#needle and thread

[sweet-berrry]

First artfight!! Feeling nauseous!!

My AF profile :D

[threaddle]

A new chapter...

Room

The fitting is over. Trenderman took a step back, gave Rico a cursory glance, and nodded briefly in satisfaction, though without a trace of warmth. A simple white nightgown below her knees sat on her baggily, but it was temporary.

— It will do, for the first time. – He said dryly.

He reached for her neck. A short movement and the collar with the bell came undone.

"I'll take the collar," he said without a hint of intonation. "You're not a beast anymore. You don't have to ring around the house like a lost cat.

Trenderman had already turned back to the table, making it clear that the audience was over.

—Atticus,– he called, without raising his voice. "Show her the room."

Atticus was standing by the door. Still motionless. Riko wanted to say something. To ask. Thank you. But instead, she just nodded, like a fox, although it looked almost funny in a human body.

...

They went out into the corridor. Atticus led the way, and Riko trotted behind, barefoot on the cold floor, tangling in her nightgown. The stairs to the third floor turned out to be narrow and creaky – it was obviously rarely visited.

Atticus stopped in front of a door at the end of the hallway. The wood has darkened with age, and the brass handle is covered with a patina. He pushed the door and it opened with a long creak.

The room was much larger than she had expected. But the entire space was littered with boxes, cardboard and wooden, stacked along the walls. Old mannequins with no arms or heads stuck out of the darkness. An upside-down tailor's mannequin stood forlornly in the corner. The floor was strewn with dust, scraps of fabric, buttons, and scattered pins, which glittered dully in the light from the hallway. Dust hung in the air. Cobwebs gleamed silver under the ceiling beams.

Atticus stopped in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest.

"No one has lived here for a long time," he said in a neutral tone. — Trenderman has given you permission to set up this place however you want.

Riko turned to him. Her gaze was both confused and delighted.

"Is this all... mine?"

"Everything that's here,– Atticus nodded. If something is missing, tell me. I'll pass it on.

Riko took a step forward. Then another one, leaving footprints on the floor. Atticus watched her for a few seconds.

"The bedding will be delivered in the morning,– he said quietly. — You can use the old cases for now.

Riko turned around. She had already found a roll of soft flannel and was trying on how to make a nest out of it.

"And the spiders?" She asked with curiosity, not fear. "Are they going to live with me?"

Atticus paused.

"If you don't mind."

"I don't mind,– Riko nodded seriously.

"Trenderman needs you in the workshop at six tomorrow morning,– Atticus reminded him. "Don't be late.

"I won't be late,– Rico promised.

He went out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

...

Rico was left alone. She looked around the room again. Boxes were stacked along the walls. Cardboard, with the sides inscribed: "Spring-58", "Buttons. Rare", "Do not disassemble". She ran to the nearest box and looked inside. It was filled with patches of skin: dark, smooth, with an unfamiliar, slightly sweet smell.

She walked around the room in a circle. She walked over to the mannequins. She ran her finger along the wooden stand, leaving a clear mark. Then she scooped up the rags from the corner, pulled off a piece of old velvet from one of the mannequins and made herself a kind of nest. She lay on her side, tucking her knees to her stomach.

[sweet-berrry]

who tops

kali

freckle

they are both too fucked up to fuck

Voting ended onMay 29

[sweet-berrry]

All longing is hunger and all hunger is violence so that situationship is war. Have you tried fucking about it?

[gentleeclipsey]

Sewing needle so well used I've completely worn off the outer shine, I shall retire them to the case, rest easy ;w;

[photo-synn-thesis]

Needle & Thread

Date: The Afternoon of Gold-Spun Light

Sitting in a patch of tiny, white flowers near a stream I weave the very essence of the bog into the fibers of cloth. Green apples, sharp goat cheese, and a jar of elderflower crowd the blanket spread across the grass. A pair of Draconis Amarillos settled into the chamomile nearby, their tiny wings humming low. The scent of crushed petals mingled with the sharp tang of the feast waiting at my side. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the gentle, vibrating warmth of the dragons soothe the lingering chill of the marshlands from my bones.

Every time the needle passes through the fabric, I anchor to a specific sound- the rustle of the reeds, the dip of a fin, or the distant chirps of las ranitas. I pull the thread tight, binding the stillness of the afternoon into the pattern. Each tiny "x" creates a crossroads where physical thread meets the intent of my mind, rendering a chaotic world into a perfect grid, one square at a time.

A stray breeze shakes the willow overhead, dropping leaves into my hair. Sunlight glints off fresh stitches while I stretch my cramped fingers, the honeyed aroma of manzanilla pulling me toward sleep. I pack my needles away. Tomorrow will carry the memory of the golden peace of the garden.

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Es un arte lento y silencioso, el hechizo más poderoso que puedas conjurar.

[threaddle]

The door closed behind Atticus with a soft click. Trenderman took his time. —Measurements, - he said.

He walked over to the table, picking up a measuring tape. Then a gray–bound notebook. He tucked it under his arm. I thought for a second. He returned to the table for a pencil.

— Come here,– Trenderman said, returning.

Riko stepped forward. Then another one. The bell on his collar tinkled briefly.Trenderman got down on one knee.

— Don't move,– he said evenly.

The ribbon slid down her neck: gently, professionally, without unnecessary touches. The tentacle with the pencil immediately wrote in the book: Neck circumference is 29 cm. The handwriting is calligraphic, with a slant.

—Arms out to the sides, - he ordered. — Don't slouch.

Rico obediently spread her arms

— 73 centimeters... Few. Very little. –he muttered.

The ribbon went lower. Waist. Hips. The length of the arm from shoulder to wrist. Wrist circumference. The length of the leg is the inner seam and the outer seam. The tentacle with the book was working non-stop, the pencil was tapping on the paper with a rapid fraction.

— Turn around, –he ordered.

She turned around. The ribbon fell on his back. From the neck to the coccyx. From shoulder blade to shoulder blade. Cold, businesslike, completely dispassionate. The tentacle with the pencil scribbled a few more lines.

He finished the measurements. He rolled up the tape. The tentacle with the pencil made the last entry and also went under his jacket. A tentacle, the one that was rummaging in the hanger, took off her ankle-length white nightgown: simple cut, thin cotton, lace trim on the collar and cuffs.

— Put it on,– he handed it to Rico. — A lady can't walk around the house naked.

Riko took the item. She turned it over in her hands. The fabric flowed through her fingers, unfamiliar, slippery, and beautiful. She tried to put it on. She stuck her head in the armhole, got her horns tangled in the straps, and almost tore the lace. Trenderman sighed, soundlessly, long-suffering. He easily grabbed the chemise from her hands and unfolded the dress in front of her. Slowly, as they teach you to tie your shoelaces, he showed you where the neck is, where the armholes are, and where the hem is. He pulled the chemise over Riko's head, adjusted the straps on her shoulders, and pulled down the hem so that the lace lay flat.

—Tomorrow at six in the morning,– Trenderman said. — You will come here.

Let's start choosing your wardrobe.He looked at her. She was wearing a huge white nightgown that was sliding off her shoulder. On bare feet. To watchful eyes.

— Go upstairs now. Atticus will show you to your room.

[threaddle]

It's a long story...