Curva.Liberate

And for those people who have access to mobility devices but might benefit from a second chair they can abuse without risking expensive damage…

Erik Kondo has made a website, Open Source Innovations, that details plans for DIY wheelchairs. These wheelchairs can be made from common materials like wood, plastic, and pvc. They are lightweight and can be custom fit to the user allowing from the same degree of movement you would get from a custom chair. And they are durable and easily repairable. (he has been stress testing his latest design by dropping it down stairs, dropping it out of a car, launching it across a driveway, and throwing it off a deck). Its 12lbs and I think he said its was in the $200 ish range for parts.

if I make these links clickable they'll get deleted so please copy and paste them:

Livestream: https://www.twitch.tv/enderempress

Progress is going well on my Ancient Egyptian fantasy The Soul of Sekhmet book 2. I'm about halfway done with the writing.

I've launched a Kickstarter campaign for support while I finish the writing, do the cover, go into the publishing, etc.

Currently, I have the pre-launch page up for awareness before the campaign starts on July 6.

If you're into historical fiction/ fantasy, and you want to check it out or support it, then click here!

Check out the first book "Daughters of the Sun"!

Please spread the word around 🙂

you thought it was tattoo flu, up until you found red stains in your underwear a week after sukuna oh so…graciously took you to your appointment. you try not to think about it—

—after the stenciling was done, you waited for him to move from the tattoo chair, you and the artist, Getou, alike. but sukuna kept his spot, lounging back, his feet stretched from the long expanse of the chair, grin sharp and daring as he opens his arms to you. maybe he’s more like a lion, you think, with that cocky show of teeth, with the feline grace he carries himself with as he tells you, simply, to sit. you don’t think this is much appropriate, seeing as you’ve just met him, as how you’ll have to be snuggled into his lap for the duration of the better part of two hours. it’s weird and he’s pushy, but—

—and find yourself going through the motions of cleaning everything up before trekking to the kitchen to make yourself some tea. the water boils, and the house is silent, and your tattoo itches and you can’t help but remember—

—he’s big, in more ways than one, you think to yourself. big and all too comforting and warm and much too snuggly for a man whose canines are longer than your head. Getou keeps telling you to sit still, but it’s hard when you can feel the thick swell of that underneath you, long and not quite hard, and if that’s it soft then what the ever loving fuck—

your phone chiming brings you out of your momentary stupor, your water damn near boiling over all at once. you curse to yourself, grumbling as you get yourself situated before checking your phone. you’re almost dreading the notification, already knowing who it’s gonna be from.

coming to pick you up now.

no greetings, no asking how you are, if you’re busy for the day. you don’t think it would’ve mattered much if you did say you were busy, honestly. you try, anyway, typing and deleting and rinsing and repeating before you say fuck it and bite the bullet. your response might deter him, if just for a little bit—

hi sukuna. I’m sorry, but I can’t see you today. my period just started and I’d like to rest for the day. maybe we can reschedule for next week? :)

—but you forgot that he was more predator than man. he comes, anyway, stomps around your house like he’s been there multiple times, dumps your tea from its warm cup to a travel mug that you don’t use often and sweeps you into his car. the destination for the day is his shop, and it smells like oil and tires and gives you a headache. but sukuna pays your little frown no mind, simply digs into the trunk of his car before he’s tossing you something heavy and warm.

“it’s heated,” is all he says before turning his back to start tinkering under the hood of some junk of metal that you’re not sure runs. you want to protest, to complain, and snap at him that you want to go home and lay in your own bed. but his voice takes on a softer edge, just a tiny bit, as he looks over a broadened shoulder and says, “talk. ‘bout anything.”

and you do. slowly at first, unsure of what to say or where to go with conversation. but he listens, even when you ramble on about the recent book you’ve just finished and that one tv show you loved but whose ending you hated, and the last time you tried a new restaurant and hung out with a friend. he listens to it all, as you take the occasional sip of your tea and bring the blanket under your chin. it’s comfortable, for some reason and you don’t think you would mind more times like this.

"Remember what?" you quizzed, scooting away from him. "That we used to play like this as children. And you lost even then."

𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋. You're a fox youkai who's just been betrothed to be married to this anonymous demon. But is he really that anonymous? He looks.. familiar.

✥ ■ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒. f!reader x sesshomaru

✥ ■ 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒. Arranged marriage; opposites attract;

✥ ■ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. my perfectionism don't like det.

✥ ` ■* 𝐀/𝐍. —enjoy!

✥ ` ■ 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐊𝐀𝐈 - @hisokaswaifu32 @all-the-thngz-i-nvr-said @traumatizedgirly @meontheblock002 @tcapter @luv-for-fictional-characters @rlurvey @obsessedalpaca @bontensbabygirl @bunniotomia

hi! you gave me your number at the grocery store yesterday. I was wondering if you could send me the information about the tattoo shop please? thanks so much! :)

you read the text and reread it and reread it once more before pressing send. goddamnit, you should’ve at least asked for the man’s name, you think to yourself as you read your message for the nth time in twenty seconds. you go to edit the text, or maybe send another, fuck, is it rude to double text a stranger? even if said stranger put his number in your phone despite not really asking for it? you guess you didn’t mind much, especially if he was going to connect you with a good tattoo artist and all, but—

sukuna.

the text comes in during your spiraling thoughts. you read it once, twice. blink a few times. that…does not answer a single thing you had asked. is that supposed to be his name? should you ask him that for confirmation? you pause for a bit, waiting for another text to come through that doesn’t, before making your own move.

hello sukuna! can you connect me with your tattoo artist please? :)

he’s an exclusive prick and doesn’t have any availability for the next two years.

you pause. blink. suck in a deep breath and wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do with this dead end when another text comes through.

but he’ll squeeze you in when I take you so send your address so I can pick you up.

oh what the fuck. this is a bad idea. right? sending what’s virtually a stranger your address? but he seemed…normal enough in the grocery store. didn’t try to outright attack you or crush your head between his tiger paws, as you’d feared before. you want to say no, you should say no, but—

but he’s showing up an hour later, dressed in another tank top, white this time, and low slung gray sweatpants that has a black oil stain on the hip of it. you’re sure he’s part tiger somehow, somewhere, deep in his lineage, with the way he stalks toward you when you open the door and step out. he’s been leaning against his car, something old, that sounds like it’s breathing with every passing second, and the man—sukuna—grins when he sees you. his legs are long, and you can make out the muscled thigh from beneath the fabric of his pants, and—oh fuck, you shouldn’t have looked down there.

you’re not a pervert. really, you’re not! especially to men that aren’t on the pages of your books. but it’s hard not to notice the thick bob between his legs when he steps up to you, and gently but sternly guides your glued form from the steps to the passenger side of his car. he opens the door for you, and you think it’s gentlemanly, until you realize that the thing is damn near bolted shut and you couldn’t have opened it yourself if you tried. still, you thank him, to which he leers at.

“don’t be thankin’ me just yet,” he tells you, and you think it might be a threat, or maybe a conversation starter, but you’re not too sure so you stay quiet in the end. “gotta swing past my shop first to pick up some cash.”

you should tell him no, should tell him you can pay for your own tattoo, and actually, you can wait two years for a tattoo, and that you really shouldn’t go to a second and third location with him. but sukuna kinda smiles at you—you’re still not sure if it’s a smile or him bearing his teeth in threat but you smile back, anyway—and let him drive you away from your home. you could be getting murdered, but you don’t wanna make any assumptions and offend him, so you sit quietly and hope for the best.

Update 5/20/26 : I want to express my deepest gratitude for every bit of support I’ve received since posting this—every message, every validation, every person who looked at the evidence. I’ve been overwhelmed with love, and it means more than I can say. I also want to acknowledge that at first glance, our accounts and writing styles do not appear to share any likeness, but the appropriation was never about surface similarities. It was about specific, blatant steals of phrases and original posts right after I wrote and published them—and near-rewrites sprinkled throughout their content, as I felt like I was being stalked for content even after I mass blocked them. My imagery, phrasings, and structural choices were replicated too precisely to be coincidental. However, since this letter was published, that pattern has stopped. They’ve separated their works, reblogged a lot of content unlike my own to cover their tracks, (or perhaps right their wrongs), and nothing of mine has been taken since. In that way, this post has done exactly what it needed to do: it drew the boundary, made the pattern visible, and ended the appropriation. ( I hope for good! )

I blocked you on every platform to draw a clear boundary. Despite this, you have continued to engage with my work in ways that go far beyond inspiration or influence. I want to be clear about something: creative communities thrive on shared influence. We all read each other, learn from each other, reference each other. That is not what this is about. What I'm referring to is the systematic appropriation of my works, not just themes or styles, but specific imagery, phrasings, and structural choices. The adoption of my online voice, my biographical details, my aesthetic frameworks. The replication of posts I've written, down to turns of phrase and formatting choices. This has continued for years, and it has continued after I explicitly ended our contact. I have documentation. Screenshots spanning years. Side-by-side comparisons. Timestamps. I have shown this evidence to people I trust, and their reaction has always been unanimous.

I am asking you, publicly and unambiguously, to stop.

Stop engaging with my work. Stop replicating my voice. Stop presenting elements of my creative identity as your own. If this continues, I will make the evidence public. I don't want to do that. But I will not continue to watch someone wear my work, my words, and my identity while I stay silent.

( This is the only warning you will receive. )

These screenshots from today alone represent a small fraction of an ongoing pattern. Same concepts, same sensory language, same voice—just reworded and reformatted. That is still plagiarism.

See, also:

And I want to be very clear about what I am and am not asking for. I am not asking you to stop writing. I am not asking you to stop posting content. I am not asking you to leave any community or space we both occupy. We can coexist separately in the same creative communities. There is room for both of us to write, to post, to build our own work and our own voices.

What I am asking for is simple:

Build your own voice. Develop your own aesthetic. Create work that is genuinely yours. This is not about territory; this is not about gatekeeping themes or styles or creative spaces. This is about the difference between being inspired by someone’s work and appropriating it. This is about respect, boundaries, and basic creative ethics.

To everyone else reading this: I believe in creative community. I believe in influence and inspiration. I believe in learning from each other. This letter is not about any of that. This is about a specific pattern of behavior that crosses a line most of you would recognize immediately if you saw the bountiful evidence.

If Gege Akutami--whose face we have never seen and who has virtually NO social media presence--can find time to address antiblackness in Japan in a single manga panel the way no other mangaka seems to dare with his ONLY BLACK CHARACTER, and can stand dick-to-ass in the MAPPA studio helping to guide and oversee JJK production to make sure it's true to his vision?

Then Urana could have pushed to find some niggas in Tokyo to play the BLACK CHARACTERS in a stageplay instead of have not one but THREE actors doing blackface. For fuck's sake Japan is experiencing a high influx of Black immigrants and expats, at least three of them niggas is actors, I promise you! An open casting call would not have gone amiss!