker yarn, strip of lace, a strip of green colorwork (meant to be jumping frogs), a matching strip of lace, and finally a long section of ribbing, broken into four strips by inverting the knits and purls.

In the first photo, with a blurred background, the beanie is still in process with a green string holding the live stitches while it's tried on, partway through the first section of ribbed brim; it fits like a misshapen mushroom, the top lace panel collapsing over the relatively tight colorwork, all under the lumpy increases of the densely knit crown.

The second photo also has a blurred background but shows the hat being blocked, gently stretched over a tower of stacked containers, widest at the top around the curved base of an upside down plastic coffee canister from crown to colorwork, the gradual taper of a hair bleach tub easing the lower lace panel into the ribbing before the very end hangs free around a peanut butter jar pedestal.

The third and fourth photos show the finished hat from the side and front, being worn by a pale-skinned brunette woman with a braid and orange t-shirt in front of painted wood paneling on an overcast day. The hat is slouched but not bulbous, blocking having stretched the colorwork horizontally and the lace vertically; a twice-rolled brim covers the lower lace panel but leaves the still not very legible frog colorwork visible. End ID]

[ID: Chart of green on white colorwork made in the Google Sheets spreadsheet software; a section in the middle is selected, though there are repeated motifs on either side. Every cell with an X in it is colored green and makes slightly horizontally stretched pixel art of a frog hopping from the right to the left; the rightmost frog is crouched under a flower or star made of four dots, to its left is a frog pushing off the ground and to its left a frog leaping horizontally through the air. The repeat is 39 stitches wide, 10 rows tall. End ID]

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This gorgeous 1907 home in Dublin, Georgia has so many original features that they unfortunately completely painted white, but it’s a bargain at $495K.

The home has been updated, and while they did leave the architectural features, I feel that they painted too many white, as they usually do to make it look more modern and bright.

The living room has a beautiful fireplace with tiles, but nothing seems to have escaped that white paint. I would’ve liked colors other than the popular light gray that they use in more modern homes. 

Sometimes white looks good, but I wish they would’ve left the ceiling beams natural. This is a nice bright dining room that opens to a sunroom.

Beautiful built-in cabinets and lovely transoms. Notice that the floors are original- they sanded and sealed them w/the patina.

The sunroom would make a great conservatory. 

I like that they saved the benches around the room and the cubby.

Twin cabinets. Wish they would’ve at least left the stick backing a natural wood tone.

The kitchen’s petty nice b/c it actually looks like they painted the original cabinets white, even if they didn’t. They missed the mark by installing open glass shelving instead of an exhaust hood and tile backsplash, however.

That’s a nice feature- a small butcher block.

A small pantry features a wine fridge.

The breezeway is beautiful and leads to the garden. They painted the brick walls white, and why they keep doing this, I don’t know, when experts say that it’s bad for the brick and doesn’t last, b/c the brick can’t breathe.

They even painted the beautifully turned spindles of the railing. 

One of 4 bds.

I do like a retro bath. So cute. This is an en suite, also.

This bd. has an original closet and shelving.

Absolutely love this vintage bath with the original tiles.

Well, what do you know? A natural fireplace. Isn’t it cute?

The yard is nice. Does the trampoline convey?

Very pretty.

Plus, there’s a 2nd home on the property, as well. For under $500K, it really is worth it.

https://www.priceypads.com/

[mighty-ant]

La Mano Delicata, Part Two

Part One

ao3

Alberto’s father wears a thick, gold human ring on his thumb.

There’s a black stone inlaid on its surface, where a gold letter ‘M’ is engraved in sweeping, elegant, alien curves. It's out of place beneath the surface, among the seaweed and roughly hewn stone, a world that grows at the beckoning of nature. There’s nothing natural about the ring, or the other human artifacts his father leaves scattered in their cave, and for that reason they fascinate Alberto to no end. 

Most of of what his father finds is already broken: metal spindles on strange dials that shriek when forced to turn, bottles and cups that are as clear as water or dark as the deepest depths, smooth and cool to the touch but with jagged edges that cut his fingers and palms if he’s not careful. There are smaller things, metal things, with shapes that curve and point, but their names are unknown to him because as his father likes to remind him, he isn’t Alberto’s teacher. 

Their home is far from other sea folk, almost a two hour swim in any direction if he wants to see a familiar face. Alberto was young when they moved and his memories of before are vague, but he recalls the other kids that lived near him and how they played games in the coral fields. But the solitude is good too. Alberto knows he’s learning to become self-sufficient, like his father, and he wants to become like his father more than anything. 

There’s an alcove in the wall of their home where his father leaves his favorite human trinkets. Small chains of gold and silver, plates pure white as dead coral but cool and utterly smooth to the touch. When his father returns from his long absences with treasures and (if Alberto’s lucky) a fresh catch in tow, he always drops his gold ring onto the smallest plate, one more intricate than the rest with unfamiliar landscapes and writhing vines painted in the most delicate blue.

 The ring is there when Alberto returns from an afternoon hunt. 

Other sea folk aren’t the only thing scarce out here—most days, it’s an effort to bring home dinner, swimming out to the reef to find the schools of fish and scuttling crabs that hide there. He learned their migrating habits the hard way after a two-hour journey greeted him with an empty expanse, the fish having moved overnight to the entirely opposite end of the reef. He was so hungry when he got home that he scraped the barnacles off the sides of the cave and gnawed on them, shell and all, chipping a few of his teeth in the process. 

His father doesn’t tell him not to touch his favorite treasures, at least not in so many words. It’s understood that Alberto can play with the broken things he scatters around the cave, but the perfect, shiny, intact ones? Those are just for his father. 

And yet, when Alberto arrives, clutching a rough woven net with three fish and an eel inside, he finds their home silent despite evidence of his father’s presence. He often talks aloud, more than he ever talks directly to Alberto, about how good the humans must have it, how he wished they took better care of their belongings. But it’s quiet now.

 Alberto passes hesitantly through the opening to their home, scanning the corners and peeking into his and his father’s shared room. Again, he’s met with silence, and not even a glimpse of his father’s purple scales. 

He’s stalling as he sets their dinner down on the table, fashioned out of the wooden hull of a sunken human ship. He traces the whorls and grooves of the aged wood, picking at the algae growing there, wondering at the human hands that must have crafted it. But Alberto is impatient to a fault and he gives into his curiosity within seconds, dashing over to his father’s alcove. 

The ring is still there, still shining and still mysterious, and he picks it up carefully. It’s not that he’s worried about breaking it, exactly. He's learned that human things are made to last, even the broken ones. But he’s only ever looked at the ring from afar, and a small stupid part of him is certain that it’ll dissolve into seafoam if he exerts too much pressure. 

The ring catches the light just so, sparkling like the spray of sunlight across the ocean surface, and Alberto finds himself entranced at once. Up close, the ring is not nearly as perfect as he imagined it to be. There are small scratches etched on its surface, pale white and numerous, and he couldn’t count them all if he tried. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

Alberto almost drops the ring. He does drop it in fact, but he claps his hands together to catch it before it can fall more than a few centimeters. He looks up, cold dread sinking into his gut with the strength of a riptide. 

His father stares back from the shadowed entrance. His eyes, the ones Alberto inherited, shine out of the dark and his lean, barracuda-thin body is still. 

His head tilts to the side—he asked Alberto a question after all. 

“Oh, uh, y-yes, sir. Sorry, I was just looking at it.”

He hums. “Didn’t realize you needed to grab something in order to look at it.” His father swims closer, holds out his hand. Alberto drops the ring into his palm at once. 

“It’s-it’s cool, is all,” Alberto tries. “Human stuff. I can never find anything that isn’t already broken.”

His father slips the ring back onto his thumb, expression thoughtful. He curls his hand into a fist. “Hm. I haven't taken you to the surface yet, have I?”

He knows he hasn’t. Alberto has been told so many, many times never to follow his father under any circumstance, but he must’ve just been waiting until Alberto was ready . The weight of dread floats off of him like bubbles to the surface, bursting into shocked joy. 

“N-no, sir! Not yet,” Alberto says, grinning. 

His father smiles back. “Would you like to see it?”

Their vespa can’t move faster than a human can walk. What Alberto had mistaken for artistic license, Giulia informs him are large splotches of rust that deteriorate the metal and flake off under his hands like sharp-edged grains of sand that leave a tang of iron on his fingers. The handlebars are loose, the frame shakes and rattles under him and Luca worse than their homemade vespa did, and within five minutes the engine casing turns blisteringly hot to the touch. 

It’s perfect . 

But even Alberto is smart enough to realize that he and Luca won’t be going anywhere on this vespa, not further than Portorosso’s winding streets and certainly not around the world. 

Luca and Giulia run upstairs to go look at a book of all things, leaving him with the setting sun and encroaching neighbors. But the prickling sea urchin of jealousy that’s clung to his ribcage for weeks barely twinges. Giulia isn’t trying to take Luca away from him, he knows that now. It doesn’t change the fact that Alberto is still going to lose him when this is all over, at least for a little while. 

He should probably ask Giulia how long school lasts. 

Parking the vespa by the Marcovaldos’ back door, Alberto takes a moment to just grip the handlebars extra tight, feeling the aged leather creak against his palm. This isn’t like one of his father’s forbidden treasures–the vespa is Alberto’s to do with as he chooses, and he chooses to return it. Alberto still doesn’t completely understand humans, but he does know that Luca will need soldi to board the train and Alberto doesn’t need a vespa if Luca isn’t here to ride it with him. 

The Marcovaldos’ yard is bustling with neighbors and more food than he’s ever seen in one place. There’s pasta in all shapes, only some he recognizes from Giulia’s training regime for the eating competition he never got to win. Tables are brought over from nearby homes and they spill out onto the street in a delightfully chaotic train, each weighed down with bottles of wine, platters of cheese and olives marinated with pimientos, trays of focaccia and steaming chive garlic bread. Plates are filled and what little space remains is immediately filled with music, chatter, and gesticulating hands. 

The storm that pelted Portorosso during the race has passed and brilliant golden sunlight breaks through the lingering clouds. Drizzle falls intermittently, glittering like coins, and Alberto’s tan skin bursts into patches of indigo scales wherever the raindrops land. But the fear of discovery, of fishermen and their harpoons, is gone, washed away by the trust in Giulia’s smile and the reassurance of her arm around his shoulders as they crossed the finish line. The fear was dashed by the brazen presence of Concetta and Pinuccia Aragosta, le Donne Gatto, once hiding in plain sight but hiding no longer. 

The fear surged, brief but paralyzing, when they stood before Massimo, who loomed larger than the tallest wave of the most fearsome storm. 

Every omission, the terrible truth of Alberto’s existence, was laid bare and he couldn’t look Massimo in the eye. He’d thought of all their fishing trips, the comforting sway of the boat and Massimo’s sure hand teaching him how to haul up the nets. The human’s expressions were often difficult to determine beneath the bushy brows and mustache, but Alberto had been so sure that those keen, hidden eyes had looked back at him with approval a few times, maybe even warmth. 

He couldn’t bear to see them filled with hate. 

When Massimo instead grabbed Alberto by the wrist and raised him over the crowd, declaring them the winners, he might as well have raised Alberto to the top of the world. 

“Al-Alberto!” 

A pair of unfamiliar voices call him, almost identical in their stutter like they’re unsure of his name. Alberto startles ungracefully, nearly knocking over their vespa. He’s quick to catch it, not willing to risk any additional dents or scratches that could put his refund at risk. 

It gives the owners of the voices enough time to crowd in close to him, smiles too wide and webbed hands fluttering. 

Alberto smiles uncertainly, reluctantly letting go of the vespa. “Uh, hi, Signore e Signora Paguro.”

After so many months on the surface, it’s almost strange to see the faces of other sea folk. He’s not exactly accustomed to humans, but he expects to see them up here, where the air is light and the sun is blazing. And anyway, for a long time his father was the only sea folk he spoke to, when he was still around. 

While Alberto might’ve seen Luca’s parents at the finish line, they hadn’t exactly met.  They were too busy clamoring over Luca, hugging their runaway son, stroking and kissing his cheeks. They’d missed him, both of them had , and obviously came to the surface looking for him despite Alberto’s blind insistence to the contrary. He hopes Luca knows how lucky he is to have that. 

 Staring at them now, face to face, it’s funny how Alberto can recognize Luca’s features in both of theirs. Or the other way around, he guesses. Luca takes more after his mother in looks, though the green tint to his scales is definitely his dad’s. 

Alberto knows he looks identical to his own father, down to the seaweed green of their eyes and the yellow tint of their sclera. When he was very, very small, so young it feels like a dream, his father used to call him ‘Mini-Me.’

“Alberto,” Signora Paguro repeats effusively, like she’s eager to say it again now that she knows she got his name right the first time. “You’re Luca’s friend! The Alberto.”

He rubs the back of his neck, his usual veneer of cool skittering out of his reach. “Uh, yeah? That’s me.” 

“Luca’s told us so much about you,” Signora Paguro starts to say, before reluctantly amending. “Well, no, that’s not true. We don’t know anything about you.”

“We knew you existed!” Signore Paguro offers helpfully. 

Signora Paguro takes Alberto’s hands in her own, her teal scales matching well with the purple of his. Not like the humans’ strange, fleshy shades of brown and pink. These are sea folk like him. He should probably feel reassured by their similarities. Instead, he feels only panic, ratcheting up his spine with every word out of Signora Paguro’s mouth. 

“Alberto what?” she asks, her expression open and gentle, though her tone is insistent. “Who are your people? Your parents must be worried sick if you’ve been out here for as long as Luca has!”

“I, um,” Alberto replies intelligently. 

What can he say? That there’s no one? He’s not like Luca with a mom and dad and a grandmother. He can’t even imagine a home with so many people in it. All his life, it was just him and his father, and he got sick of Alberto before long. 

For a few weeks, he thought it could be him and Luca. Now, it’s just him. Again. 

He tries to answer without lying. “You���re not gonna…find anyone. My dad and I…we lived pretty far away. Like, really far away. Farther than you’ve ever been, probably.”

 Signora Paguro’s smile falls. “Oh, no, sweetheart. Can we help you find him?”

Alberto almost laughs in her face. As if he hasn’t tried. As if he hadn’t spent the first three of the last thirteen months swimming further than he’s ever swam, up and down the coast, out into open ocean where the depths were endless and black beneath his feet, until his limbs ached and his eyes burned and his stomach ate itself. 

At the start, Alberto asked the sea folk he encountered in the rare villages by the shore. Have you seen someone who looks like me? But grown-up? He’d gone cave to cave, home to home, like a stupid kid who’s lost his goatfish. After all, what kind of idioti loses a whole parent? 

He’d watched their faces turn from confusion to pity too many times and he felt pathetic, abandoned all over again. His father had left him to flounder and humiliate himself in his loneliness. 

Signora Paguro is still waiting for an answer, so Alberto chokes down the sea urchins lodged in his throat. He doesn’t want to lie. 

Massimo calls him from the back of the pescheria before he can open his mouth and conjure more half-truths for Luca’s mother.

“Alberto,” he says, and nothing else. But Alberto has spent weeks bustling about a fishing boat with this human, and he recognizes the intent behind this particular summoning: Alberto, I need your help with something. 

Desperate for escape, Alberto starts backing away before even making his excuses. “Sorry, signora, I’ll be right back. Or, uh, Luca will be right back. I just gotta, y’know. Massimo’s calling me.”

Signora Paguro watches him go with a bewildered expression. “O-okay, honey.”

Alberto flees to Massimo’s shadow, away from the bustle of too many bodies and too loud voices. Bulwarked by his solid silence, Alberto’s finally able to breathe after shedding what feels like the entire weight of the midnight zone from his shoulders. 

“Yeah?” He hops from foot to foot. In the shade of the awning and out of the drizzle, Alberto can feel his scales start to dry and the tingle of phantom tail behind him. 

Massimo is still looking over his head at Signora Paguro, who’s pushing Signore Paguro toward a pair of empty seats. Nonna Paguro is already sitting down, chatting with one of le Donne Gatto. Under the gentle rain, they’re a rainbow of scales and tails. 

The reminder that their secret’s out is jarring. Even though Massimo abandoned his harpoon at their feet, raising them up as the winners of the race, part of Alberto is still waiting for the other shell to drop. For Massimo to change his mind, see him for the monster that he is and throw him out onto the street. Or worse, that he won’t care about the sea monster part and just doesn’t like Alberto . 

When Massimo tilts his head toward him, his mustache ticks up in a smile. 

“Time for dinner, ragazzo.”

Beneath the awning of the pescheria, slightly tucked away from the hubbub of the party, there’s a table set with places for four. Plates of trenette al pesto lie steaming, waiting for them, just as they did on his and Luca’s first night in Portorosso. The familiar sight pulls something up from Alberto’s belly, spreading bubbly and warm through his body like sips of wine. He doesn’t know what to do with the feeling other than to smile about it, his grin big and ridiculous. 

“Great, cuz I’m starving,” he announces, rather than give voice to the sensation of overwhelm. He bounds over to claim his usual chair, at least when they’re having dinner upstairs. Massimo takes a moment to join him, guiding the Paguros to their nice little cloth-covered table like a good host. 

Alberto grabs his forchetta, but knows better than to start eating right away. The table manners of surface folk were at the top of Guilia’s lesson plan, whether she knew it or not, and Alberto had been her reluctant student. He doesn’t care much about offending strangers but, against his better judgment, he wants Massimo’s approval and he figured early on that he wasn’t gonna get that if he was slurping up his meals like a half-starved seal. 

Besides, winning Massimo’s approval is nothing like trying to earn his father’s. 

Alberto’s dad liked to talk. Not to Alberto, but at him. Barbed observations about Alberto’s skills, or lack thereof. How lazy and stupid he was. They hadn’t lived in a colony since Alberto was seven and it’s been so long since then that he’s forgotten most of the elders’ lessons on maths and letters. And no matter how hard he tried, his father would rather mock than instruct, so he was left to practice alone until he got too frustrated with himself and gave up. 

After all, when Alberto’s father was his age, he was never dumb enough to wander into blue shark feeding grounds while searching for dinner. Alberto’s father was never so weak at his age. His father was a better swimmer, hunter, forager, you name it. Nothing Alberto did was ever good enough. 

By contrast, Massimo almost doesn’t talk enough . He chooses his words judiciously, like a nonna scrutinizing fruit at market day, and opts for none of them more often than not. But his silence isn’t a warning sign like Alberto’s father’s, the stillness of the sea before a storm. He’s simply a man of few words, a foreign concept to Alberto’s mind, having only known big words that mask small, cruel actions. 

 I haven't taken you to the surface yet, have I?

And yeah, sometimes the silence unnerves him out of learned instinct, has him second-guessing if Massimo even wants him around, but Alberto’s never been afraid of him. Even at the start, facing down the biggest human he’d ever seen, mustache impressive as a walrus’s and single arm thick enough to put a tiger shark in a chokehold, Alberto was in awe of Massimo. All of his talk about hunting sea monsters had been…concerning, but in an abstract way. It was tough to reconcile the mountain of a man who happily made them pane, burro e marmellata in the mornings while singing along to the radio with the lethal pescatore with sailfish-quick reflexes and a harpoon always within easy reach, the sort of dangerous land monster they’d been warned against all their lives.

It gave Alberto and Luca that much more incentive to keep their secret. 

But Massimo himself is kind and gruff, while humans like Ercole singled them out again and again with words and fists. It didn’t even occur to Alberto to be afraid of Massimo until he stood before the monster hunter in the rain, scaled and sharp-toothed, every inch the monster Massimo claimed to hate. Even then, it wasn’t even the threat of the harpoon in Massimo’s hand that frightened him. His father had batted him around enough times to teach him to expect violence from those bigger than him. No, it was the thought of the approving light in Massimo’s eyes dying, the suggestion of a smile turning hateful. 

Rejection. That’s what Alberto was afraid of. 

Only it never came. 

Now he can’t help but wonder, as he watches Massimo shoo Machiavelli off his chair, what happens next? Once he sends Luca out into the wide world that’s out there waiting for him, what’s left for Alberto once he’s all alone again? 

Massimo remains standing over his own place setting, not taking a seat yet. He looks across at Albero and raises a single, inquisitive brow. 

“Giulia e Luca?” he asks. 

Alberto rolls his eyes without any of the vitriol he might’ve felt a few days ago. Well, maybe just a little. They are keeping him from dinner, after all. “Upstairs. With a book. ”

Massimo turns toward the stairs leading up to the second landing, their home above the pescheria. “Giulietta,” he calls, at the same volume as his usual speaking voice. “È ora di cena.”

The window to Giulia’s room bursts open and she sticks her head out. “Two minutes, Papà!”

“It will get cold,” he chides but doesn’t argue. There’s a lightness to him that Alberto hadn’t noticed until this moment, a looseness in the breadth of his shoulders, a slight curve to his mouth that the mustache can’t completely disguise. He nods at Alberto, and the small smile becomes more pronounced. “Mah, we know better than to let good pasta go to waste, don’t we? Mangiare!”

He doesn’t need to tell Alberto twice. 

After his overnight sulk in the tower and terror-turned-elation of the race, he’s so hungry he could eat a sea cow. The last few weeks of regular meals have made him soft, he’s just now realizing. Time was, he could go a couple days on scavenged shellfish alone; he’d learned the hard way not to grab and eat the random vegetation that grows on the surface. But the pasta was filling, the pesto rich, and man had he missed Massimo’s cooking. And it had only been two days! That didn’t bode well for his plans going forward but. Oh well. 

He blinks back to focus when Massimo raps on the table with two knuckles, right by his water glass. “Eh, slow down, ragazzo. Dinner isn’t jumping overboard, either.” He speaks in a cajoling tone not that different to the one he uses with Giulia. 

Alberto swallows his current mouthful and fights embarrassment when he looks at the dent he’s already made in his plate. Massimo’s eaten maybe half of what he has from his own dinner. “S-sorry. Just a…little hungry I guess.”

Massimo jerks his chin at Alberto’s plate. “Don’t apologize for being a growing boy. You need to eat. But I don’t want you making yourself sick.”

Alberto starts eating again, but at a normal pace this time, not like he’s being timed by an impatient Giulia. “Thanks,” he mumbles, not really sure what he’s thanking him for. Not treating him any differently than before? For caring?

When he glances back up, Massimo isn’t eating. He’s watching Alberto instead, his smile replaced by a frown. “When did you last eat, Alberto?”

“Uh…” he almost wipes his mouth on the back of his hand but catches himself just in time and grabs the cloth napkin beside his plate. Alberto kind of wishes he could hide behind it. “Not that long ago,” he hedges. He thinks it was the sandwiches Massimo made for lunch the day he ran away. 

He casts about for a distraction. It’s almost like it’s been a point of pride for Massimo to feed him and Luca delicious new surface foods, so hearing that Alberto sat alone in his cold, dark tower for the last two nights feeling sorry for himself, too pathetic to think of eating anything, probably wouldn’t go over well. 

“The race!” he blurts. “Y’know, all that-that running and almost dying really tired me out. It’s been a while since humans tried to harpoon me, y’know? I’m a little out of practice.”

Massimo chokes on his wine, making Alberto jump. His expression is stricken when he lowers the glass. 

If Alberto was hoping to get Massimo’s attention off him, he’d failed miserably. 

“I’m fine, though, obviously,” he tries to excuse at the same time Massimo says, “I am sorry.”

Alberto’s mouth hangs open, ready to keep rambling, but no sound comes out. Does he have water stuck in his ears? Because he could’ve sworn he heard Massimo say–

“I am sorry, Alberto.”

There! He said it again. 

“Huh?” he manages. 

Massimo’s heavy brows furrow in consternation, and his hand on the tablecloth clenches into a fist. Dinner sits between them, growing cold just like Massimo warned. 

“You did not deserve to be hunted or attacked, now or ever. We were wrong, and I apologize for the part I played in harming you.” 

He glances down at Alberto’s left arm, and his fist tightens until Alberto can count each bleached knuckle. For the first time since Alberto has known him, he looks at a loss for words, not just silent. He looks…afraid. But what the heck could Massimo be afraid of?

“That scar on your arm. You said it was…land monsters who gave it to you.” 

Alberto follows Massimo’s line of sight, momentarily confused. He’d almost forgotten about his souvenir from the surface; the old scar is pale in his human form, a faint white line against his tan skin. It hadn’t bled too bad when he got it, and it wasn’t deep enough to even leave a cool scar. 

“Yeah?” 

Across from him, Massimo inhales deeply. His fist trembles faintly in a way Alberto has never seen it do before, even while winching up a fishing net heaving with fresh catch. “I have gone on many hunts,” Massimo intones gravely. “And struck at what I believed to be monstri marini many times. Did I…? Was that…my doing?”

It takes Alberto way too long to put two and two together. Some genius he is; it’s a good thing Luca’s the one going to school. When things do click, he gasps so loud that he makes Massimo jump this time, and he might’ve laughed if only Massimo didn’t look so gutted. 

“What? No! No, this wasn’t you. It was-it was night, but the boat was different from yours.” Night or no, he would’ve recognized Massimo’s silhouette too. He’s still the biggest human Alberto’s ever seen. 

Massimo looks him in the eye. “You are sure?”

Does he suspect Alberto’s lying to spare his feelings? It’s weird to think that Massimo might feel bad about maybe hurting him in the past, but nice to know he cares. At least a little. And giving it some thought, yeah, Alberto probably would lie, if only to spare Massimo needless guilt. 

“I’m sure.” Completely the truth this time. Nice. 

Massimo stares him down for another couple seconds, probably just to make double sure. After a few weeks on the boat together, Alberto’s gotten better at withstanding that stare, even with its raised eyebrow. At least when he’s in the right. 

Massimo leans back, the pinched look to his face smoothing out. “It will not happen again.”

Alberto blinks, caught off guard by the end of the staredown. “Huh?” 

He nods at Alberto’s arm. “You and your people will be safe on our shores. Not everyone will be kind, but they will all think twice before trying to harm you.”

Alberto’s father used to talk a big game. Called himself an explorer when all he did was pick up humans’ lost junk, a better fisherman (but only when Alberto lost track of the spawning grounds or the fish were few), and always threatened to steal one of the human’s boats and raid one of their villages.

But Massimo speaks so little that when he does talk, Alberto believes it. He isn’t a pathetic loner like Alberto’s father; everyone in town knows and respects him. At the end of the race, he got rid of the fishermen (and their harpoons) crowding around him and Luca with a glance . He invited all of them, le Donne Gatto included, to his house for a party, to show all of Portorosso that he’s on their side. 

Alberto grins, and pretends there aren’t tears in his eyes. It’ll be nice, he thinks, to still be able to visit even when Luca’s away at school with Giulia. “Thanks, Signore Marcovaldo.” 

Massimo ducks his head, tapping on the table between them again. 

“Eat,” he grunts, artfully twirling a forkful of pasta single handedly. “Your food will get cold.” 

Alberto laughs under his breath and applies himself to his dinner without needing to be told twice. 

As he eats, he looks out over half the neighborhood that’s gathered in the yard. Most everyone’s still eating and chatting, but someone brought out a record player and there’s a little circle of kids dancing. Quite a few people catch his eye, smile and wave and call out greetings, and Alberto waves back hesitantly. Even the Paguros wave from the nice little table Massimo set up for them in the rain, movements awkward in a way Alberto recognizes in himself and Luca, sea folk uncertain if they’re doing a good job copying the humans’ mannerisms. 

Even if they don’t agree with Alberto’s plan, he knows things will be okay between them and Luca now. They came all the way to the surface to find him. Alberto’s father brought him to the surface to leave him behind. He may not know what makes a good parent, but he knows what a bad one looks like, and the Paguros are far from that. They might even be good enough to let Luca go. 

There’s a clatter from upstairs–Luca and Giulia are finally coming down for dinner. And Alberto’s running out of time to work out the details of his plan. 

“But, but, hey!” he stammers ungracefully. “Random thought. The, uh, the prize money. The soldi. That we used on the vespa. Hypothetically, could I get it back and use it instead for, I dunno, a train ticket?”

Oh man it sounds so stupid coming out of his mouth. Is that how “soldi” works? Can it be returned? Anxiety latches onto his brain like an ocean parasite as one of Massimo’s brows ticks up incrementally. He peers down at Alberto from beneath it. 

“Hypothetically,” Massimo rumbles, “that would depend on where the train is going. Like Rome. Or Genova, for example.” 

Alberto freezes, staring hard at his water glass as Massimo reaches over to brush Machiavelli off Giulia’s chair. The cat just jumps onto Massimo’s shoulder, which he doesn’t seem to mind. 

“If the shopkeep gives you a full refund–and knowing Mattia, he would–you will have just enough for one ticket to Genova. But only one.”

Massimo sounds a little sad at the end, but it’s just what Alberto needed to hear. The specifics of the humans’ barter system continues to elude him but he’ll figure it out in the end. Maybe Giulia will help him out. 

Speaking of which: she and Luca come stampeding down the stairs like a horde of elephant seals, yelling about who got to the table first (Massimo keeps everyone’s plates from getting thrown to the floor in the chaos). 

He doesn’t even have time to start feeling left out before Luca looks at him, grinning and breathless, and Alberto’s heart skips a beat. Santa ricotta. He’s gonna miss him. His first friend. 

“I think Luca won,” Alberto chimes in, and tries not to laugh when Giulia squawks in outrage. 

Like gravity, Alberto’s plans usually lead to a quick, painful fall. 

Following his father up to the surface and getting himself stranded is one such example. 

Eating some weird surface plant that had him dry heaving all day and through the night is another. 

Wanting to ride a vespa around the world almost got him harpooned a couple times. Plus, it turns out vespas need to eat something called benzina to turn on and move. And (according to know-it-all Giulia) the world is way too big to travel by vespa, much less Italy. 

But this plan, Get Luca a Train Ticket So He Can Go to School and Make Something of Himself, has gone off without a hitch.

Step 1: Corner the Paguros at le Donne Gatto’s house where they’re staying until Giulia (and Luca) leave for school in two days. Apparently the old couple are Nonna Paguro’s poker buddies? Who would’ve thought. 

Massimo goes with him. Apparently his “hypothetical” questioning wasn’t as subtle as he’d hoped. But Massimo sits back with his lap covered in cats and shares a bottle of wine with le Donne Gatto and only speaks up when the Paguros have a practical question, like where Luca will live if he goes to school in Genova, which yeah, Alberto hadn’t thought about that. Whoops. 

“I have already spoken to Giulia’s mother,” Massimo says, which is news to him. 

Besides, Alberto has a different job. 

It takes the better part of an hour to explain to them how smart Luca is, how much he wants this, needs this, deserves this. Alberto’s spent too long putting Luca down, and now this is his chance to pay him back for all of it. 

And somehow, in the end, it works. He convinces them. Signora Paguro hugs him, which is weird, with tears in her eyes. “You’re a good friend, Alberto,” she tells him. “I’m-I’m glad Luca met you.” 

And Alberto doesn’t know what to say to that (cause he’s not, not really. Luca’s the good one; he’s the screwup), so he laughs and salutes super awkwardly before practically diving out the door. 

Step 2: Return the vespa in exchange for soldi to buy a train ticket. 

After leaving the cozy home of le Donne Gatto, he goes straight to the vespa shop. Alone this time. But it’s night time, and the shop is dark, so Alberto camps out on a nearby set of steps until morning, the vespa propped against the side of the building. He can’t risk going back to Massimo’s and having Luca find out about his plan. And the more he sees Luca, the harder it will be to say goodbye. 

In another rare stroke of luck, it isn’t that cold out on the steps and he’s able to sleep in fits and starts until the sun rises. Then he’s up and pounding on the door until the half-awake shop owner unlocks it and lets him in, already rambling about how he needs to return this vespa for money, signore, please and thank you.

“Ah, si.” The old man covers a yawn with his hand. “Massimo warned me you were coming. Let’s see now—si, leave that rusty thing outside. Come, come, I have your refund here.”

Money in hand, Alberto makes his way to the train station to buy Luca’s ticket. Giulia helpfully wrote down the number of the train she’ll be taking and the time it leaves. 

A113 Genova via Portorosso at 2 p.m. 

Step 3: Spend one last great day with Luca. 

He’s under no illusions. Once Luca goes to school, with all its people and telescopes and books, he’ll forget all about Alberto. But that’s fine. He’s used to it. Maybe he’ll see Luca next summer, when he and Giulia come down to visit their family.  

In the meantime, he’ll cherish the golden memories of building their ramshackle vespa together, the glitter of seaspray on his face as they ducked and rolled with the waves, their first taste of gelato. 

Today, they ride bikes through puddles and play pallone in the square, and when it rains they laugh when they change into their true forms instead of running for cover. Giulia slaps her hands over their eyes when they start another staring contest with the sun and even that’s okay. Alberto wants her to promise to take care of Luca, but he has a feeling she already will. She’s a better friend than him that way. 

All the while, Luca’s train ticket burns a hole in his pocket. 

Step 4: Figure out what he’s going to do for the rest of his life. 

That last one is, admittedly, turning out to be a little bit trickier. 

He can go back to the island and keep doing what he did before he met Luca. Survive, look for cool treasure, scare hapless sea folk with his deep sea diver suit. Only now he can apparently pop into Portorosso whenever he feels like. It’s better than what he had going on before. A thousand times better. 

So why is Alberto frozen on the shore, unable to move any deeper?

The night was black as squid ink when he made his way down to the beach– the beach, the little spit of sand thick with boulders where he revealed his true face to Giulia to prove Luca wrong, where he was singled out, where he was betrayed. Not that he’s applying any sort of special significance to this place. That would just be…sad. 

This beach happens to be where he left from last time. Nice and out of the way, with a quick, deep dropoff, perfect for a quick getaway. 

Not that Alberto’s gone anywhere yet. 

The horizon line is paling with the faint blue light of predawn. And he still hasn’t swam back to the island. 

Eventually, though, he does get tired of standing. 

Sitting in the surf, the tide lapping at him every ten seconds, his entire lower half becomes blue and scaly. His tail curls comfortingly around his waist, a secret sort of hug he rarely allows for himself, especially with him being human almost 24/7 these days. 

He can sorta see the outline of the island in the distance, mocking him with its nearness. 

“Leaving again without saying goodbye?”

Holy–! 

Alberto whirls around so fast he falls sideways into the surf. Water splashes on his face, revealing a riot of scales, and his instincts scream at him to hide before his brain catches up with him. 

Massimo watches, silent and shadowed, with a softly glowing golden lantern held aloft in his hand. 

Alberto quickly affects a casual pose, propping his chin up on a fist. The tide keeps breaking over him, and he knows his fingers must be webbed now, pupils sharp and inhuman, curly brown hair exchanged for purple frill. He pretends not to notice. “H-hey!  How…uh, how long have you been standing there? And who said anything about leaving?”

He hasn’t seen Massimo since breakfast, when he slunk in through the front door after returning from the train station. Giulia and Luca were already up and eating Massimo pinned Alberto with one of those inscrutable looks of his and pushed a plate of biscuits and a tazzina di espresso in his direction. 

Massimo plants himself on a nearby boulder, setting the lantern down beside him out of reach of the sea spray. Clearly, he’s not planning on leaving anytime soon. Great.  

“I was downstairs mending the nets when I saw you leave. It is not safe to be out alone this late.”

Nerves jangling, Alberto resists the urge to roll his eyes. “What, afraid I’ll drown? Not to brag, but I think I’m a better swimmer than anyone in town.”

Massimo raises one of his eyebrows but even that silent warning isn’t enough to get Alberto to back down. He feels…jittery, exposed, like there’s a big spotlight on him even though it’s probably too dark for Massimo to even see him well without his lantern. 

He doesn’t understand why Massimo is still here . 

“Alberto, what’s wrong?” he asks, so softly Alberto can barely hear him over the crash and pull of the waves. 

And that’s just…what do the humans call it? The last straw?

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong!” Alberto struggles, splashing to his feet. His tail lashes against the water and his eyes must be glowing, reflecting the lamplight, like a monster . “Why would you think something’s wrong? Cause I’m helping my best friend leave forever?”

Massimo frowns. “He won’t be gone forever, anymore than my Giulia will be. They will have vacations from school, summer, and you can travel to Genova to visit—”

He’s never raised his voice to Massimo before, or any adult, really. Definitely not to his father. But Massimo keeps being all calm and reasonable, as if Alberto hasn’t been lying to him, as if Alberto isn’t the monster the parents of Portorosso warn their children about at night. As if Alberto isn’t painfully, irrevocably alone. 

“How!” he demands. “I don’t have help, not like Luca or Giulia. It's just me. It’s just been me for…”

Massimo keeps being calm. Keeps being reasonable. He asked about Alberto’s father, a week and a dozen fishing trips ago; Alberto had sort of lied then. 

“For how long, Alberto?” he asks now. 

383 days. Until he stopped keeping track. 

“A…a while.”

Not a total lie.

An understatement? Definitely.  

“Where were you living, all that time?” Massimo sounds determined, but also like he’s a little afraid to know the answer. 

Alberto wonders how long he’s been holding back all these questions. Massimo’s not exactly a chatty guy, after all. But Alberto sat at his table, ate his food, and slept in the treehouse he built for his daughter. At this point, he probably owes him some honesty. 

“Over there.” He points at his island, still a hazy shape against the lightening sky. 

Massimo doesn’t gape, but it’s a near thing. He stands up, boots crunching on the sand, and his eyebrows go really high up on his face. “Isola del Mare? But after the war, it was rumored to be…haunted.”

Alberto shrugs a little sheepishly. “So maybe I messed with some of the boats that came by. I didn’t want anyone discovering my hideout!”

 He didn’t set out to scare the humans at first; he was just trying to steal food. But he learned how superstitious they could be and he couldn’t not take advantage, especially when they had so many shiny and new and unbroken things. 

But Massimo just smiles at his admission. “Clever. So what is your plan now, ragazzo?”

Alberto blinks. “Whadaya mean?” 

Plan: Get Luca a Train Ticket So He Can Go to School and Make Something of Himself is basically finito. He left Luca’s train ticket with Giulia, who’d taken it grudgingly. She thinks he should say goodbye to Luca in person. 

Massimo steps forward slowly, like Alberto’s a goatfish he doesn’t want to spook. He kneels and takes Alberto’s shoulder, his palm broad and callused but gentle in spite of it. “Luca and Giulia are leaving for Genova tomorrow. The Paguros will return home. What would you like to do?”

 “What can I do?” 

He’s never had a choice before. Or at least, he’s never had anyone tell him he does. Anxiety crawls under Alberto’s skin like a hundred tiny ants. He wants to shrug off Massimo’s hand but at the same time he wants to clutch his wrist, half afraid that he’ll fall apart and dissolve into sea foam if Massimo lets him go.

Massimo clears his throat once, squeezes Alberto’s shoulder. 

“You could stay. Here. With me. I wasn’t joking when I said I’ll be needing help with the pescheria.” 

Alberto’s certain he has water in his ears again. There’s no way Massimo just said—

“Stay?” he repeats shakily, not daring to answer one way or the other, as if Massimo will rip the kind words away and laugh in his face for hoping. But Massimo isn’t his father. He says Alberto’s strong. Massimo asks questions because he wants to know more about him, not because he wants to trap him in a lie. He followed Alberto to the beach when he could’ve just looked the other way. 

“But I’m…” He looks down at himself, still purple, scales shining dimly in the gray dawn. There’s no way Massimo can look past what he is. Can he?

“You are Alberto,” Massimo says, firmly as stone. Water is wet, the moon isn’t a fish, you are Alberto. “That is all that matters.” 

Massimo’s hand has been on his shoulder this whole time. His blue and purple scaley shoulder.

“Okay.” Alberto grins, and if his face had started to dry then his stubborn tears are ruining it by cutting twin blue trails down his cheeks. 

Massimo ducks his head a little, meets Alberto’s tear stained eyes. “Okay?” he repeats. A question this time. 

Alberto laughs, scrubbing away the tears. “Okay. I’m gonna be the best employee you’ve ever had.”

That makes Massimo chuckle too, which maybe shouldn’t be much of an achievement, but it is to him. Even if Massimo’s only his boss, he’s still nothing like his father. 

“Well then, we had better return home. My best employee will need rest if he wants to continue being the best.” 

Home. That sounds…too good to be true, to be honest. 

Massimo shakes him a little with the hand still on his shoulder before standing back up. Alberto moves first, grabbing the lantern to lead them back to the pescheria. Even with the change, his eyesight is still better than any human’s, and it’ll be darker the further they get from the beach. Besides, there’s no harm in living up to his self-appointed title as best employee as soon as possible. 

On their walk back, they’re allowed glimpses of Portorosso waking up around them. 

The air is still cool, a chill lingering from the past days of rain that the sun isn’t strong enough to burn away yet. The gentle strains of piano drift down from an open second story window. Fruit vendors load their carts with crates lowered from heaving truck beds. An old man sipping coffee on his balcony waves to Massimo, who returns the gesture. Padre Eugenio is opening the huge wooden doors of the church, while il maggiore makes the first of her rounds through the plaza. 

These sights and sounds are becoming familiar to Alberto, more than his father’s quiet cave in the middle of an empty seabed. More than the island, with its lone building of crumbling stone and only the waves and the calls of seabirds for company. But soon he’ll only have Massimo to share these bustling mornings with. 

Alberto stops in the courtyard. Above them, he can hear Giulia and Luca laughing, the clatter of plates. They’re probably waiting to surprise them with breakfast. 

If he had swam back to the island, would Luca have come looking for him before he left? He did once before, so maybe…yes? 

Yes. 

He feels Massimo’s eyes on him. It wrenches the truth out of Alberto once more, choking and sharp, like he’s swallowed sea urchins. “I’m gonna miss him. Like, really gonna miss him.” 

Massimo sighs heavily, a great gust of wind against a broad sail. His father never would’ve let Alberto see his eyes get shiny with tears, or hear his voice tremble. He would’ve called it weakness. In Massimo, it looks like strength. 

“Of course you will. We always miss the people we love. I love and will miss my Giulietta. You love and will miss your Luca.”

He peers up at Massimo. “And that’s…okay?

With a hand on his shoulder, Massimo guides him to the stairs. And breakfast. And home. 

“It is love, Alberto. And love is always okay.”

[graaaaceeliz]

I went to the medieval faire today and I have learned about:

Colour and pigment for paint

Tiles and things you can make of clay

Wattle and daub technique

Arrowheads

The process of building a bow

Medieval bagpipes

Spindle turning/wood turning

That the "best medicine" of the viking age has been recreated and proven to be such an excellent antibiotic that it kills mrsa. It is made of onion, garlic, white wine, and gall. Clinical tests for using it to treat several diseases and illnesses are underway.

I have had an awesome day.

[feverdemon]

His mother knelt every morning at the altar in the wood-paneled living room. The tabletop held a ceramic nativity even when the humidity beaded the windows in August. She pinned tracts and hung memorial flowers on the wall, but the centerpiece was a solemn painting of Christ rendered in velvet oils. Whenever Sam stood before the altar and stared at the painting, something shifted beneath his ribcage, a longing for which he had no name. The picture disarmed him with its imploring eyes. His hair swayed in soft waves, and white lilies fell around His robed shoulders. The painted sheen of light against his cheeks captured the infinite gentleness that Sam felt running through every word printed in red on the translucent paper. He stared into the luminous face until he heard footsteps. He couldn’t bear to look into the eyes of the painting when anyone stood near him, chastened by a curiosity that threatened to lay him bare. During worship, he had to be careful not to fix his gaze on the plaster cross that hung at the apex of the chapel, otherwise the same feeling would return. Its vulnerability embarrassed him, defenseless against the piercing  eyes of all who loved and hated Him alike. He only permitted the gentle grimace to return to his mind when he was alone. When he imagined the prostrate body blighted with red slits, penetrated by arrows ready to slip out and spill the savior’s blood upon the dirt, his chest felt thick and heavy. He longed to wipe away the sweat on his brow and wrap bandages around the bleeding places. He wondered if everyone else in the chapel felt this same devotion and never spoke it aloud. 

As he fell asleep, the visions came to him as they always did, of beguiling brown eyes and hands as gentle in supplication as when wrought with nails. These dreams carried him past midnight, scraps of psalms drifting across his eyelids, until he woke to the whisper of his name. He heard the thump of fluttering wings and turned, feeling a breeze on his bare shoulders. A gleaming tunnel of light shone through his window. He rose and reached out his hand, feeling the sunbeam warmth pull him in, drawing him unblinking into its path, passing through the glass as though he were another figment of light. He was standing outside in the garden now, surrounded by fruitless tomato stalks overgrowing their wire spindles. He looked to the source of the light, the beam diffusing around a long-haired figure. Christ stood barefoot in the grass before him, arms outstretched, emitting an incandescent glow beneath his skin that no painting could capture. As he felt the benevolent gaze, his awe gave way to shame, knees trembling under the weight of all he had yet to repent for. He fell to the ground at His feet, hands clasped and begging. But the Lord raised him from the dew without a word, raising his chin with His fingertips before letting them fall away. Sam drew close until he collapsed against the white robes, forehead resting against His chest. He felt the heart within beating in rhythm with his own. Peace, be still sounded through his body like a bell. He was replete, his broken pieces held together by the hand on his back, never lonely again. 

Tarry ye here, for my soul is exceeding sorrowful unto death. The voice surpassed his ears and thrummed inside his chest. He looked up and the familiar brown eyes were closed, forehead furrowed in pain. Sam reached out fearfully to take the face of his Lord in his hands. He longed to whisper I will take this cup from you but his throat was thick. Through the haze of golden light, he remembered the dirt beneath his feet and how cold it was pressed against his face on the bad days, when the clinking of a dinner plate echoed like artillery and he was the only thing left to punish. As he opened his mouth, the words fell from his mouth like tears. The world hath not known thee, but I have known thee. The warmth that wrapped around him was infinite. He was no longer doomed to wander, for the love brimming in his chest would always bring him home. I in you, and thou in me. 

He woke still feeling a heartbeat through the pillow. When the sun rose through the curtains, the purple glow brought no comfort. He wept hot tears, yearning for nothing else but to be the one God chose to die so his beloved might be spared. Breakfast was silent, school was dull, lying alone in his bed waiting for sleep was barely tolerable. Only in dreams did he allow himself to hold on as deeply as he longed to be held, and only in dreams was he able to believe he deserved it.

[igoldenlaser]

Panel Furniture Production Machine

Wardrobe Plate Furniture Production Line Description:

CNC wood working machine Furniture Production Line Wood Door Making Machine cnc wood router for kitchen cabinets.

Custom furniture CNC router with automatic nesting software has full functions of automatic uploading and downloading, automatically nesting, optimizing, vertical drilling, slotting, grooving, engraving, etc. now the nesting CNC router for sale at an affordable price.

Fully automatic loading and unloading machining center is suitable for multi-product processing, such as boring and milling, embossing, drilling, cutting and edge cutting. The fuselage is welded by high-strength thick-walled steel pipe, and the structure is stable to ensure stable operation of the machine. The use of internationally imported parts also gives the machine a longer life. In particular, the automatic loading and unloading function is more intelligent, saving manpower and improving processing efficiency.

CNC Nesting Machine With Drilling

Nesting CNC Router ATC Tool Changer With Drilling Wood Machine Features:

1. Air cooling spindle with high speed,high efficency and little noise.

2. It's with loading and unloading nesting system, so can save time and have high effiency.

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Edge Banding Machine

Woodworking Edge Banding Machines Features:

1.Automatic edge banding machine can be customized according to clients' demand.

2.The main functions of this machine include: gumming edge, trimming front and back, fine trimming, scraping, buffing. 3.The gluing mechanism uses a special structure to evenly coat the sheet and coating material to ensure a stronger bond. 4.Automatically tracking and high-frequency motor rapid cutting structure through precise guide rail movement ensures cutting surface smooth. 5.The polishing unit adopts a sheet made of cotton polishing wheel, which is polished to make the surface smoother.

6.Apply to MDF . Acrylic plate . Fiber board . Particle board . Solid Board . PVC board.

Side Drilling Machine Wood Drilling Machine For Furniture

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Automatic Wood Sanding Machine

Cabinet Door Sanding Machines Description:

The equipment uses abrasive cloth strips, sisal and abrasive rolls as abrasives to sharpen the edge of the workpiece, the surface burrs and the edge of the workpiece after painting; the function is complete, the processing range is wide, mainly used for the door plate and the bottom plate. Paint polishing, including solid wood doors, composite doors, sticker doors, cabinet doors, wardrobe doors, and other door panels, such as PU, paint panels, primer panels, polishing of white workpieces can be used. It can replace the polishing worker to complete the work efficiently.

Wood Brush Sanding Machine For Cabinet Door Features:

1) It is the surface processing equipment of wood CNC machine, mainly for the rough grinding and primer polishing of wood products.

2) Using frequency conversion speed regulation, the speed can be adjusted freely to select the appropriate feeding speed to ensure the polishing quality of the work piece.

3) The sanding roller is composed of sisal brush and gauze. Different combinations of gauze and brush can be provided. The gauze and brush can be replaced separately, which can effectively save costs.

Woodworking MDF Wood Door Surface Vacuum Laminated Press PVC Machine

PVC MDF Door Vacuum Membrane Press Machine Features:

1、Top-e series of special-shaped laminating machine is suitable for panel furniture, cabinet, wardrobe door, sliding door, office table and other home furnishing industries (mainly covering high-grade PVC film, transfer film and other decorative materials on the surface of wood plate).

2、The top-e series model is the latest upgraded version. After the upgraded version, it is mainly reflected in: 1. It reduces the previous tedious operation steps and saves time; 2. It reduces the traditional fault points and improves the working efficiency; 3. The high-quality re upgrading of main components improves the stability.

3、This machine is double station automatic operation mode. The left and right two stations can operate continuously. When the left platform is working, the right platform places the workpiece;when the right platform is working, the left platform places the workpiece. There is no need to wait to maximize efficiency.

4、The operation interface adopts automatic digital display control, which is easy to understand.  According to the PVC film of different materials, adjust the corresponding parameters (the factory has provided the parameter table for reference). When operating, just press the start button, which is fast and time-saving.

5、Equipped with high-speed vacuum pump, rated speed of 100m ³ / h and super large vacuum tank. It can quickly reach the required pressure in a short time, with fast pumping speed and large force. Shorten the forming time and improve the working efficiency.

[vinnysair]

Premium Chiavari Chair Supplier

About Chiavari Chairs

Chiavari chairs are elegant and stylish seating options commonly used for events, weddings, banquets, and other special occasions. They are named after the town of Chiavari in Italy, where they were first created in the early 19th century.

Chiavari chairs are lightweight yet sturdy with a classic design. They have wooden frames, often made from beech or fruitwood, and feature a curved seat and slatted or spindle backrest. Modern versions may use materials like aluminum or resin. They come in various finishes and colors, including natural wood tones and painted options. Chiavari chairs often have removable cushions for added comfort and can be stacked for easy storage and transport. They are popular for events and venues seeking elegance and practicality.

10 Best Designs of Chiavari Chairs

1 Traditional Wood Finish: This design features a classic Chiavari chair with a natural wood finish, showcasing the beauty of the wood grain. It exudes timeless elegance and complements a wide range of event themes.

2 Gold Leaf: A variation of the traditional design, this Chiavari chair is coated with a luxurious gold leaf finish. It adds a touch of opulence and sophistication to any event, particularly suited for formal occasions or high-end settings.

3 White Painted: This Chiavari chair is painted in a crisp white color, offering a clean and contemporary look. It is a popular choice for modern weddings, beach-themed events, or settings that require a bright and fresh ambiance.

4 Black Lacquer: The black lacquer Chiavari chair is sleek and stylish, creating a sophisticated and dramatic atmosphere. It is often favored for formal dinners, gala events, or settings where a touch of modern elegance is desired.

5 Vintage Distressed: This design showcases a distressed finish that gives the Chiavari chair a charming vintage appeal. The worn and weathered look adds character and rustic charm to a variety of event themes, such as shabby chic or bohemian.

6 Metallic Silver: A modern and eye-catching option, the metallic silver Chiavari chair brings a contemporary flair to any event. It reflects light beautifully and adds a touch of glamour, making it a popular choice for upscale celebrations or themed parties.

7 Transparent Acrylic: For a unique and modern look, the transparent acrylic Chiavari chair is a popular choice. Its clear construction adds a sense of lightness and transparency, making it suitable for minimalist and modern-themed events.

8 Fruit-wood Stained: This Chiavari chair is stained with a warm fruitwood finish, giving it a rich and inviting appearance. The deep tones of the stain provide a touch of sophistication and pair well with earthy or autumn-inspired event themes.

9 Silver Leaf: Similar to the gold leaf design, this Chiavari chair is coated with a silver leaf finish, exuding a sleek and glamorous aesthetic. It is an excellent choice for events that call for a contemporary and upscale ambiance.

10 Custom Upholstery: This design allows for customization with fabric or vinyl upholstery on the seat and backrest cushions. It offers the flexibility to match the chair's appearance to the event's color scheme or theme, providing a personalized touch.

 Best Material Uses in Chiavari Chairs

Chiavari chairs can be made using various materials, each offering unique qualities and characteristics. Here are the main materials used to make Chiavari chairs, described in five descriptive points:

1 Solid Wood: Traditional Chiavari chairs are crafted from high-quality solid wood, such as Beach wood or fruit-wood. This material provides a sturdy and durable frame that can withstand frequent use and offers a classic and timeless aesthetic.

2 Aluminum: Modern variations of Chiavari chairs feature frames made from lightweight and corrosion-resistant aluminum. Aluminum offers the advantage of easy maneuverability and transport, making it suitable for both indoor and outdoor events.

3 Resin: Chiavari chairs made from resin are lightweight, durable, and resistant to weather conditions. Resin chairs are easy to clean and maintain, making them an ideal choice for outdoor venues or events where frequent cleaning is required.

4 Metal: Some Chiavari chairs are constructed using metals like steel or wrought iron. Metal frames provide excellent stability and strength, ensuring long-lasting chairs that can withstand heavy use. They are often finished with protective coatings to enhance their durability.

5 Upholstery: Chiavari chairs often feature cushions or seat pads for added comfort. The upholstery material can vary and is typically chosen for its durability and aesthetics. Common options include fabrics like velvet, satin, or polyester, as well as vinyl for easy cleaning and maintenance.

Source of blog

[stair-warehouse]

How To Build Farm House Stairs: Ideas and Inspiration

If you've ever dreamed of a farmhouse, you know that the old-world charm and grandeur of the architecture is only enhanced by the beauty of its staircases.

The farmhouse stair is a classic, but it doesn't have to be boring. With the right design, you can make your staircase as unique and eye-catching as the rest of your home.

If you're lucky enough to have a home with a set of stairs that are in need of an update, consider using them as an opportunity to add some farmhouse style to your space.

Farmhouse Stairs

If you're looking for some inspiration when it comes to farmhouse stairs, here are some ideas!

Go with wood and iron:

The first thing you need to do is decide what kind of wood and iron you want. White Oak and Red Oak are both popular choices for farmhouse stair projects. White Oak has a more modern rustic look while Red Oak tends to be more traditional. Modern iron balusters are a great choice to compliment your wood stair railing as well as Modern retro tread kits.

Get creative with color:

If you're going for a rustic look, try using natural colors like greys and tans. If you've got a dark living room and want to lighten it up a bit, consider painting your farmhouse stairs white or a light color. You could also paint just the risers of your modern retro tread kit—that would look awesome too!

Best Farmhouse Stairs

Create a workspace or storage area under your staircase:

For example, if you want an office space but don't have enough room in your house for one, consider creating one under you’re your landing. It will look like part of the original design of your home rather than an afterthought.

If you're looking to build the best farmhouse stairs, Stair Warehouse has the stair parts you need. They have been distributing fine stair parts for over 19 years and they know exactly what you need to make your project a success. Their selection includes handrails, iron spindles, newels, retro-treads, and other finishing pieces that will add elegance and beauty to any home.

Their team specializes in creating custom-made stair parts that are perfect for any style of home. Whether you're looking for a rustic Farmhouse staircase or a contemporary one, they can help you get exactly what you want. If you would like to get more information about their stair products or services, please feel free to email the owner at shawn@stairwarehouse.com!

[crones-trash]

The First Dollhouse I Built, Part 1

During the Summer of 1982, I became interested in dollhouses & scale miniatures because my best friend involved me in her work for the Atlanta Toy Museum. From there, we became involved in doing piece work for Miss Betty & Associates, a small dollhouse shop in The Prado Shops in Sandy Springs, a suburb north of Atlanta.

Looking at the Houseworks' kits & components that Miss Betty sold, I enlisted my Papa to assist me in building a dollhouse for my daughter S. We started in August, working in the basement when when S was in daycare or taking a nap. Our intention was to complete the house in time for Christmas. But, once we got into detailing & both being perfectionists, we invested 3 more months & gave her the house for her 4th birthday in March, 1983.

The house was originally painted a dark Wedgewood Blue w white trim & dressed out in store-bought wallpapers & strip wood flooring. S was delighted w her new toy because she could spend hours "playing house" but it also made an excellent step stool for reaching forbidden objects on the top of her chest of drawers. As the years past, she & I enjoyed shopping for inexpensive furnishing & accessories but the house was never completely outfitted. By her 12th birthday, she lost interest & the house eventually came to be stored in Papa's workshop.

Which is where I found it in 1994 when, sick & destitute, I came to live w my parents. Even though I was quite feeble, I needed something to bolster my self-esteem & set out to restore the house in short bursts of activity. Papa had a book of house designs by Neil Reed, a famous Atlanta architect, & I saw that I could transform the house into a replica of a house that was still standing on Andrews Road. Working from black & white photos in the book, I commenced by repairing various broken windows & painting the exterior completely white. The doors got painted dark green & I added dark green shutters. I made the window boxes by cutting up additional shutters & painted them white.

I was fortunate Papa had a large amount of strip wood in random sizes because of his interest in model airplanes. Also, Pearl's Art Supply was nearby & maintained a stock of inexpensive doll house components & accessories.

Once I finished the exterior, I moved on to renovating the interior. Originally, as many doll's houses do, the stairway only went up to the 2nd floor & gaining access to the attic was left to the imagination. I sawed out the middle section of the attic floor & built twisting stairs out of balsa wood disguised by strip wood & embellished w Houseworks' spindles, posts & railings. The whole structure was rickety at best but I secured it by gluing a ribbon runner from top to bottom.

I decided to convert the left side of the attic to an ouright attic space to hold the collection of broken bits & pieces left over from S's childhood. I used to strip wood to simulate exposed beams. At this point, Pearl's brouhgt in a basic round wire electrical kit for a mere $20 & I couldn't resist the idea of having the house light up. A dangling bare bulb completed the attic space.

On the right side of the 3rd floor, I wanted to make a little girl's room in a style that would appeal to S. At the time, her favorite motif was sunflowers but I couldn't find any dollhouse wallpapers w/ sunflowers. So, I designed the wallpaper in Corel Draw & because I didn't have a color printer had it produced by a laser printer at my local internet service bureau. The only light in the nursery is a paper replica of a "Mr. Moon" light fixture S had as a toddler.

More later...

[themousefromfantasyland]

The Wood Maiden: The Story of Betushka and the Golden Birch Leaves

As told by Parker Filmore

Illustrations by Trina S. Hyman

How about a Czech lesbian fairy tale?

This czech tale tells the story of a young girl named Betushka and her "friendship" with the beautiful but mysterious Wood Maiden in the depths of the forest, away from the eyes of the girl's mother.

It's important to note that technically this is one of the Orphean Tales as I like to call them, stories where one of the protagonists disobeys or simply doesn't hear the advice of the other causing them both to be brutally separated, either for one to try to rescue the other, or for them to never see each other again. Orpheus and Eurydice and Cupid and Psyche are examples of this type of story: Orpheus disobeys Hades' orders and looks behind losing Eurydice forever, and Psyche disobeys Cupid's orders, forcing him to go away and she to try to find him again. As you can tell, usually the characters involved in this trope are lovers, what makes Betushka's realationship with the Wood Maiden much more interesting.

Betushka was a little girl. Her mother was a poor widow with nothing but a tumble-down cottage and two little nanny-goats. But poor as they were Betushka was always cheerful. From spring until autumn she pastured the goats in the birch wood. Every morning when she left home her mother gave her a little basket with a slice of bread and a spindle.

"See that you bring home a full spindle," her mother always said.

Betushka had no distaff, so she wound the flax around her head. Then she took the little basket and went romping and singing behind the goats to the birch wood. When they got there she sat down under a tree and pulled the fibres of the flax from her head with her left hand, and with her right hand let down the spindle so that it went humming along the ground. All the while she sang until the woods echoed and the little goats nibbled away at the leaves and grass.

When the sun showed midday, she put the spindle aside, called the goats and gave them a mouthful of bread so that they wouldn't stray, and ran off into the woods to hunt berries or any other wild fruit that was in season. Then when she had finished her bread and fruit, she jumped up, folded her arms, and danced and sang.

The sun smiled at her through the green of the trees and the little goats, resting on the grass, thought: "What a merry little shepherdess we have!"

After her dance she went back to her spinning and worked industriously. In the evening when she got home her mother never had to scold her because the spindle was empty.

One day at noon just after she had eaten and, as usual, was going to dance, there suddenly stood before her a most beautiful maiden. She was dressed in white gauze that was fine as a spider's web. Long golden hair fell down to her waist and on her head she wore a wreath of woodland flowers.

Betushka was speechless with surprise and alarm.

The maiden smiled at her and said in a sweet voice:

"Betushka, do you like to dance?"

Her manner was so gracious that Betushka no longer felt afraid, and answered:

"Oh, I could dance all day long!"

"Come, then, let us dance together," said the maiden. "I'll teach you."

With that she tucked up her skirt, put her arm about Betushka's waist, and they began to dance. At once such enchanting music sounded over their heads that Betushka's heart went one-two with the dancing. The musicians sat on the branches of the birch trees. They were clad in little frock coats, black and grey and many-coloured. It was a carefully chosen orchestra that had gathered at the bidding of the beautiful maiden: larks, nightingales, finches, linnets, thrushes, blackbirds, and showy mocking-birds.

Betushka's cheeks burned, her eyes shone. She forgot her spinning, she forgot her goats. All she could do was gaze at her partner who was moving with such grace and lightness that the grass didn't seem to bend under her slender feet.

[This paints a image that is so sweet, homoerotic and sapphic that hurts. Someone knew. Someone telling this tale for the first time must have known]

They danced from noon until sundown and yet Betushka wasn't the least bit tired. Then they stopped dancing, the music ceased, and the maiden disappeared as suddenly as she had come.

Betushka looked around. The sun was sinking behind the wood. She put her hands to the unspun flax on her head and remembered the spindle that was lying unfilled on the grass. She took down the flax and laid it with the spindle in the little basket. Then she called the goats and started home.

She reproached herself bitterly that she had allowed the beautiful maiden to beguile her and she told herself that another time she would not listen to her. She was so quiet that the little goats, missing her merry song, looked around to see whether it was really their own little shepherdess who was following them. Her mother, too, wondered why she didn't sing and questioned her.

"Are you sick, Betushka?"

"No, dear mother, I'm not sick, but I've been singing too much and my throat is dry."

She knew that her mother did not reel the yarn at once, so she hid the spindle and the unspun flax, hoping to make up tomorrow what she had not done today. She did not tell her mother one word about the beautiful maiden.

The next day she felt cheerful again and as she drove the goats to pasture she sang merrily. At the birch wood she sat down to her spinning, singing all the while, for with a song on the lips work falls from the hands more easily.

Noonday came. Betushka gave a bit of bread to each of the goats and ran off to the woods for her berries. Then she ate her luncheon.

"Ah, my little goats," she sighed, as she brushed up the crumbs for the birds, "I mustn't dance today."

"Why mustn't you dance today?" a sweet voice asked, and there stood the beautiful maiden as though she had fallen from the clouds.

Betushka was worse frightened than before and she closed her eyes tight. When the maiden repeated her question, Betushka answered timidly:

"Forgive me, beautiful lady, for not dancing with you. If I dance with you I cannot spin my stint and then my mother will scold me. Today before the sun sets I must make up for what I lost yesterday."

"Come, child, and dance," the maiden said. "Before the sun sets we'll find some way of getting that spinning done!"

She tucked up her skirt, put her arm about Betushka, the musicians in the treetops struck up, and off they whirled. The maiden danced more beautifully than ever. Betushka couldn't take her eyes from her. She forgot her goats, she forgot her spinning. All she wanted to do was to dance on forever.

At sundown the maiden paused and the music stopped. Then Betushka, clasping her hands to her head, where the unspun flax was twined, burst into tears. The beautiful maiden took the flax from her head, wound it round the stem of a slender birch, grasped the spindle, and began to spin. The spindle hummed along the ground and filled in no time. Before the sun sank behind the woods all the flax was spun, even that which was left over from the day before. The maiden handed Betushka the full spindle and said:

"Remember my words:

Reel and grumble not!

Keel and grumble not!"

When she said this, she vanished as if the earth had swallowed her.

Betushka was very happy now and she thought to herself on her way home: "Since she is so good and kind, I'll dance with her again if she asks me. Oh, how I hope she does!"

She sang her merry little song as usual and the goats trotted cheerfully along.

She found her mother vexed with her, for she had wanted to reel yesterday's yarn and had discovered that the spindle was not full.

"What were you doing yesterday," she scolded, "that you didn't spin your stint?"

Betushka hung her head. "Forgive me, mother. I danced too long." Then she showed her mother today's spindle and said: "See, today I more than a made up for yesterday."

Her mother said no more but went to milk the goats and Betushka put away the spindle. She wanted to tell her mother her adventure, but she thought to herself: "No, I'll wait. If the beautiful lady comes again, I'll ask her who she is and then I'll tell mother." So she said nothing.

On the third morning she drove the goats as usual to the birch wood. The goats went to pasture and Betushka, sitting down under a tree, began to spin and sing. When the sun pointed to noon, she laid her spindle on the grass, gave the goats a mouthful of bread, gathered some strawberries, ate her luncheon, and then, giving the crumbs to the birds, she said cheerily:

"Today, my little goats, I will dance for you!"

She jumped up, folded her arms, and was about to see whether she could move as gracefully as the beautiful maiden, when the maiden herself stood before her.

"Let us dance together," she said. She smiled at Betushka, put her arm about her, and as the music above their heads began to play, they whirled round and round with flying feet. Again Betushka forgot the spindle and the goats. Again she saw nothing but the beautiful maiden whose body was lithe as a willow shoot. Again she heard nothing but the enchanting music to which her feet danced of themselves.

[In a perfect world this would be like "Hey, I'm a lesbian". to which the Wood Maiden replies "I thought you were a czech peasant girl!"]

They danced from noon until sundown. Then the maiden paused and the music ceased. Betushka looked around. The sun was already set behind the woods. She clasped her hands to her head and looking down at the unfilled spindle she burst into tears.

"Oh, what will my mother say?" she cried.

"Give me your little basket," the maiden said, "and I will put something in it that will more than make up for today's stint."

Betushka handed her the basket and the maiden took it and vanished. In a moment she was back.

She returned the basket and said:

"Look not inside until you're home!

Look not inside until you're home!"

As she said these words she was gone as if a wind had blown her away.

Betushka wanted awfully to peep inside but she was afraid to. The basket was so light that she wondered whether there was anything at all in it. Was the lovely lady only fooling her? Halfway home she peeped in to see.

[Very bad choice!]

Imagine her feelings when she found the basket was full of birch leaves! Then indeed did Betushka burst into tears and reproach herself for being so simple. In her vexation she threw out a handful of leaves and was going to empty the basket when she thought to herself:

"No, I'll keep what's left as litter for the goats."

She was almost afraid to go home. She was so quiet that again the little goats wondered what ailed their shepherdess.

Her mother was waiting for her in great excitement.

"For heaven's sake, Betushka, what kind of spool did you bring home yesterday?"

"Why?" Betushka faltered.

"When you went away this morning, I started to reel that yarn. I reeled and reeled and the spool remained full. One skein, two skeins, three skeins, and still the spool was full. 'What evil spirit has spun that?' I cried out impatiently, and instantly the yarn disappeared from the spindle as if blown away. Tell me, what does it mean?"

So Betushka confessed and told her mother all she knew about the beautiful maiden.

"Oh," cried her mother in amazement, "that was a wood maiden! At noon and midnight the wood maidens dance. It is well you are not a little boy or she might have danced you to death! But they are often kind to little girls and sometimes make them rich presents. Why didn't you tell me? If I hadn't grumbled, I could have had yarn enough to fill the house!"

Betushka thought of the little basket and wondered if there might be something under the leaves. She took out the spindle and unspun flax and looked in once more.

"Mother!" she cried. "Come here and see!"

Her mother looked and clapped her hands. The birch leaves were all turned to gold!

Betushka reproached herself bitterly: "She told me not to look inside till I got home, but I didn't obey."

"It's lucky you didn't empty the whole basket," her mother said.

The next morning she herself went to look for the handful of leaves that Betushka had thrown away. She found them still lying in the road but they were only birch leaves.

But the riches which Betushka brought home were enough. Her mother bought a farm with fields and cattle. Betushka had pretty clothes and no longer had to pasture goats.

But no matter what she did, no matter how cheerful and happy she was, still nothing ever again gave her quite so much pleasure as the dance with the wood maiden. She often went to the birch wood in the hope of seeing the maiden again. But she never did.

@natache

[writers-block-is-now-a-person]

Even Truth Lies in The Thicket

Chapter 1 | 

My name is Harper, but can’t tell you that. In fact, I’m not allowed to tell anyone anything. And there are many reasons why I can’t tell you many things, but I’m not allowed to say those things either. I’m not allowed to say a lot oft things. And I hate it. 

But anyway, I am Harper, and I can’t tell you anything else.

Except that I was kidnapped as a child.

Fingers snapped in front of me, shaking me out of my trance. Lord Bryn glared at me, his dark eyes furious as he walked past. I swallowed the sudden fear and lifted the instrument in my arms. Resting the bow on the strings, I waited for his permission to play. His silence was irritating, I waited as he settled himself on his chair, flicking out his robe and slowly lifting his goblet to his mouth. He flicked his pupil-less eyes at me. I started to play.

I moved my arms and fingers, creating a melody only known to me. This is why they stole me, for their own petty entertainment.

My arms moved on impulse, creating melodies and harmonies from nothing but the emptiness of myself. They liked my music, it didn’t matter to me how it sounded, as long as they liked it, I was safe.

My fingers began to hurt, I played slower. Longer notes with clearer sounds. My arms started to ache, sore from playing for so long. I breathed in evenly and kept playing. I was not allowed to stop until I was told.

The room around me was perfect, glowing in the light of early dusk. The walls painted in lavender, the vaulted ceiling thick with wisteria vines, the purple flowers filling the room. The floor was shining white marble, almost pure moonlight. 

They sat on low velvet couches. Picking at fat fruits and honeyed drinks. Their fingers slender and soft, their skin perfect. Lord Bryn laughed politely as his wife handed him a pomegranate, he bit into the bloody fruit.

They looked perfect, lounging and laughing in the dusking sun. There were seven of them, draped in silks and jewels that glowed in any light. Their faces painted with glitter and powder. However beautiful and stunning they appeared, they looked like monsters to me.

Fae are odd creatures, Seelie Fae are odder. They appear human, almost human. If you look at them longer, they do not seem human. Their eyes are bigger, with richer colours. Their skin is perfect, not blotchy like humans. The hold themselves in such a way that makes you feel inferior, for we are to them. Their smiles are not human either, the Fae have odd smiles.

I held the note I was playing, drawing it out for as long as I could. I lowered my instrument when I was finished. Waiting for their approval.

Lord Bryn looked at me, pale eyes blank. He nodded slowly. His wife smiled and softly clapped her hands. The others joined.

One fae leaned into Lord Bryn. “The mortal is good for their age, I’ve heard some horrendous melodies from ones twice their age.”

Lord Bryn said nothing, his wife, Lady Elowyn, answered instead. “They have a marvellous talent, they always know what to play.”

Lord Bryn seemed satisfied with me, he waved me out. I bowed deeply and left the room.

I went down the servant passageways, not daring to step into the main rooms of the house. Other servants stepped out of my way, some smiled at me. I was above them in the servant hierarchy, the Lord and Lady that owned us liked me the most, mainly for my musical talent. In the narrow passageways, we were all servants. But they were still fae, and I was still human, so no matter how equal I thought we were, they loathed every inch of me.

It wasn’t long until I had entered my room. The servants entrance to my rooms came through the bookshelf, I liked entering my rooms that way. It was like my own secret entrance to my personal space. 

There was no proper door to my main room, just an open archway that led to the main hall of the house. My main room was circular, with robins egg blue painted walls and the white marble floors. The dark woodwork of the bookshelves carved to mimic ivy covered trees. In each alcove of the bookshelves are my many instruments.

I placed the instrument in my hands gently on its pedestal, it sat there waiting for me to play it again. The rest of my instruments sat on their altars, waiting to be played. Some were metal that made bright sounds, most were wood and strings that sang like bird song. Few made deep sounds, I could create scenes of fog and forest with those. 

I looked around at my collection. All of the instruments were gifts, praises for my good work and hopes I could create more. As much as I loved playing them, creating melodies from far away, I loathed the sight of them. All of the instruments were memories of why I was caged here, proof that not all chains are metal.

The arches of the main door were similar to the arched window frames. The sun was halfway down the horizon, I only had a few minutes until I was needed again. Thankfully, there was a real door to my private chambers, the brass handle was the only comfort to me that I could create some privacy.

The Lady of the house, and my owner, favoured me in her own ways. Lady Elowyn let me decorate my room which ever way I wanted, which is why the deep grey of my walls were a stark contrast to the rest of the house. I had covered the marble floor in thick, fluffy blue rugs that I could sink my feet into like grass.

My room was messy, as I hated having the housemaids rifle through my things. I hopped over the pile of papers and books on the floor as I made my way to the deep closet. I changed quickly, from my house garb to something more refined. Still in the pale colours that Lady Elowyn favoured, but more detailed and clean.

The skirt was made of thin materials but had many layers, embroidered into the skirts were honey bees and flowers, creating a mirage of a field. The bodice was tighter but had the same flowing sleeves as the skirt. I hated the sickly green it was. What I hated more was having to change out of the boots. I don’t mind the slippers they give me, they are soft like rabbits fur, but I feel as if I am wearing no shoes at all.

I had spent too much time tying up the dress I had no time for the rest of me. My hair was already tied, that was all I could do.

I pushed open the door and closed it quickly, hoping I could make it to the main hall before she came to collect me. The guests would have left by now, Lord Bryn would be waiting to leave as well.

“No time for your hair or face?” Lady Elowyn said, voice sweet as honey.

I bit a snide comment back, I know better to hold my tongue, I bowed deeply. “Forgive me, My Lady, it seems my skills in time are less than adequate.”

“Less than adequate?” She mused, moving closer to me. Her jewelled hand lifted my chin to meet her gaze. “Less than adequate? Not quite, dear Harper, your skills lie elsewhere than in time.” She scanned my face, her eyebrow lifting in disgust. “But I will not have you leave this house without the proper preparation.”

Please don’t go in my room, I know you hate it. I tried to smile, begging her to leave. She opened the door anyway, her hesitation showed me her distaste for my room. She stepped over the scattered papers and discard clothes as she dragged me to the tiled bathroom.

Sitting me down at the vanity, she perused over the countless things piled onto the space. I didn’t know what they were, so I never bothered.

She rubbed a sweet smelling cream into my face, her spindle fingers rougher than I expected, her pointed nails digging into my cheeks. The cream seemed to blur my skin, removing its blotchy colours and evidence of humanness. I watched my reflection change in the mirror as she painted my eyelids with a green glitter. She lined my eyes in silver, my lips as well. She hung small stars along my ears, they twinkled with any movement.

I could pass as a fae child, almost. I did not have their pointed ears or thin lips or mystic eyes. My humanness was evident in my face.

Lady Elowyn tugged harshly at my hair, showing me that no matter how much she liked me, I was nothing but a doll for her to dress. She wound my hair around a pin and rested her hands on my shoulders.

Lady Elowyn looked at me in the mirror, smiling absently. “Now, you’re more than adequate.”

I whispered a thank you, I know her words were simple and stung slightly, but I felt giddy at her small compliment.

Back in my main room, she eyed the many instruments, assessing them carefully. “This one,” she pointed at a small harp, carved into a golden wood with silver strings. “I love the harmonies you create with this one.”

“Of course, My Lady,” I bowed slightly, taking the small harp off its altar and holding it carefully.

I trailed behind her as she made her way to the entrance, walking down the stairs that circled the main hall. I liked the way this house was built, similar to a beehive, with a hollow middle and rooms branching off. Lord Bryn and their two sons were waiting by the door, he smiled up at his wife. She looked at each of them carefully, all in silver and purple suits that mimicked twilight sky. She kissed her sons on the cheek and took her husbands arm, he lead her out to the heavy oak doors. I trailed behind them again, quietly with my head bowed. 

The dusk air was cold, I shivered slightly as the wind blew. The family of fae piled into the carriage, settling themselves down on the silk seats. I hesitated, unsure of where to go.

“Hurry, Harper, you must no dawdle,” Lady Elowyn called out, beckoning me in.

I hurried into the carriage, tucking myself into the window beside her. She smiled down at me, Lord Bryn ignored me.

I hugged my harp tightly and gazed out the window, we passed other mansions, glowing in the setting sun. We passed forests and ponds and clearings were simple fae danced around tree stumps and stone fountains.

I knew one son was glaring at me, I avoided his eyes and continued to study the stars. Dale had hated me since I was forced to be here. He often complained of my music in hopes that I would be removed from the house, but Lady Elowyn never listened to him.

Elm was kinder to me, he often brought me sweet cakes after a long night of entertaining guests with my music. Elm once gave me a balm for my sore fingers, I’ve cherished it since.

I ignored Dale’s fierce gaze as the carriage bumped along the road. Lady Elowyn and Lord Bryn chattered with Elm mindlessly, discussing who else would be attending the Queens twilight party. 

Few were always invited to these, it always caused such drama amongst the gentry and the Higher Courts. Lady Elowyn made me play at these, I would stand near the Queens altar and play until the revel was done.

I don’t know of Lady Elowyn and Lord Bryn’s connection with the Queen and her family, since Lord Bryn never favoured politics and Lady Elowyn didn’t seem to be the one who would wait at the Queens feet. I never asked questions, I know better than to poke into the business of the fae.

The carriage had stopped, I could hear the sounds of voices drift through the cool air. I followed them blindly out of the carriage and into the Queens oak garden.

Dale grabbed my arm harshly and pulled me into the shadows, he towered over me. “Listen here, mortal, indulge in the days you have left. Soon you will be replaced and left with nothing. I won’t stand the sight of you in my house any longer.”

I didn’t reply, I wasn’t able to. By Lady Elowyn’s command, I could not speak a word to Dale or Elm. I nodded meekly in response. Dale seemed disgusted at the action, he left me in the shadows and entered the throng of elaborately dressed fae.

“What a thorn in the roses,” a voice said from behind me.

I jumped, I was not expecting him to be here. “What are you doing here? How did you even get invited?”

Locklan smiled as he smoothed out his maroon suit. “I have my ways, dear songbird.”

I hated that nickname, I am no caged bird. “You can’t lie to me, Locklan, so tell me.”

He shrugged. “I’m afraid my lips are sealed, songbird, I am here for merriment.”

I sighed, Locklan always showed up in the least likely places, it was no surprise he would be at the Queens twilight party. I left him in the shadows as I found my place near the Queens altar, I waited for the Queen to arrive for me to play.

All the fae seemed untouchable as they gathered in their silks and gems. They dressed in the finest clothes I have seen, all colours of the rainbow and every colour in-between. Some suits and dresses changed colour with each movement, some looked as if they were growing from the fae’s body. It was a magical sight.

I knew Locklan was behind me, he may have prided himself on his ability to be silent, but even my mortal ears could hear his footfalls.

“I am not allowed to talk to you while I am working,” I said, trying to ignore him.

“From what I’ve heard, you’re not allowed to do a lot of things,” he said, sliding next to me. “So tell me, songbird, what can you do?”

I lifted the small harp in my hands. “I can play.”

His fox eyes stayed on the silver strings. “What else?”

I felt hot with embarrassment. What else can I do? Shame choked me, I can’t do anything else. Locklan didn’t move, his fox eyes shifted from the harp and trailed up to watch the party. He stayed silent.

To say I don’t like Locklan is harsh, he’s not the type you don’t like. He is mischievous and naughty, always pulling tricks and deals when you least expect it. But he is fun to be around, and is kind, sometimes. His family is somehow tied in with the High Courts, his father has a close connection with the Queen. Most fae don’t like Locklan or his family, their fox features, selfish habits and silver tongues make them hard to control. 

More had joined the party as the sky had dimmed. The Queen and her daughters were unusually late. The fae that were here chatted under the glowing lamps, not touching the food or starting any sort of merriment. That would all begin when the Queen would arrive, I still had some time until I was needed to play.

Locklan was waving someone over, I dreaded the company of another fae.

“Harper! I knew you would be here!” The voice was light and airy, I was glad to hear their voice. I haven’t seem them in a while.

Opal fluttered over to us, literally fluttered. She had thick moth wings that picked her up off the ground. Her fluffy dress floated like a cloud around her. Even though her body was small, almost all of her features were big. Big, round endless eyes, large and fluffy antenna sticking out of her fluffy hair. She jumped into Locklan’s arms.

“Hello Locky!” She giggled as her hair smothered him. Opal hesitated in touching me, no one was allowed to. Another one of Lady Elowyns rule. We had found a loophole to that rule, no fae could touch me in her presence.

Opal ogled at the harp in my hands. “Oh, what a beautiful instrument, I can’t wait to hear what you’ll play!”

I know she was just trying to be kind, but she sounded like the rest of the fae, ordering me to play for them. I smiled in response, not wanting to sour her bubbly mood. She smiled back, teeth perfectly white.

She hooked arms with Locklan and squeezed herself in between us, her fluffy skirt soft against me. “So, what do you think the drama will be tonight?”

“You tell me, O Wise One, isn’t your mother the Royal Astrologer? Shouldn’t you be able to read the stars and tell us our futures?” I teased.

Opal pouted. “Maybe, but it’s far more fun to guess.”

“I think it’s far more fun to create the drama ourselves,” Locklan said through his usual smile.

“No, Locklan, don’t you go starting anything, Evora will not be happy with you!” Opal whisper shouted, pulling at Locklans sleeve.

He just rolled his fox eyes and smiled. Of course he would never promise her he wouldn’t, he loved creating chaos. 

A hush fell over the gathering of fae. The Queen of Folkshire had arrived.

She was perfect, an image of ethereal beauty. Queen Lorvera’s beauty was stunning, everyone watched as she made her way to the throne. Her glowing dress mimicked moonlight, as if the fabric was made of stars. As Queen Lorvera walked, flowers poked out of the grass and bloomed, tree branches bent down to touch her crown. Her five daughters trailed behind her. Princess Astria, her skirts a blooming artwork of white roses. Princess Bria with her black hair in long braids down her back. The twins, Cordelia and Dahlia with their multicoloured eyes. And the young Princess Evora last. They all looked stunning, flowing dresses and silky hair and dark skin that glowed bronze in the light. All alluring, all untouchable in their beauty.

Queen Lorvera sat down, her skirts trickling down the small steps like water. She raised her hand and spoke in her honeyed voice. “Well? Let us enjoy the twilight and dance until the sun comes to join.”

Lady Elowyn nodded at me, I lifted my harp and began to play. I plucked the silver strings, creating a merry tune of birdsong and chimes. The fae began to dance and sing, their voices sounding like bells. I kept the tune light, creating an aura of enjoyment.

Locklan and Opal stayed next to me, occasionally leaving to snatch food, drinks and pieces of conversations. I felt guilty, having them next to me.

I was a mortal servant of a Lady, they were fae children of members of the Queens Court, they shouldn’t even be seen near me. Yet they stayed, knowing they couldn’t interrupt my playing, they chatted quietly and watched me.

Some other muses and artists that were invited came closer. Majority of them were fae, or half fae. Few were mortals, their rounded ears and dull coloured eyes gave me some comfort.

I should give a better explanation of why I am a servant to the fae. Seelie fae are odd creatures, as I’ve said, and some of their customs are beyond humane. Before Queen Lorvera made the law that no mortals are to be stolen, it was normal for humans to be taken from their streets and used as entertainment for the fae. The Seelie fae mainly stole artists, musicians and writers and crafters who could create pretty things for them. Those kind of people would be showed off, like me, and fae would buy and sell them from each other.

I have been bought four times, I was taken from my real family when I was young. I should have known better than to show off my music playing. Since I was young when I was taken, they replaced me with a fae child. That child now has my life, they have my face and name and even voice. But they are not me, they are not even human.

The fae artists around me criticised me, as they usually do, mainly because of my mortal blood. Some of them smiled or nodded at my playing, the mortal artists raised their glasses in honour, congratulating me. I was far younger than them, and the older fae musicians knew I was better than them. That meant I was in danger.

Thankfully, due to Lady Elowyns magic and words, no one could do me harm or use any magic on me that was weaker than Lady Elowyns. Fae magic is strange and powerful, my mortal mind could not comprehend it, so I never tried. I knew the basics of Lady Elowyns magic, her words created power itself, when written on paper and then eaten, the spells would protect whatever ingested the paper. I felt weird afterwards, dizzy and numb for hours. 

She explained the rules as she wrote them down, I could not speak a word to her sons or husband, I could not speak while playing, I could not refuse any order given to me by her family, I could not cause harm to anyone, and I was not allowed to tell any one of my past. No magic could be cast on me if it was weaker than Lady Elowyns, which is very rare. No faerie fruit, food, drink or poison could do me harm. I could see through almost all fae magic and could never be tricked by their words. Lady Elowyn said it was for my own protection, which some of it was, but most were chains that kept me bound to her.

My fingers began to sting, the silver strings feeling like lead. I slowed my tune, falling into something more slower and calm. Lady Elowyn approached me, the other fae around me dispersed, afraid of her. Locklan and Opal fell silent near me, not wanting to be noticed by her. Lady Elowyn smiled, like a mother consoling her child.

“You may rest now, Harper, enjoy some food and dances. I will find another musician for a while,” she handed me a goblet of purple liquid.

I bowed deeply and accepted the drink. “Thank you, My Lady, I am forever grateful for your kind actions.”

She smiled again, pale eyes glowing. She gently caressed my cheek. “Save your talents for later tonight, there will be a surprise.”

With that she left, her twilight dress falling like water around her. Locklan and Opal hurried up to me, smiling deviously.

“What did she mean?” Locklan asked first, fox eyes wide.

I shushed him quickly. “I don’t know! Don’t ask me!”

Opal groaned. “The one time we get some drama filled sentence and you don’t even know what it means!”

I wanted to slap her arm, but my limb felt numb at the thought. Not even Lady Elowyns magic could let me make joking movements in her presence. I brushed off the twitch as if I were smoothing my skirt. I tucked my harp under my arm and held the goblet with both hands, taking small sips. The purple liquid tasted like lavender and mint and fresh water. Fae flavours were something I would miss if I was ever allowed to go back home.

Opal and Locklan started up a quick conversation, soon I was lost in their laughter and sly jokes that I didn’t notice another fae approaching us.

“I do hope you aren’t enjoying the revel so much without me,” they spoke regally, I froze at their tone.

“Is enjoying ourselves without you forbidden? I never knew,” Locklan smiled as he bowed.

Princess Evora laughed as Locklan kissed her hand. She moved to hug Opal, with Opal’s mother having such close connections with the Queen, Opal and Evora almost grew up together. Evora moved to hug me, all I could do was bow. Another rule from Lady Elowyns magic, under no circumstances am I allowed to touch the royal family. I smiled at Evora, it was the only way I could show her affection.

Princess Evora was a part of our little group, although we only saw her on nights like these, I enjoyed her company thoroughly. Evora was the fifth and final daughter to Queen Lorvera, she had no hopes of obtaining the throne so she spent her days making as many friends as she could. Evora was the most loved princess.

Princess Evora was gorgeous, her whole family was. While their beauty was stunning, Evora’s beauty was how serene and simple she looked. Evora had the same high cheekbones and round jaw has her sisters, the same pointed ears and smooth nose. While her mothers and sisters eyes were the bright colours, Evora’s eyes were the colour of old green pine. They still glittered nonetheless. Evora was still beautiful.

Her hair was free falling around her shoulders, in thick earthy brown curls. Her ears and neck were covered in sapphires embedded in silver leaves, the sapphires matched her blue dress. Her dress looked like the ocean, deep blue and shimmering. 

“Harper? Are you all right?” Princess Evora asked, attempting to place a hand on my arm.

I hated that my arm involuntarily flinched out of her reach, I tried to smile at her to give her some comfort. “I am fine, Your Highness, I suppose I am drained from playing.”

“If you say so,” her eyes seemed sad, I wanted to make her feel better.

Opal poked my side. “Tell her what Lady Elowyn said to you.”

I didn’t think it was important, but Opal always had a deep desire for secrets. “When Lady Elowyn told me to stop playing, she said to wait for a surprise. Do you know what it could be?”

Evora smiled, her eyes glowed. “Oh, I do, and I won’t tell you.”

Locklan, as dramatic as he is, acted so hurt I thought he was going to weep. “My dear, angelic Highness, how could you be so cruel and not let us in on your dark secrets? How could you hold onto this information without telling us?”

Evora giggled behind her jewelled hand, her laugh sounded like wind chimes. “I wish I could, Locklan, but I’m afraid my mother has prohibited us from telling. We must wait until she has deiced to announce it.”

Opal nibbled on her finger. “Announce, you say? Hmm, what could she be announcing?” Opals wide eyes grew wider, she grasped Evora’s arm and jumped up and down. “I know! I know! Oh, it will be wondrous!”

“What? Now you know you have to tell us!” I said.

Opal squealed as she grasped my hands tightly. “Oh, I really can’t, but it will be wondrous!”

Locklan scoffed and crossed his arms. “Can you at least promise that whatever will be announced will cause some sort of theatrics?”

Opal and Evora exchanged looks, they smiled wildly. “Oh, dear Locklan, the drama that will unfold will be so fruitful that your family will have endless opportunities to create chaos,” Evora promised.

Locklan smiled again, showing his sharp teeth. “Well, if that’s the case, better start the warm up entertainment.”

He bowed deeply and turned towards the tables piled high with foods. He grabbed his older sister’s hand and leaped up onto the table. He twirled Volipa in his arms and they started to dance to the jumpy tune played on a flute somewhere. They kicked off platers of fruit and honeyed meats. The closest fae shrieked and moved quickly out of their range to protect their clothing.

Some fae laughed and cheered. Fae were odd like that, some craved chaos and drama so much they created it themselves, Locklan’s family was praised for the stories they created. Locklan and Volipa smiled and laughed as they danced on the table.

Evora laughed into her hand. “His desire for attention overrides his self-pride.”

“I don’t think there is anything else that can overcome Locklan’s love for attention,” I said, sipping my goblet.

“Not even his love for himself?” Opal quipped, we all laughed.

Evora hooked arms with Opal, Opal held onto my sleeve in response, Evora leaned forward. “Shall we follow his lead?”

I was about to agree when a hush fell over the party. Locklan and Volipa stopped their dancing, Queen Lorvera raised her eyebrow at them. Locklan and Volipa guilty climbed down from the table, their clothing stained with food and drink.

Queen Lorvera’s voice carried itself over the crowd. “Those young foxes, always creating some sort of ruckus when they get bored.”

The crowed laughed, Locklan and Volipa bowed dramatically, flashing their fox teeth. Queen Lorvera raised her glass at them, smiling to herself.

“What is the meaning of this party, you might ask? Well, as much as I love to keep secrets to myself, I can hold this one no longer,” everyone was hanging onto the Queens words, all silent and patient for what will be announced.

Queen Lorvera beckoned her eldest daughter, Astria, towards her. Evora and Opal bounced on their feet next to me. I could guess what is going to happen, but I was far from the truth. Queen Lorvera beckoned another fae forward, Elm walked towards her. Elm held Princess Astria’s hand and smiled brightly.

Queen Lorvera raised her goblet higher. “I am so proud to announce that we will have a wedding soon upon us. We shall celebrate the joining of my oldest daughter Astria, and the oldest son of Lord Bryn. We shall welcome Elm into my household, where he will be crowned prince, and continue the Viridishire line.”

The fae gathered erupted into cheers, they threw flowers into the air and started to dance. I had zoned out, almost on the brink of panicking.

What does this mean for me? How long will I be asked to play? Until my fingers bleed? Will I be sold again when Lady Elowyn finds a better muse to please the Queen?

A sharp jolt in my side shook me, Opal nodded in the direction of Lady Elowyn. She was glaring at me. I cleared my throat and raised my harp, I started to play instantly. The merry tune I played sent the fae into dancing circles as they congratulated Elm and Astria. Opal and Evora stayed next to me, chatting excitedly about the new wedding.

I felt sick, I don’t know why, my head started to swirl as I played. I had a bad feeling about this wedding. I wanted to feel happy for Elm, he has been nothing but kind to me. Something cold was tugging at me, my instincts trying to say something. I prayed it was fatigue as I continued to play. 

Please let nothing go wrong.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I love unusual/unique older homes and this 1898 beauty in Canon City, Colorado fits the bill. Look at the balcony- if you’re in a hurry, you can just jump off and go. ($493K)

The house has been rehabbed and the glorious wood is all refinished. I guess there’s only so much wood stripping & refinishing, you can do, so they painted the moldings white, instead. I’m not sure what they were thinking with the wall’s faux finish, though. 

There is the option of entering the home thru the central hall, directly into the living room with a lovely large fireplace and built-in shelving. 

Another fireplace is in the large formal dining room. The Colorado White Pine floors are original and have been refreshed. 

The kitchen features new cabinets and an epoxy counter. 

Full bath on the main floor. 

The stairs are beautiful, but have you have ever seen such a low window?

Look at the turned spindles.

The main bedroom is large and the window on the left is the access to the balcony out front.

And, it’s unusual to have a closet this size in a home of this age. 

One of the smaller bdrms. 

I would say that this is also a bedroom, that they’re using as an office and a catch-all room. 

The renovated bath on the 2nd fl. is huge. 

https://www.coldwellbankerhomes.com/co/canon-city/830-greenwood-ave/pid_47576333/