#Viper Fan Fiction

[caliberbook]

Part 1 VINCENT Chapter 2 (Part 4)

“I’m from”—she tried to hide a diminutive smile—“the higher-ups.”             “You mean the government?” Marielle asked, but it came out as more of a statement.             Barbara smirked. “Yes, I mean the government.”             Marielle glanced at Liam, but he was looking down.             “I’ve been sent in to manage things.”             “But… we’re well managed.”             “That doesn’t really matter, Ms. Chaenes. You didn’t think we would let an operation like this go on for so long without any supervision or direction, now did you?” 

Marielle noticed the slight twitch in Barbara’s fingers as she curled them into her palm. She was upset, but controlling it well. “Operation? We’ve… we’ve done nothing but help people.”             “That”—Barbara adjusted her collar—“is debatable.” There was a brief silence. “Ms. Chaenes, you have people in this facility from all over the world. The United States government has no files on some of them—or records, for that matter.” 

Marielle swallowed. That was true enough. She briefly wondered about John. What would the United States government do if they knew about his existence and what had happened to him? It was true that none of them truly knew what had occurred to make him… whatever he was now, but that was their business, not a third party’s. 

“You have people from South Korea, Russia, Germany…” Another pause. “Do you see how this can get a little… tricky?”             “Is ‘tricky’ the word you really wanted to use?” Marielle asked.             Barbara said nothing, but another soft smile crossed her thin lips. Marielle saw a hint of pride in that one—not for herself, but for Marielle. She knew then that Barbara either admired her personally or her ability to read people. Was this a test? 

“Dangerous,” Barbara corrected. “Unknown. Again, there are people here who have powers and abilities, not all of them documented, and some as mysterious as the people who possess them. I’ve even heard that you yourself are something of a mystery, Ms. Chaenes.”             Marielle looked down morosely. “Yeah. I have some kind of ability, although I’ve never fully understood it.”              Barbara took a deep breath. She was becoming more difficult to read the longer she spoke. “All of this requires checks and balances. As a result, we will be coming in for the next few weeks to interview, document, and review each agent. My associate, another senior profiler, Austin Rancor, will be here to interview you in a few days.” For some reason, Barbara seemed disappointed about this.             “What does any of this have to do with me?” She looked to Sabine, but she was staring at the table.             “Up until now, we—that is, the United States government—have let all of this go due to the fact that Valorant has indeed helped people.” Barbara leaned forward and interlocked her fingers in front of her on the table. “However, now things are changing.” She pointed a finger at the folder Jamie had given Marielle.             Marielle’s eyes moved around the room, looking for clues, then dropped to the folder. “What’s the problem?”             “He’s sitting in the next room,” Sabine seethed, her eyes meeting Marielle’s for the first time, blazing and full of disdain.             “What does this have to do with me?” Marielle repeated.             “You’re French,” Sabine added.             “And?” Marielle pressed.             “So is he.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Want more? https://www.caliberbook.com/

[wafflefries13]

Go For It, Jamil!

Summary: Scarabia hears their Vice-House Warden has a crush and are a little too enthusiastic to help out.

AN: I really like the idea that the dorm mob loves their wardens and vice wardens. It makes me think of the tsum event where all of Savanaclaw was in tears because they thought Leona got turned into a little burrito plush, lol.

I got Omar and Babkak from the Aladdin Broadway musical. There's also a Kassim there but I thought it sounded too close to Kalim so just kept it to the two of them.

Warnings: Pining. Apparently I'm really into that. AFAB reader with she/her pronouns.

Spring had come to Night Raven College. With the blossoming trees, chirping birds, and returning sunshine, one thing everyone could count on was Kalim’s annual Welcome Spring party. Of course, he also had a Welcome Autumn, Welcome Winter, Welcome Summer, Farewell End-of-School-Year, Beginning of School, Halloween, New Year's Eve and Day, basically anything party. The difference here was that there were generally more flowers. 

“And we can have the cherry blossom trees around the entrance of the courtyard!” Kalim was saying. Jamil dutifully followed behind him by a few steps, taking down notes for the numerous things they would need to order. “That way when the wind blows the petals will swirl everywhere and it will be super pretty!” 

“MmHmm,” Jamil muttered, only halfway paying attention. 

“And I was thinking the food should be fruit-themed. Blueberries, strawberries, plums, apricots, rhubarb - is rhubarb a fruit? It’s sweet but it’s like celery, right? Cause it grows in the ground in a stalk?” 

“It’s a vegetable.” 

“Oh, and pastels! I can get bolts of silk and we can have them hanging from the ceiling in panels and string beads between everything.”

“Sure.”  

“And it’ll be the perfect backdrop when you confess to (Y/N)!” 

Jamil nearly tripped over his own feet. Both of them froze at the sound of a shattering pot. Looking up, Jamil felt dread build in his stomach as a wide-eyed first-year stared at the two of them, obviously having overheard Kalim’s (obviously totally ridiculous) announcement. There was a broken flower pot at his feet. 

“I-Uh-” The first-year stuttered. “Sorry, I’ll get a broom.” He dashed off like his feet were on fire. 

Jamil sighed. The last thing he needed right now were rumors swirling around. “Kalim, what are you talking about?”

Kalim blinked at the retreating student before looking back at Jamil with a beaming smile. “(Y/N)! It’ll all be super romantic, right? And spring’s a time for new beginnings. We’ll have a string quartet and I’ll set up a gazebo with hanging lanterns and you can take her hands and look her in the eyes and say-” 

“Okay, okay, okay!” Jamil quickly said, clapping a hand over Kalim’s mouth before another eavesdropper got the wrong idea. “You have way to clear an image of all this.” 

“Of course! I think it’ll make a great story for your wedding!” 

Jamil heard a gasp. He turned just in time to see the first-year from before ducking behind the corner with another in tow. 

Yup. There was the headache coming. 

“Kalim,” Jamil said, measuring his words as steadily as he could. “I’m not going to confess anything to (Y/N).” 

Kalim pouted. “Aww, why not?” 

“Because I don’t have feelings for her.” 

“What? Of course you do!” 

“I promise I don’t.” 

“Don’t worry, she’ll definitely say yes.” 

“That’s not the problem here.” Jamil sighed. “Look, I get that you have good intentions, but you don’t need to go overboard and be involved in everything. We talked about this, remember? The whole thing about boundaries?” Actually, (Y/N) had mediated that conversation a few days after Jamil’s Overblot. Is that why Kalim had become convinced they had some sort of romantic attraction? Because talking about feelings must lead to the extreme of those feelings? 

Kalim looked chastened, a certain wet puppy dog look that would make most people fold instantly. Jamil was not most people. “Right, I remember. I just…” Jamil waited for Kalim to continue, silently hoping he would just drop it. “I want you to be happy, you know? And I think you’d be really happy with (Y/N)!” 

Jamil looked at Kalim sideways. “It’s more of a two way street, you know.” 

“Well, yeah, but (Y/N) likes you too!” 

Jamil tripped over his own feet again. He felt a strange kind of dread at the way his heart skipped a beat as a warm feeling flooded his chest. 

“She-what-Where did you hear that?” 

Kalim shrugged, smiling coyly. “I can tell. Just like how I can tell you like her.” 

“I don’t,” Jamil said firmly. 

Kalim held up his hands in surrender. “I hear you! Boundaries! I won’t mention it again.” He added under his breath, “Even if I think you two would be really cute together.” 

“I heard that.” 

*

Behind them, hidden in the long shadows of the Scarabia hallways, a cluster of students were beginning to plot. 

*

The next day, Jamil was taking some time to relax between classes. Well, as much as he could relax. Mostly his thoughts were occupied jumping between organizing for the Welcome Spring party, creating a mental schedule of what school projects were do when, planning what he would make Kalim for lunch for the next week-

“Jamil!” 

He turned to see (Y/N) waving at him. He felt his heart start thumping rapidly in his chest. Stop it, He thought. I can’t let Kalim get in my head like that. 

“Hi,” She said, coming up to him. 

“Did you need something?” 

“Not really. Just saw you over here stuck in your own head again.” She elbowed him playfully. Jamil felt himself smile without realizing it and quickly schooled his features to a more serious expression. “Want to take a break? I snagged these cookies from Sam’s. Tomorrow’s the expiration date so I got them on sale.” 

Jamil wrinkled his nose. “Is it worth it?” 

(Y/N) shrugged, taking a bite of a cookie. “It’s in the budget. You know, whenever Crowley actually decides to pay me.” 

“You know, if you’re ever short on food you can always come to Scarabia. If Kalim’s not throwing another party with a buffet I can get you something. I always make extras for Kalim, anyway.” This was not entirely true. Jamil had had practically his entire life to get used to cooking for Kalim, and it was only recently that he had started making larger batches, packaging them up to deliver to a certain magicless prefect who’s nutritional health he definitely didn’t worry about.  

(Y/N) smiled and offered him the cookie bag. “You look after everyone all the time, don’t you?” 

Jamil smiled back and took a cookie. They sat in an alcove in the hallway, chatting about nothing of significance. Jamil told a story about how Floyd had insisted Jamil teach him how to spin on his head during basketball practice and (Y/N) told him stories of her recent trip to Harveston, Epel’s hometown, and the sled race against the surprise Royal Sword Academy students. 

Jamil saw movement out of the corner of his eye, but whatever it was disappeared before he could catch it. “Sorry, what did you say?” 

“Oh, about the stuffed animals. Sebeck won’t admit it, but I think he still has his squirrel plush in his room. I don’t think it’s magic anymore but it is really cute.” 

Jamil heard the drag of a bow on strings and looked around. 

(Y/N) frowned. “Are you okay? You seem distracted.” 

Jamil shook his head. “No, sorry, I’m fine. I thought I heard-” 

Music started to pour around them. Although it was the calming, one might almost say romantic, type, they both still jumped at the sudden noise. Jamil jumped up, looking around, and took a hit of sunflower petals directly to his face. 

“Omar!” Someone hissed. “Be careful!” 

“Sorry, Babkak,” A voice squeaked back. 

Wait, Jamil knew those voices. He whipped around the corner, seeing a group of Scarabia first-years. Several formed a string quartet, softly playing music. The other two had a bucket of flower petals, one of them throwing handfuls in the air while the other directed a zephyr spell to blow them across the hallway. The two froze with wide eyes at the sight of their Vice-House Warden. 

“What,” Jamil said, voice steely and arms crossed. “Are you doing?” 

The string players looked nervously at each other but continued to play. Omar gapped like a codfish. Babkak stood up straight with a confident smile. “We’re setting the mood!” 

“What mood?” “For your confession!” 

Oh. Oh, no. Now Jamil realized how he recognized them. Babkak was the one who dropped the flower pot yesterday and Omar was the one he had dragged with him to eavesdrop. They must have heard what Kalim had said yesterday about him and (Y/N) and taken the wrong idea. And, Jamil justified to himself, it was definitely the wrong idea. 

“Jamil?”  

Jamil turned so fast the first-years were momentarily worried about whiplash. (Y/N) stood at the corner, looking curiously at the impromptu band and flowers. Behind him, Jamil could hear them hastily whispering to each other to keep playing and trying to get the effect of floating flower petals just right. 

“Something going on?” She asked. 

“No!” Jamil said, perhaps a little too quickly. “They were just leaving.” He glared at the first-years. “After they clean this up.” 

(Y/N) took a step forward. Jamil felt his mouth go dry as she reached up and plucked a few stray yellow petals from his hair. “Is this for a botany project or something? Kind of romantic, huh?” 

Jamil felt his face burn with embarrassment. 

“No!” Jamil said, at the same time Babkak said, “Yes!” 

“Okay,” (Y/N) said, rolling closed the half-full bag of cookies. “Well, I should probably get going. I need to see what kind of trouble Grim has gotten into while I was gone. I’ll see you later, Jamil.” She waved to him and then the first-years. 

“What made you think this was a good idea?” Jamil asked, trying very hard not to yell, when (Y/N) was out of earshot. 

“Sorry, sir,” Omar said, dejectedly picking up flower petals. He glared up at Babkak. “I told you we should have gone for the romantic dinner. And rose petals, not sunflowers.” 

Babkak waved his friend off. “Don’t be so cliche. Besides, sunflowers are way better! They’re pretty and you can eat the seeds!” 

“Hey!” Jamil snapped. The two boys looked back up at him while the other first-years were trying to discreetly pack up their instruments. “I asked what you were doing? Did Kalim put you up to this?” 

“No, sir, this was all us!” Babkak said, a little too proudly. “We wanted to help.” “Yeah,” Omar said. “We’re all rooting for you, Vice-House Warden, sir!” The other first-years made noises of agrement. 

“Rooting for me?” 

“With (Y/N), to tell her you love her!” 

Jamil groaned, covering his eyes with his hand and rubbing his temples. “I am not in love with the Prefect.” Jamil missed the skeptical look the two gave each other. “Look, I appreciate the…vote of confidence, but I’m not going to confess anything to anyone any time soon. So whatever else you have planned, or whoever else you told this rumor to, you can give it a break. Understand?” 

“Yes, Vice-House Warden,” They all echoed dutifully. 

As Jamil marched away, Omar leaned over to Babkak. “I’ve got twenty madol that say he confesses before the spring party.” 

*

Jamil’s muscles were burning, and he welcomed it. He needed the distraction after this morning and basketball practice against Floyd in full force was a pretty good diversion. Ace had been uncharacteristically distracted all practice. Although Jamil couldn’t help but notice that Ace seemed to pass a little harder than necessary. 

During a water break, Ace came up to Jamil. He tossed his water bottle between his hands, taking a step away and then closer. 

Jamil knew he would regret it before he even asked, “What’s up, Ace?” 

Ace startled, surprised Jamil had made the first move. “I heard something,” He said. “In potions class today.” 

“Did someone blow up something again? Anyone get turned into an animal or something?” 

Ace pressed his lips together. “Do you like (Y/N)?” 

Jamil couldn’t decide whether to be exhausted, flustered, or annoyed. “Who told you that?” 

Ace’s eyes widened in shock. “You do?!” 

“No!” Jamil snapped back. “People are just going around spreading rumors.” 

“Huh?” Floyd asked, sliding over on the bleachers. “I thought everyone knew already.” 

“Knew?”

Floyd flashed his sharp teeth. “Come on, Sea Snake. Everyone knows you’re, what’s the land term? Head over heels for Shrimpy.” 

Ace dropped his water bottle and jabbed an accusatory finger at Jamil. “I knew it!” 

“You don’t know anything,” Jamil said, shoving Ace’s hand aside. 

“Oh?” Floyd said, leaning in a little too close. “So that means she’s available then?” 

“No!” Ace and Jamil both shouted at the same time. Ace glared at Jamil. A few other members of the basketball club glanced over, snickering to themselves at the outburst. 

Ace puffed out his chest, planting himself solidly in front of Jamil. “Look, (Y/N) is one of my best friends. And if you do anything to mess with her then… then…” Ace fumbled, running out of steam with his threats before catching his second wind. “Then you’ll have to deal with Jack!” 

Jamil crooked an eyebrow. “Jack? Not you or Deuce?” 

Ace shrugged. “Jack’s the biggest. But Deuce did used to be a delinquent. I’ve seen him be pretty brutal when he wants to. And I guess Epel can scrap up too, when Vil isn’t around. Probably couldn’t convince Sebeck to help out, he’d just lecture about a knight’s honor or something. Ooh, Ortho had a blast cannon! So, you know, watch out!” 

“I like how you didn’t put yourself in the line of fire there, Crabby,” Floyd said. He rolled his shoulders. “But you know, I think Shrimpy is pretty great, too. I don’t want to see her sad or anything. So if someone were to maybe break her heart,” He glanced sideways as Jamil with crazed wide eyes. “Can you swim, Sea Snake?” 

Jamil just glowered back at him. “Can everyone just stop talking about (Y/N) today?” 

“People are talking about me?” All three of them jumped. (Y/N) walked into the gym, Grim hanging off her shoulders. “I thought I felt my ears burning.”  

“Shrimpy!” Floyd immediately ran up to her, sweeping her up in a tight squeezing hug. Grim jumped off her shoulders with a yelp. Ace yelled and pulled at Floyd’s jersey, trying to pry them apart. 

(Y/N) weakly patted Floyd’s back with a free hand. “Hi, Floyd, hi, Ace. Sorry, I need Jamil real quick.” 

The two boys froze, slowly turning their heads to stare at Jamil, who was busy hiding his face in his hands. They watched like hawks as (Y/N) walked over to Jamil. 

“Hey,” She said. “You okay?” 

“Fine,” He said, waving her off. “Just one of those days, you know?”

She frowned. “You need me to talk to someone? I can chew out Ace if you want. Floyd is sort of out of my league, though.” 

Jamil sighed a laugh. “No, that’s fine.” 

“Oh! Right! Hang on.” She slung her backpack off her shoulder, reaching in and pulling out a familiar water bottle. “Here, you left this in the library. One of the Scarabia first-years found it and asked me to bring it to you.” 

“Oh, thanks. I was wondering where it was.” Jamil didn’t mention that he hadn’t been in the library at all today. As he reached to take it, their fingers brushed. Jamil grabbed the bottle and jerked back like he had been scorched. His heart was hammering, not from the exercise of basketball practice, and he was momentarily worried (Y/N) would be able to hear it. Not to mention if she would notice how clammy his hands had suddenly become. 

“Well,” (Y/N) said. “I guess I’ll get out of your hair-”

“Wait!” 

The entire basketball team, plus (Y/N) and Grim, turned to the sudden outburst. Babkak had half way thrown himself out of the doorway entrance to the gym, hand extended in a Stop motion. Omar guilty peaked out from the door frame. 

“Uh, I mean,” Babkak said, back peddling. 

“You should stay!” Omar jumped in. “I mean, we should all stay to watch practice! Support your local team and everything!” He weakly punched the air. “Go team?” 

Jamil opened his mouth to chastise them again before (Y/N) spoke, “That sounds fun. I don’t get to see you guys play too often. If that’s okay with you, though.” 

“Oh, um,” Jamil stuttred. 

Floyd jumped up, throwing himself over Jamil’s shoulders and smiling wide. “Of course you can stay! You can watch Sea Snake show off!” 

Jamil elbowed him. “You’re the one who shows off, Floyd.”

(Y/N) shrugged, smiling. (And Jamil definitely didn’t feel his heart flip.) “I don’t have any plans.” 

As everyone got back in position for practice, Ace took his place, whispering to Jamil, “Remember: Ortho has a laser cannon.” 

Jamil rolled his eyes. 

From the corner of his eye, Jamil saw the group of Scarabia first-years shuffle into the bleachers around (Y/N) and Grim. He thought he saw a few of them hiding objects behind their backs, but was pulled back to the game before he could investigate further. 

He lost himself back in the game. Sneakers squeaked against the waxed wooden floor, the bounce of the ball reverberated around the gym, each quick and practiced movement by the players blurring at the edge of Jamil’s vision. Another player passed him the ball. He faked left, turning around Floyd, before lining up a shot at the three point line. He raised the ball, arms tensing in preparation to shoot and- 

A blare of sound echoed through the gym, bouncing off the acoustic walls and tumbling down around everyone in attendance. The ball slipped from Jamil’s hands, falling uselessly in a pathetic arc and bouncing across the court floor. Jamil turned to the bleachers where the noise had come from. The first-years, Jamil now recognized them as the string quartet from earlier, now made up a brass band. The noise he had heard was the blast from a tuba. The rest of the band joined in, trumpets, french horn, and bugle. They started playing a high-energy marching tune. How many instruments did these people know how to play anyway? Omar and Babkak had red and yellow pom poms, waving them enthusiastically. Babkak passed a pair to a bewildered (Y/N). 

“Go, Vice-Housewarden Jamil!” Babkak cheered. 

“Show them who’s boss, sir!” Omar whooped. 

Everyone froze, looking from the impromptu cheering section and band to Jamil then back again. Jamil’s face felt as hot as the Scalding Sands desert at noon. It didn’t help at all when Floyd started cackling. 

He began to march over to confront his dorm mates, again, when a new echoing sound made him pause. (Y/N) had thrown her head back in laughter. She stood, waving the pom poms above her head. 

“Go, Jamil, go!” She cheered. 

Jamil was pretty sure he was going to spontaneously combust at any second. 

*

The rest of practice had been a disaster. Every time Jamil got the ball the bleachers would erupt in noise, distracting him and everyone else trying to play. Jamil had never felt so off his game, fumbling the ball, bumping into his teammates, and losing focus at every moment that mattered, and most of the ones that didn’t, too. He purposely avoided turning in the direction of the cheering squad, partially because he wanted to discourage whatever activities the first-years were insistent on doing, and partially so he didn’t have to see (Y/N) cheer for him so enthusiastically. (And, maybe, so she wouldn’t be able to see how flustered he was becoming with every second.) 

A teammate had patted Jamil’s shoulder in sympathy as they headed to the showers after practice. “Don’t worry,” He said. “I bet she still likes you.” 

Jamil resisted the urge to punch him. 

Now, at least, he was back in a rhythm of something he knew how to do: cooking. Ever since his stint in the Culinary Crucible, the ghost chefs had tapped him and a few other stand out cases to help out in the kitchen every once and a while. 

The kitchen filled with the scent of roasting spices and sizzling meat, spilling out into the cafeteria sitting area. Students had started lining up way before the kitchen officially opened to secure their plate of Jamil’s cooking. Jamil felt the tension melt out of his shoulders, much like the butter in the pan he was currently using, as he fell into his familiar rhythms. 

“Thanks again for your help,” One of the ghost chefs said, floating by with a steaming bowl of freshly made turmeric rice. 

“Not a problem,” He replied. “It gets me out of my own head.” 

“Oh?” Another ghost asked. “Having troubles, youngster?” 

“Girl troubles, maybe?” Another snickered. 

All the ghosts jumped as Jamil brought down a butcher knife to decapitate a fish. They collectively decided it was maybe best to drop the topic, already deceased or not. 

“Ah, Jamil, chef, sir?” A student volunteer said, warily eyeing the butcher knife. “Someone was having an issue with their meal. They wanted to talk to you.” 

So much for his relaxation. Jamil quickly let the others know what to keep an eye on in the kitchen and headed out to the main sitting area. He scanned the tables. It looked like everyone was enjoying their food as far as he could tell. He looked back into the window of the kitchen. The volunteer student pointed at a table near the back by a window. He was about half way across the room when he realized that the student was a Scarabia student, a first-year in fact. And, now that he thought of it, he didn’t think he had seen that student in the kitchen before he had come to talk to Jamil. 

Jamil froze, seeing exactly who was sitting at the indicated table. This was a set up. He turned around to go back, only to be stonewalled by two now very familiar Scarabia students. 

“Hello, sir!” Omar chirped. 

“Taking your dinner break?” Babkak asked. “Great! We have the perfect table for you.” 

They both hooked their arms around Jamil’s and practically dragged him over to the table where (Y/N) and Grim sat. 

“Oh, hi,” She said, blinking at the surprise arrival. Jamil felt his throat tighten and couldn’t formulate a response. 

The musically talented first-years descended to the table, quickly picking up her plate of food to whisk a tablecloth over the table, setting down a candelabra which was quickly lit, and a vase with a dozen roses. 

“Roses,” Omar whispered to Babkak with a sly smile. Babkak rolled his eyes. The two shoved Jamil into a seat opposite (Y/N). A plate of food was set in front of him. The sneaky Scarabia student from the kitchen grabbed Grim, shoving a plate of tuna tartare in his paws before he could protest. Then, the group of wannabe restaurateurs vanished as quickly as they had appeared. The two left at the table, Jamil and (Y/N), looked at eachother with confusion. Jamil dropped his head to stare intently at his plate, stabbing at the sayadieh with his fork. 

“Hey,” Jamil was jerked out of his thoughts by (Y/N)’s voice. “I wanted to apologize for earlier, at practice. It looked like we were a pretty big distraction.” 

“You don’t need to apologize,” Jamil said. “It wasn’t your fault.” He glared at the first-years eagerly watching from a table a safe distance away. 

“Yeah, but still, I don’t need to make your life any harder.” 

Jamil looked up at her. She was twirling her spoon around the tabouli, eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. “You don’t make my life harder,” he insisted. “In fact, you’ve made a lot of things easier. My relationship with Kalim is a lot better now, for one thing.” 

She smiled at him, and his heart definitely didn’t skip a beat. “Well, glad I can help, then. But don’t sell yourself short. You’ve been doing a lot of work since everything that happened.” She waved her hand, regarding the invisible thing they both understood. It was still hard to talk directly about his Overblot, the manipulation, abuse of magic, and kidnapping aside. (Y/N) had told him she wanted to give him space for it, to consider how he felt and talk to others at his own pace, but still trying to address the root of the issues. That was when she had started organizing those sessions between her, Jamil, and Kalim, giving them a place to directly talk with each other without outside pressures and influences, helping them work things together as friends instead of the master/servant role Jamil so often felt himself confided to. 

“This is great, by the way,” (Y/N) interjected, scooping up a mouthful of tabouli. “I can always tell when it’s your cooking. Thanks for those leftovers the other day. I know Grim really likes them too.” 

“Oh, yeah, of course,” He said. He didn’t say, “I didn’t make it for Grim. I made it for you.” He blanched at the intrusive thought and snatched up his water glass, taking a large gulp and trying not to choke. 

“You sure you’re okay?” (Y/N) asked. “You’ve seemed kind of on edge all day.” 

“I’ll deal with it later,” Jamil said, looking over at the first-years who started enthusiastically nodding and giving him thumbs-up. 

(Y/N) drummed her fingers against the table.  “Listen, actually, there’s been something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about-” 

“Lgeimat!” Jamil shouted. 

She blinked at him. “Sorry?” 

“The lgeimat! I left them in the fryer! Sorry, have to go, have a good night!” Jamil shot up and zipped back to the safety of the kitchen. 

“I didn’t know we were having lgeimat tonight,” Omar said from their spying perch. 

Babkak thudded his head on the table at their third defeat. “We’re not.” He grumbled. 

*

Jamil collapsed on the low couches in the Scarabia common room, arm flung across his face to cover his eyes from the late evening light. The day felt like it went on forever. Jamil had caught himself constantly looking over his shoulder, jerking at every unexpected sound, in anticipation of an over eager group of first-years. 

“Hi, Jamil-Oh,” Kalim stopped himself, looking over at his drained friend. “You okay?” 

Jamil sighed in response. “Long day.” 

“Oh.” Kalim sat down next to him. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Jamil peered out from under his arm at Kalim. At least that was one improvement, again, thanks to (Y/N) specific intervention. Kalim had slowly been teaching himself not to jump to conclusions or take it upon himself to fix everything by throwing money or extravagance at it, but by taking the time to hear other people, namely Jamil, out first. Of course, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t throw money or extravagance at the problem in the end, but progress was progress. 

Jamil gave Kalim a halfhearted glare. “It’s all thanks to that rumor you started.” 

Kalim blinked. “Rumor? Oh, you mean about how you’re in love with-”

“Yes!” Jamil cut him off, sitting bolt upright. “That! Some first-years heard you the other day and have been following me around, trying to start up some grand romantic gesture.” 

“Oh, yeah, I heard about that. I think it’s sweet.” 

“Sweet?” 

“That everyone believes in you! Everyone knows how hard you work. We all want to see you happy and with the person you love.” 

Jamil stood. “Kalim, I’m not-” 

“Nope.” Kalim said shooting up. He put his hands on the taller boy’s shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You’ve been different ever since winter break. You smile more when (Y/N)’s around. You’re not so tense all the time. And whenever we’re in a group, like at the cafeteria or dorm meetings or parties, you’re always looking for her. And when you see her your whole face just lights up! Do you know how often you talk about her? It’s a lot, Jamil! ‘Oh, I wonder what (Y/N) would think about this. Do you think (Y/N) has that in her world? Do you think (Y/N) likes spicy or sweet food? Do you think (Y/N)’s doing okay at Ramshackle? Do you think she needs help with any repairs like when we stayed there during VDC training? (Y/N) sure works real hard to catch up with a whole new culture. Do you think (Y/N) would want this extra curry?’”  

“I don’t sound like that,” Jamil protested weakly. 

Kalim sighed, hands on his hips. “I’ve known you my whole life. I know what you’re like when you’re mad, I know what you’re like when you’re sad, I know what you’re like when you’re happy, and now I know what you’re like when you’re in love.” 

Jamil pushed back. “I’m not in love with her!” 

“Yes, you are!” 

“I’m not-” Jamil cut himself off. He felt suddenly dizzy. He sat down hard. “Oh, I’m in love with her.” 

Kalim threw his hands in the air. “Yes! Thank you! Finally!” 

“But,” Jamil continued, and Kalim tried really hard to keep his frustration to himself. “I can’t tell her that. I can’t… put that kind of pressure on her. She has enough going on with Grim and Ramshackle and trying to find a way home and… Sevens, she’s going back home, Kalim! I don’t know when or how, but she won’t even be in this universe! And what, I’m just supposed to show up and dump this emotional baggage on her when she already has everything else to worry about?” 

Kalim sat down next to Jamil. He twirled his fingers together, trying to collect his thoughts. Why was it always so hard to know the right thing to say? “You said feelings were like a two way street yesterday, remember? So don’t you think (Y/N) should have a say too?” 

“Kalim, I can’t-”

“Yes you can!” Kalim shouted, jumping up and clapping his hands. “You’re Jamil Viper! If anyone can do it, can do anything, it’s you! And keeping everything bottled up isn’t fair to you or her or anyone. So-So-” Kalim frowned, trying to look stern, a very strange expression for the normally boisterous boy. “So go tell her how you feel right now, and let her decide what happens next! That’s an order as your house warden!” Kalim flinched. “Please.” 

Jamil stared at him for just a second too long, making Kalim squirm with worry that he had gone too far. Then, Jamil sighed, resigned, a half smile on his face. “Well, if my house warden is ordering it, how can I say no?” 

*

Despite what he had told Kalim, Jamil dreaded every step towards Ramshackle dorm. Even with the ‘order’ from his house warden, Jamil considered turning back. Instead, with each uncertain step, he plotted out exactly what he would say. Was it just as simple as ‘I have feelings for you?’ Should he have some grand gesture ready? Absolutely not. Those first-years had spoiled that concept for him. 

Before he realized it, Jamil was walking up the pathway to the dilapidated dorm. He stood at the front step, fist up ready to knock. It hovered there. A plan, he still needed a plan. He couldn’t just walk in without a plan of what to say, what to do. He’d had the entire walk over here, how had he not come up with a more solid idea? 

The door snapped open in front of him, Grim hurdling out, crashing into Jamil’s chest. “What-? Oh, hey!” Grim said, rubbing his head at the bump then cracking into a wide smile at the sight of Jamil. “Did you bring us dinner again?” 

“Uh, no, not this time,” Jamil said, already thrown off. 

Grim frowned. “Meh, whatever. I’m going to Sam’s anyway to get some tuna.” 

“Milk and eggs!” (Y/N)’s voice called from inside. “You’re getting milk and eggs! And oranges if they have any.” 

“That too!” Grim said. He winked then sped off down the path. 

(Y/N) appeared at the doorway, clearly having sprinted to catch the dire beast before he left. “Grim, I said we don’t have the budget to- Oh, he’s gone. Right, sure, why not?” She sighed. “Hi, Jamil.” 

Jamil swallowed hard. “Should I come back later?” 

(Y/N) waved the idea off. “No, it’s fine, you’re already here. Come on in.” 

Jamil followed her into the dorm to the sitting room just past the entrance hall. Despite the age and wear of the building, it was clear that (Y/N) had taken a lot of pride in fixing it up and keeping everything in order. 

“Sorry, I was in the middle of doing dishes,” (Y/N) said, whipping her wet and slightly soapy hands against her skirt. “Go ahead and take a seat, I’ll get some tea and snacks.” 

“It’s fine,” Jamil said, quickly standing back up after having just sat down on one of the overstuffed couches. “I know where everything is, I’ll get it.” 

“No, no, you’re a guest. Take a break, I’ll get it.” 

“It’s fine really. I’m sure Crowly has been keeping you busy all day.” 

“And you’re just as busy. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

“No, really, I-” 

“Jamil!” Jamil jumped at her sudden outburst, his hands frozen in the air. She huffed and put her hands on her hips. “Honestly. You take care of everyone else all the time. Let me take care of you for once.” 

Oh no. Oh no. 

“Now sit down while I go make some tea.” 

He sat down. This was worse than he thought. He really was in love. 

She wanted to take care of him. Of him. When was the last time someone offered to take care of him, to lighten his load, to take responsibility for the burden? For as long as Jamil could remember that had been his job, his life. Kalim, Najma, his parents, the Scarabia students, everyone and everything. It was like he didn’t realize just how tired he was until (Y/N) offered to help. Why did her snapping at him just now make him feel so relieved? 

Almost without thinking about it, Jamil’s feet took him into the kitchen. (Y/N) was standing at the stove, setting down a heavy teapot on the burner. She was mumbling to herself about something, Jamil couldn’t really hear what. His ears were ringing. 

(Y/N) noticed that Jamil had come into the kitchen, turning to face him. She frowned, eyebrows knit together. “Jamil, I told you that - Oh!” 

Ignoring his anxiety, ignoring that nagging thought that he didn’t have a plan, ignoring the churning nervousness in his stomach, Jamil pulled (Y/N) into a tight hug, burning his face in her hair. 

“I like you,” He said, so softly that he had to repeat himself to make sure she heard, to make sure she understood the depth of his feelings. “I like you. I think I might even- I feel better when I’m with you, like I can be better. I don’t feel like everything I’ve done up until now is just in service to someone else, because all of those things lead me to meeting you. I feel like I can think clearly, that I don’t always have to be on alert. I want to take care of you, I want to be with you, I want us to be together. And I know - I know I’ve done horrible things in the past, I know you’ve seen me at my lowest. But you still see me, me, not anything else. Not the servant, not the diplomatic aid, not the Overblot monster- How could I not fall in love with you? So, (Y/N), please. I just - please.” He wasn’t quite sure what he was asking ‘please’ for, he only hoped she would understand. 

(Y/N) trailed her fingers along his back, threading through his long hair. She pulled back, as much as Jamil’s embrace would allow. The corners of her eyes were dotted with tears. “Jeeze, Jamil,” (Y/N) said. “Way to steal my thunder. I wanted to say it first.” 

Jamil let out a cracked laugh, tears welling up in his own eyes. “You did?” 

(Y/N) hiccuped, laughing. “Yeah, of course. I thought I was being kind of obvious with it. I finally decided to suck it up and tell you at dinner earlier, but you just ran away so I thought you knew what I was going to say and didn’t feel the same.” 

“Sorry, I guess I was nervous. And those first-years all day…” 

(Y/N) laughed out loud. “I was wondering what was up with that. Was that Kalim or something?” 

“For once, no. They took it upon themselves to try and set us up.” 

“Aww, they care about you.” She hugged him close. “And I can see why.” 

*

That weekend, it was finally time for the Welcome Spring party, and there were, indeed, more flowers than usual. Kalim was flitting around, making sure everything was organized and where it needed to be. Jamil had asked if he could leave for the morning, coming back when it was time for the party to start. And, even though he had been the one to ask for the time off, Jamil had double checked that it was okay with Kalim no less than a dozen times before he actually left. Kalim insisted repeatedly that he would be fine, that he had a handle on everything. And, maybe, for the most part he did. It definitely helped that Jamil had assigned tasks to several other dorm members the night before to make sure Kalim didn’t get too overwhelmed. 

Just as the golden hour set in, magical floating lanterns bobbing along in the air amid swirling flower petals, the guests started to arrive. Kalim had sent out a recommended dress code ahead of time, requesting pastels, whites, and gold. Something to fit in with the refreshing and floral mood he wanted to create. Mostly, he was happy to report, everyone was able to follow the requirements. Heartslabyul students especially were rigidly adhering to the dress code under the watchful eye of their house warden. Most of them wore pinks, as it was the required color when taking care of the dorm flamingos so they already had something that would fit the theme. Savannaclaw didn’t much stick to theme, but had tried to comply with sticking puffy peony blossoms through belt loops or behind their ears. Octavinelle wore light blues and corals, studded with shimmering scales, pearls, and other bits of underwater flora. Scarabia, of course, as the hosts, were the most bejeweled, taking inspiration from the fairy gala that had inadvertently plunged the campus into chaos, but also resulted in beautiful flowing white and gold garments. Pomfiore stayed mostly in lavenders and lilacs, highlighted by golden embroidery in fantastic scenes and shapes. Ignihyde, for those who did show up, dug out whatever was the lightest color in their wardrobe, mostly staying in light blues. Similarly, no one was expecting much from the usually dour-toned Diasomnia. But, not wanting to create a social fopaux at one of the few events he had received an invitation to, thanks to (Y/N) reminding Kalim to expand his guest list at the last minute, Malleus had ensured that all his dorm members wore mint and emerald green with gold dotted throughout. 

There was a noticeable absence of two usually prominent figures, but Kalim assured everyone Jamil and (Y/N) would be arriving soon. And, although Jamil had tried to slip in quietly while everyone’s attention was focused on the dance floor for an aerial ribbon performance, Kalim’s squeal of delight quickly diverted everyone’s attention. Jamil held in a groan as attention whirled to him and (Y/N). They both wore outfits from the fairy gala, meticulously designed and created by Professor Crewel. She squeezed his hand in support, dragging him further in, head held high while ignoring the stares. A few Scarabia students gave congratulations, thumping Jamil’s back as he passed. Ace caught Jamil’s eye from the other side of the room. He pointed to Ortho, who was waving excitedly, and drew a finger across his throat. Jamil rolled his eyes. 

As the aerial dancers finished, (Y/N) drew Jamil to the dance floor. As a band kicked up (seriously, how many instruments did those Scarabia students know how to play?), (Y/N) wrapped her arms around Jamil’s neck as he placed his hands on her hips. He really hoped she wouldn’t notice how sweaty his palms had gotten. 

“You’re nervous,” (Y/N) said. “I’m not used to seeing you like that.” 

“I’ve just never really done this before,” Jamil said. “Not dancing, I’ve done that plenty. Just the whole relationship thing. I never really had a chance before. I don’t want to mess this up.” 

“I think you’ve been doing pretty good so far.” 

Jamil smirked. “It’s been two days.” 

“Well, see? You’re gaining experience already.” She leaned forward, placing her head on his chest. “I’m nervous, too, you know. Not about this. I’m really confident how I feel about you, and I want to stay with you for as long as I can. I mean about everything going on around us. There’s a lot of unknown. Technically, you know, I don’t even exist. Don’t have any papers like a birth certificate or passport or even a valid nationality. But I know I have great people helping me out, including you. And knowing they’re on my side, it helps make things a little better. And I’m on your side. So everything will work out, you know?” 

Jamil hummed. Lowley, in a quiet voice so he could dismiss it if she didn’t hear him, he asked, “Can I kiss you?” 

(Y/N) looked up at him, smiling, eyes twinkling. “I’d like that.”  

*

Off to the side, behind a bolt of silk cloth, Babkak handed Omar a 20 madol note.

[ragingphantom666]

G.I. Joe: War Files project plan: Cobra Commander (Vol. 1)

This series is not an assured project. It is a concept that can still be changed or scrapped.

Synopsis

During the Vietnam War, Commander Gregory Wilson falls into the trap of a North Vietnamese scientist called Doctor Mindbender. The experiments warp his mind, slowly turning him into the villainous fiend who will one day become Cobra Commander. First though, he must face Mindbender’s evil monsters to gain his freedom.

Characters

Gregory Wilson: A commander of the United States Army Corps. He is captured by Doctor Mindbender and put through genetics experiments.

Dr. Minh Bian/Doctor Mindbender: A rogue North Vietnamese scientist. He keeps his whereabouts secret as he conducts unethical experiments on those unlucky enough to fall into his trap.

Other Information

This series is only planned to have one volume.

The genre of this story is horror for being a creature feature.

Bio-Vipers will be involved.

Gregory Wilson is named after my great-uncle and my Papaw, both served in the Vietnam War. My great-uncle died during the war and my Papaw passed away in December.

Cobra-La is not a part of Cobra Commander’s origin because I am not a fan of that storyline.

[yomogi-mogi-mochi]

Merciful Crusade

Pairings: Jamil x Shikigami MC

Summary: The life of a shikigami, or a ceremonial servant spirit was a threadbare one. The small world you scarcely lived consisted of hard, earth‒packed walls framed tightly against a small cedar cell, illuminated only by the lonely starlight during your sleepless nights. Despite your human body, you’re almost certain you’ve never felt the blood move and warm your body in such a way that would indicate that there had ever been a human heart‒ having spent too much time gilded with a hardened iron face to even feel it if it had been there. Jamil‒ who untethers you from the spell that binds you to your onmiyoji master‒ becomes a peculiar mirror in your new life that reflects your choked breaths and measured footsteps. It never bothered you when your own body smothered what was left of your vitality‒ but when you watch Jamil from a distance, knowing the way he classifies each movement, the strangle of his muscles‒ something inside you aches. You don’t know why.

Tw: Mentions of Child abuse/abuse, references to slavery, references to dissociation, references to dissociative amnesia/amnesia, references to anxiety

GN terms for MC

AO3 Link Here.

Masterlist.

——————————————————

"Do not fail me."

You bow forward, on your knees, palms to the gravel, neck cooled from the moonlight. Practiced, perfectly paced breaths, mathematically measured strain of your muscles. It must all be still, perfect as your master always instructs with every narrowed twitch of his eyes, the tightening grip on his staff prepared to unleash his flurry of magic. You had felt it before, the fire of his skillful hand on your skin, bubbling the flesh, and every fiber of your muscles parting with his lashing hands. So you've burned these precise movements, each counted breath, to your body tightly wound to still any mistake, any fear that may escape it. Servant spirits do not speak, tremble, or bleed without the permission of their Onmiyoji masters, however‒ your body once human‒ would shake if you didn't hold the tightness in your shoulders at the center of your stomach, the lurching muscles of your spine. 

  "Leave." He dismisses with a whirl of his hand which cuts through the air. 

  You do as you are commanded, leaping onto your feet and back to the hall of mirrors to head to the Scarabia dorm. The halls are hollow and whistle somberly with the breeze that runs through, and you glide with that sound to reach the boy's room with muted footsteps. Somber indeed, if the word poured from the mouths of wives and neighbors and kings and queens of the lives you had taken were true to its meaning. Another night, another prince's blood is spilt. However practiced, every movement and decision must be performed with quick execution and precise resolution before you disappear like the stars washed from the bleeding morning light. 

  The knife in your hand molds against your grip as you creep into the room‒ the boy sleeping peacefully in his plush pillows and rich fabrics, sunken deeply into slumber. His soft breaths tickle your hand like a fluttering bird as you hold the cloth just above his lips, before you hands work quickly to press it firmly into his airways, filling his lungs with the chemical of your master's making. He takes a brief second of conscious struggle, widening his eyes with panic, but he soon succumbs as they always do‒ eyes rolling back with an idle slump before all the muscles of the body grew limp. You take the blade to his throat, promising a quick death with the angle of which is pressed into his bulging vein. A deep breath in to draw the sharpness quickly in one sweeping motion. 

  But you are stopped by a stony grip and a cold voice which coils around your spine, sending a cold shiver down which you swallow through your taut muscles the best you can. 

  “Stop right there.” 

  In an instant, you leap backwards, body lowered to the ground prepared to take down your obstacle. 

  “Look into my eyes.” 

  They're all the same‒ woven with greed, with false hope, fear‒ all of the rotten fruit which bears heavy on humanity before you bleed every lustrous thing out of them. You always look at their eyes with great indifference as you do with most things, knowing no matter how much they thrash their body and rip terror and mercy through their throat‒ a single motion of your hand would empty them out of such things, as swift as dark wings that claws rotten flesh clean from breaking bones. 

  But you are met with all the silvery glitter of ebbing stars. 

  It is of course not his magic he casts which stills your hand a moment in the air‒ your current status as spirit assured that‒ but the world within the delicacy which projects this spell. Like the thousand colors of heavenly bodies and roaring comets, you think. The allure which trickles between the thick cedar bars of your cell every night‒ the only beauty you know of. And now its greatness was closer than ever, you didn’t know how quite to react other than to stare back dumbly. 

  "Put the knife down and step away‒" 

  You fling yourself towards him in that instant, scraping the skin where the largest vein lies beneath with a lightfast motion, and knocking the wand in his hand. He is quick on his feet, shifting backwards with fluid movement, before he jumps back towards you like a striking serpent‒ pinning one arm down and using his other hand to bring your knife down towards your shoulder. You catch his wrist with the thrust of your elbow, the knife inches away from your palm. 

  "That should have worked on you…"

  This would have to be dealt with quickly. 

  "Your abilities only work on humans, am I correct?"

  He is startled by the rasp of your voice. "Yes. But…"

  In the midst of his confusion, you rammed your hand through the tip of the blade, grabbing his hand with the same hand that tore to pieces with blood and sinew. You flipped him to the ground, pinning his hands to the ground in the same way he had with you. You felt a swift kick to the stomach before you could properly pin his legs down with your own‒ flying towards the wall with his knife still lodged in your hand. Yanking it out with a bloody tug, you resumed a low stance to charge him once more. 

  "You are insane." He says, disgust in his eyes. 

  You leaped at his throat again, while he dodged your tactical violence with a strained breath. Good, he was beginning to waver, you thought. But just as that thought passed, you felt him snake around your form, behind your neck with a prepared fist. Feeling it prickle the hair on your neck, you jumped back, at the ledge of the window to regain your composure. But before you could even grip the handle of your knife properly, you felt your body tipping backwards towards the sky‒ a gust of wind pulling at your spine. 

  As you fell, you tried to think of something, anything, you could measure your life with. But there was nothing, only threadbare blankets of meaning and will. You’ve heard the sputtering nonsense of men you had failed to kill swiftly, recounting their husbands, their wives, their mistresses, their friends, and their children as they choked out their last breath‒ but nothing of that sort came to your mind, just the disappointment adorning your master’s face‒ and ‒ the unyielding excellence of the night sky. You'd never have to face that fury anymore if you succumbed to it‒ so you let your head dip into the dazzling starlight weaving their path like turbulent waves through the darkened sky, prickling in their evanescent virtuosity. You were glad at least to recognize such beauty by the end of your life, and see it at last beyond your cedar cage. Scorching those prickling lights into the flesh of your eyelids, you let the fall embrace your body, diving down. 

  But you soon realized the darkness you had laced into the eyes of many dead did not come. You looked up, the man grasping your hands, plump veins threading his strained arm. The knife in your hand was nimble, quick to stab through your own and into his, knowing the likelihood of his arm giving before he could pull you up. But he whacked the knife out his skin and from your hand, cupping it over yours to begin pulling you up and inside. 

  "You are fucking crazy. Do you want to die or something?" 

  You didn't want anything, but you especially didn't want to anger your master. And it would anger him very much if you left evidence, and especially if you failed this task and came back alive. But you suppose it wouldn’t make much of a difference if he ended your barren life. 

  You laid limp in his hands, until he dragged you over the ledge of the window, toppling your body onto the floor with a thud next to his. With no weapon, you could resort to your bare hands, so you prepared both of your bloodied limbs, cracking your fingers in the air as your knife sharp nails gleamed with red even in the cool blue of the moonlight. 

  However, you felt the man's feet sweep under yours, knocking you off your center and smashing your face into the ground. Quickly, you raised your stance, ignoring the blood that dribbled from your forehead and nose before returning the favor to his own feet, dragging your battered body towards the boy’s sleeping one. All you would need is a single hand‒ if your other limbs and face came as an expense, so be it. You felt a tug at your pants. 

  The man let out a groan. "Just. Stay. Down already!" 

  Your eyes slanted towards his body, as he began to rise off the floor, and away from the carpet. Something tugged inside you, but you let him, heaving your body towards the prince. But the fabric moved from under your feet, catching you in its constructing embrace. You looked down, finding your body completely restricted by a rough fabric that seemed to be wriggling against your rebellious arms. 

  The man tipped his head back in relief, slumping his shoulders down. "Thank the great sevens for this carpet. Kamil is so going to be hearing about this tomorrow morning. As for you…" You stared with a wicked violence in your eyes, daring him to lay a hand on you again, You’d tear out from this fabric and rip everything in your sight to shreds. "Ugh you have such unsettling eyes. It would be better if I just brought you to Crowley. I don't get paid enough for this." He retrieved his wand off the ground, waving it in front of your eyes. You barely fought the phasing darkness that eclipsed your vision, before you fell completely into it. 

——————————————————

   Shikigami don't sleep, so you don’t dream, usually. Today you won’t either. 

  But some nights in your cedar bared cell, you would press your ear to the earth, feel when it would rumble in its arcane voice that rippled like a heartbeat in the hard, earth-packed floor. You’d imagine the heart of the earth, writhing with molten rock, and the way it would hiss feverishly when it met the polluted air above ground‒ beating especially fast during the moments you’d feel it growl against your flattened cheek. The song, and blood of the earth, raw. The dried roots hanging from the ground would be traced by your fingers, as you’d imagine surpassing the curtain of flesh and bone to dive deeper into that beating earth‒ feeling that heart closer, trailing the way the movement would hammer throughout your body. Beyond all that tightness, the pain you would trickle from, back into the heart of the earth. 

  You’d never felt a beat closer than the one beyond your reach, deep under the ground. But when you felt like you needed to hear the sound of your own heartbeat you’ve never heard‒ you would imagine yourself feathering into the earth to feel it.

  “Hey. Wake up.” 

  You wince slightly from the bright daylight entering what appeared to be an office room, blinking to adjust your vision unaccustomed to seeing the rays of the sun. The halls at your master’s abode had always been shrouded in darkness‒ either through the veil of night, or the washi paper dyed dark that showed itself only slightly against the solid shoji frames. Nonetheless, you do everything in your draining power to flatten your expression solid, chilled, against peering eyes. It seems that is all you can do against the three which stand before you, your body and hands bound tightly against the chair you were sat on. 

  “They don’t look threatening at all Jamil!”

  The boy you had been sent out for is still alive, as carefree and sprightly as he was the weeks and months you had observed him. Your eyes swim throughout the room and to the three who stand before you, your mind racing to look for a weapon, a human error, a crack in their facade you could thrust into and to break their bodies‒ to at least finish the bare minimum of your master’s bidding. 

  A man in a mask stands between the two younger men with a file in his hands. “Hm. I’m looking through their files and they seem like they’ve been enrolled normally, a late enrollment, but nothing too suspicious in their file…” 

  “Still‒ this matter should be investigated properly. I will send a message to the Al-Asim family for any resources you need to do so.” The man you fought yesterday rubs his injured hand as he glances at the file, before he flickers his eyes to your form, stilling your wandering eyes in an instant. 

  “Don’t bother looking for an escape. Even you won’t be able to escape those bounds.” 

  You feel the knot of your hands, and you know it well‒ the one the guards use in your cell during nights they particularly felt they needed to release some pent up stress. 

  “Will you dispose of me?”

  “We’re not gonna kill you if that’s what you're asking.” The ivory haired boy answers. His companion sighs a bit at his words. 

  “Kalim, ignore them.” His words fall sharply against your steely gaze. “Who sent you?” 

  You still yourself to silence, returning his question only with unblinking, vacant eyes. This was the best choice, you think, having never had to make this decision before‒ you’d be dead soon after if you had failed to protect your Master’s confidentiality. Perfection or failure‒ that thought had already fettered in your mind, tingling at the back of your neck as if to recall its previous sanctions. Though, you suppose the silence that slated your mouth shut at this moment would be able to prolong that inevitability of suffering. Jaws clamped, shoulders snared, eyes clenched so tightly you saw bursting stars. Those raging bodies could fashion something from that petrified tensity, purifying it to gild yourself in an impenetrable alloy. Still, a hammer is a hammer‒ it could still shape and scar the metal, however impervious.

  You breathe, in, out‒ expelling some of the tightness in your aching back. It always came, always. Reliving those things in this moment would be carving this tomb of a body into more of a museum of yourself. It would soon come, but you’d be steely, cold, by then‒ you had plenty of time. It would come, but not now, you reminded yourself. There was time to strip yourself raw of any feeling. 

  The masked man sighs. “Clearly this isn’t going anywhere. So I’m going to put you in charge of this…” He looks you up and down. “…fellow. Until I get someone to investigate this matter more deeply.” 

  “Of course.” 

——————————————————

   Your master visits that night.

  You've exhausted yourself thoroughly by the time the moon slits itself brightly against the night sky. You don't know whether your fatigue comes from your attempts in unbinding your limbs, or from your still racing mind‒ either way, your body had readied itself for all of your damnation tonight, slumped and sapped of sensation and feeling. But even between your phasing consciousness, you could feel the dreadful drag of his robes, the vivid power swelling with each step he takes towards you‒ a high tide of terror suspended over you before it all came crashing down with a grip to your scalp. 

  Your vision is burnished from a flame coiled around his hands‒ a herald for the burns to come. It eats away at your clothes, and then rages against your skin, splitting it open like seeds, sowing the ache of tomorrow. But right now, you focus on unfeeling all of that‒ jaws clamped, shoulders snared, eyes clenched so tightly you see bursting stars. Unfeel it. Unfeel. A prayer, if you knew the word. 

  “You have disappointed me one last time.” 

  Your master never taught you how to shape decadent words with your mouth. Your tongue was cut and hammered for concise, sparse‒ cold, metallic language‒ please, thank you, yes, forgive me, Master, my apologies. 

  Mercy. 

  That was not one you had learned from him, but had heard so countless times before you had taken the lives of many‒ the word embossed in your mind so deeply it had finally carved itself out to take shape on its own. You thought yourself ready for all of this, but something climbs from your throat. Mercy, mercy, master, mercy‒ the word ran forward on your tongue like an undammed flood, the sound of your voice so frail and winded having been gnawed every waking moment you stood hardened at your master’s feet. You barely recognize it against the thundering of your blood. When he reaches to your throat, palms adorned with the inferno of his abhorrence‒ you rip that word from your cords towards anything you may have the capacity to believe in ‒ a god, a martyr, some mythical beast‒ something that had never shown itself in your life that may present itself in this very moment. 

  Mercy is not of the servant words. He spits, "Failure". Your kind were to take punishment of the sacrilege that was your very existence with thanks, not some wailing perversion of humanity. Still, you break through to cry that word. For hope, or some dwindling attachment to life you do not know. You were reborn without will, no fire, no warmth, and you know the stars do not answer to those who have no heart. But still, you cry. You cry. 

  “Trespassers aren’t welcome here.”

  The roaring scald at your skin stops for a moment, leaving only the aching blister hissing against the air. You cast a fading look to Jamil, who stands behind your master with a wand in hand. 

  “Look into my eyes.” 

  You call to mercy, and it comes in his words. 

  “The person reflected on your eyes is your master. Answer if you are asked, obey if you are ordered."

  The magic takes its time to coil within your master, ever a stubborn mind. But when it does, you feel a lightness within you, and for a second you think it's the trick of the torrid ache that bleeds you dry of life, or the released pressure from your throat that is the cause. That is until you hear the words that follow.

  "Free them. They are yours no longer."

  No, that lightness was very real. It bleeds within your chest, for once, the weight in your lungs as you breathe in, out dwindles. You listen again to his words which echo in your mind, then you realize. He had released you from your master's contract. 

  You let the darkness welcome you as it always has, untethering all the stiffness that binds you. It slips between your cracks like smoke, and you feel as wild and boundless as the roaring starlights. You hold onto the feeling as tightly and as long as you can before it slips, and ciders, as all things do. 

   Shikigami are bound to their master for life, but you're a unique case, you've heard. It was through those cedar bars tipped to the night skies where you hear whispers and hushed words during night patrol‒ the gossip of the many hands and blades which were under your master's rule. Usually, they are about trivial human affairs‒ what to eat that night, who to bed, who to rage against. But you’ve heard, once.

  That one is strange, once human. Once like us. Now…

  You're instructed by your master to keep your head down, bowed to the gravel and tethered low to the earth. It is where you belong. He snarls, driving it further towards the filth. You know to do this for all who work in the great mansion‒ but there was once, when you were younger, a time you had flashed the vacancy of your eyes towards a general. You didn't think much of the tremble of his chest, the disgust twisted in his face and the weak sting of his hand when a fist knocked you to the wall. It’s just how it is.

  You don't know, but you think your master has done worse. You had never measured the strength of fist against your flesh against each other‒ it was useless to dwell on it‒ much easier to swallow all of it the same way, deep into your dark belly. But when word soon found its way to him, you found this to be untrue. Humans are capable of so much more. There was pain beyond comparison.

  That night turned out to be only the rehearsal for many more to come, a harbinger to the trick you embedded in every movement, every bow, every breath. A trick of petrification‒ knowing the taste of blood through teeth, tongue, and flesh, how to swallow it in silence. When the flaying began that night you’d learn how to snare every muscle in your body inwards, drive that agony deep within that fossilized density, shove your face deep in the corner‒ take the pain and hide the face of it. Soon, that face began to fade all together, you’d soon forget how to shape your features in a way that wasn’t thickset iron, that bent and molded against every crucible that scorched and tempered, remaining the same insipid gray no matter how many times it would be hammered and fluxed into any shape. If you’d concentrate enough, you may taste the fragrant blood from your body‒ but you’d swallow it as soon as it came before its flavor could meet your mind. 

  Once like us. Not any more. 

  Men slept so soundly at night once you had shown you'd drag yourself through the halls beating after beating like a rotten corpse‒ heaving behind thrashed skin and filthy blood even with it all nearly being drained from you.

  Like us, but no longer.

  They'd often take turns with their own fists, their own blades, chattering with laughter at your limp form, their inhuman brutality spilling endlessly out from them like buzzing plagues. The next day you'd smell the stink of their lily white faces in the morning incense they burn at their shrines wishing for good fortune, riches, for my wife, this; for my son, that. Though you had sipped the ambrosia of their boundless violence‒ you never thought your eyes divine during those ceaseless nights‒ it was just the way things are. Perhaps that knowledge morphed you into a caricature of the celestial bodies‒ after all, you’d once been made in their image. But the stars never answered your calls. It was all the same for shikigami, you were just a unique case‒ therefore, you must be punished for such heresy that was to defy human order.

  You thought for sure your master would have concocted some acid to smear between the cracks of his skin, brewed death to his hands before he took your throat into it‒ ensuring your destruction. But that would be a kindness for empty spirits such as yourself, so he'd meant to do the same as all other men‒ to satiate their hunger, to ravage and tear apart such living things that could not raise a finger to their might. What better than something that looked like an image of the gods‒ a human? Like us, but no longer. He meant to enjoy every fleeting breath of your lungs, every drop of blood spilt with his permission. So, you supposed you shouldn't be too surprised that you've woken up in the same world again after you had felt the unraveling of your contract. You gnaw on yourself. 

  "Oh. You're awake." 

  No binds, no chair. Only having known the cold, earth-packed floors of your cell, even during your investigations at the school‒ the plush that surrounds you dips awkwardly against your wobbling body, trying to balance itself on the soft surface. You find your center, and you touch the softest, most whole fabric you’ve feat your fingers to. You rake your nails through it to test the delicacy. 

  "You shouldn't move so much, or that's what Jamil told me. Your scars will reopen, I think." It's the ivory haired boy again. You look for his companion either sweeping eyes, but find no one else in the room but him. 

  "It's okay. You're safe now‒ Jamil told me about your situation."

  Your voice comes willowy, dry and crushed like the autumn floor. "Situation?"

  He looks a bit in confusion. “Yeah, your Master. He treats you poorly, doesn’t he?”

  “Poorly?”

  “Yeah, poorly. Like he… abuses you?” 

  You think. You know blood, you know how it spills and beads off your flesh as it is feathered open like a festering, spewing fruit. But you’ve moved so straight-backed all these years, muscles calcified to contain all your writhing heart at once in the great brimming bowl of your hands. You didn’t think of the pain too often or soften your body enough to feel it‒ only of the next breath, the next twitch in your muscles that would spill a drop of that dark liquid, and become reason to prolong the flaying. Maybe that was pain too, the tightness. But such knowledge would be useless in your hands, you decide, so you say your words with conviction‒ flesh fossilized to gilded iron so vigorous it would brace any feeling under its pressurized solidity. 

  “Abuse is a strong word.”

  Kalim blinks. “Still‒ a master’s duty is to protect their servants and right hand, not hurt them. So you can stay with us, here.” He smiles brightly, hands behind his head and tossed back. 

  Your head spun with questions‒ but so many of them falling from your lips began to feel foreign on the tongue. So you declare, “It's just how things are. And…” You look you the boy's hands. Would they reach to you in their cruelty like all others have? Groveling at your master's feet did work at times to feed his ego, his hunger, perhaps you should do the same for him. "Thank you, prince. For this you can use me however you wish." You bow your head, stretching thin your scars. 

  He’s silent, something you measure to be surprise or confusion‒ but before you can completely catch it, Jamil walks through the door, steaming plates in hand. “Kalim, don’t tip your chair like that.” 

  “You’re finally awake.” He hands you a plate of something hot. It’s nothing like you’ve ever smelled before‒ fragrant spices, the warmth of each bursting smell tingling your nostrils and to the back of your throat. Despite its rather plain brown color, the dish glistens and gleams with each slurred movement of the steaming stew, poured over the white heaps you had seen other servants carrying to your master’s quarters, every morning, lunch, dinner. 

  “Eat. It will help you heal.” 

  “Heal?” 

  Again, surprise, you gather, though expressions seem to be faint on Jamil. It stills to his usual expression soon after while he chooses his words carefully. “For your wounds. The…trauma you’ve sustained on your body.” 

  You echo the words you’re unfamiliar with, shaping your clumsy tongue to shape such indulgent words. “Trauma?” 

  “Your back, your body. It’s sustained prolonged exposure to…damage. It’s going to take a long time to heal. Even longer with you malnourished.” He answers quickly, a flicker of his eyes like the tongue of an apse to measure your expression without notice. But you know the movement, having carved it in peripheral gauges low to the ground. You don’t answer to it however, still caught by his foreign words. Even from the most brutal floggings, scars were healed quickly and with force‒ through acid salves and infused tinctures that bubbled away your body’s ailments. You were never given food after your beatings‒ that would be rewarding bad behavior after all‒ you weren’t familiar with this process. 

  “Oh.” 

  “Aren’t your parents worried?” Jamil shoots a look at Kalim when he asks it, but the ivory haired boy does not take notice with his undeviating gaze. 

  “I don’t think I have them.” 

  “You don’t think?” Jamil quirks a suspicious eyebrow. 

  Kalim leans forward, inspecting your face. “Are you even human? We can't find anything else on you besides your school records."

  “I am human. Or…” You look at your reflection in the window, peering into your gaze to find the same life that was held in theirs, or even passing birds and young buds sprouting from the ground. Pain, humiliation, some sliver of the folly of men you'd witnessed. But nothing. Only a shaded hue which atrophied in all directions. “I was.” 

  Jamil gathers his eyebrows to the center of his forehead. "Explain. We're still investigating further into your matter, and we've virtually nothing on your file. We can’t help if we know nothing." 

  You slosh around the food with the spoon, eventually placing it on the table beside you, bringing that plush blanket to your hands. "I know as much as you do‒ I was once human, and now I'm a servant spirit. I don't know or remember anything beyond that."

  "Does the name (Name) mean anything to you?" 

  "It was just something randomly picked by my master. Fake, I think."

  "That's not possible. The dark mirror summons its students by their true name."

  You sift through your memories, searching if there was never any recollection of anyone calling a name to you. It was always "you" and sharpened fingers‒ a passing phrase to rush against their lips, a nuisance to waste breath on when in turn, they could tug at your chains or pull you by the root of your hair. But never (Name). Your head scraped against itself with that sound, as if to kindle some memory that had been lost in the air. 

  "It…sounds familiar, maybe. Perhaps it was my old name. I do not remember anything of my past life, if any, truely."

  Jamil hums. "Well, if you remember anything, report it to me so I can pass it on to the investigation." 

  "Certainly."

  "Are you not going to eat that?" Kalim points to the still steaming plate of food on the bedside table. 

  "Spirits do not require food, prince."

  He waves his hand, dismissing the title which falls naturally from your mouth. "Ah, no need for formalities, Kalim is okay. But you should try‒ Jamil's curry is the best!"

  You weigh their expression as Kalim thrusts the plate into your hands again, taking in that inviting aroma once more. Scraping the foreign utensil against the ceramic, you shovel a heaping spoonful clumsily into your mouth. Spices, the heat, mouthwatering oils, and ‒ no doubt‒ a harvest rooted in the clouds of heaven and paradise.

  You had felt the pyre at your master's hands, blistering and breaking your skin like rotting fruit, the earth baked raw with the sun against the soles of your feet. You'd felt snow that scalded you like fire upon your fingers, tonics and brews summoned by your master splitting your skin like wildfire eating away through cedar forests‒ fresh, still beating blood spilt on your face, your own and many others’. But it was not until that moment that you’d felt warmth. 

  When you brought those steaming white pearls to your lips, glazed with that fragrant sauce, you were flushed with that mildness‒ a heaving gravity that beat like a heart. Living‒ or whatever that could mean to you. 

  "Did you…" You dig through the plate with the metal, searching for a sprig of an herb, the trace remains of a tincture, magics and spells which could be hidden in ground willow bark and the sticky sap of flowers that could not be fully dissolved enough into the fat of the dish that would stray from your untrained eye. “…what did you do to this dish?” 

  “If you’re accusing me of poisoning you‒”

  “You couldn’t have, I’m immune. But…” You feel a pressure at the back of your throat‒ perhaps that heart was fighting its way out of you, you think. In fact, all of your organs felt like they were being rushed to the edge of your flesh, to the skin meeting the air to make space for this writhing feeling inside, swelling, reaching its arms to the very core of your chest, unfurling its prickling fingers to your stomach. Yet, it felt inextricably tender, moth soft. “What is this called?” 

  Kalim answers. “Curry?” 

  The words come clumsy‒ you try to swallow that lump which disables you of clarity in your words with a gulp ‒ but that golden feeling comes back in waves, stuffing you of all of its thundering presence. “What about inside?” You scrape another bite into your mouth, it blooms with another burst of warmth inside your entire body. “This warmth. What is that ingredient called?”

  The ivory haired boy shakes in laughter, taking an elbow to his companion' side. "I think they’re talking about love, Jamil. You made it with looooove~." He sings. 

  Love. 

  You’d heard that word sparingly in the twisted corners of your cell, sipping sparse droplets of it and swallowing the power infused in that word. You’d never know the true taste of that word, but whispers and pleas here and there: he loves me, she loves me not, I love, I love, I love. It was rarely a word that was used in its full capacity in the human tongue, or at least how you’ve seen it‒ instead, its unfurling force threaded into dying confessions and outstretched hands that was fleeting with the beat of life. I love you, I love you, I love you. Their final words to their wives, children‒ the likes. You had added it to the list of unknown words, but held a special place for all of its vigor it seemed to have upon human lips, a sacrosanct sound kept deep in their blood until it was bleeding from their bodies. You felt that robustness in you, living. You thought you did, anyway. You were still too straight backed‒ solid steel to feel the full shape of it. 

  Jamil rolls his eyes, averting his gaze. "You're just getting used to proper food. It's just curry over rice, nothing special." He digs back into the dish, scooping it into his mouth with a bored expression. But even with his lolled gaze, you feel his eyes on you‒ telegraphing.

  Something is wrong with me. You think. It is of course a permanent thought in your mind, pressed upon you with the sharp disgust in others' eyes and depth of their hatred as they lash against you‒ but it wakes and rises on your flesh like a seal burned upon your skin, stinging and bitter against the air. You feel raw with it, for once, perhaps this was pain. What you remember of it at least. 

  Another, and another, and another spoonful into your mouth, teeth clacking against the metal in the speed of which you bring it to your lips. But that thing is alive as ever, taking its great wings to jostle the beat of your own heart inside you. You don't notice the last bite being shoveled into your mouth‒ but when you do, it grows cold, tasteless, sandy on your tongue. The absence of that warmth leaves you frigid as ever. 

  "Could I‒" You bite back at your heart slipping through your lips. Asking for anymore, just mere days after you had attempted to take the life of the boy standing in front of you would be met with lashing words, if you were to flatter yourself with some ability of self preservation and cleverness to escape a more realistic punishment worthy of your master's name. "Apologies‒ I spoke out of line. Let me clean your plates." You swallow the last bits of rice stuck between your gums, savoring each bursting pearl before it slides cold down your throat. 

  "It's fine. I'll go get more for you, do you want the same amount?" Jamil stops you from even rising from the bed, taking your plate in his hands. 

  Your palms feel empty without instruction, the consequences that come if you do not anticipate it. So you stumble over your words. "I…please. If that's okay, yes please. I’ll do anything."

  "You don’t have to do anything, we have plenty. From now on, you can always ask for more."

  From now on. You traced that word in your mind with a buzzing feeling inside you, imagine pressing against the ground to feel that heartbeat underground. You find its shape somewhere within you, you think. From now on. the feeling bubbles and erupts from your chest. From now on. You replace the beat of your blood with it, sounding each word as a pulsing force throughout your body.

  All you can do is nod meekly, bringing the soft blankets back to your hands, feel your sharpness claw against it. 

——————————————————

   "So you’ve really never had food before?"

  You look at the tiers of boxed lunch lain in front of you, taking hungry spoonfuls into your mouth with quick speed. Its inviting aroma and warmth narrowed your vision at once, focused on the vibrant sauces, heaps of rice steamed with fragrant herbs, grilled meats that would leave your mouth watering, grape leaves stuffed plump with grains. "What do I have to do to earn it?" You asked Jamil this morning, body still heavy with its sunken weight in the softness of your covers, linens, mattresses, pillows, is what he called them. "You don't have to earn food." His voice is flat, but there's still a softness to his eyes when he hands you the boxed lunch. It had been some weeks since he had started packing them for you, seeing that the cafeteria lunches weren’t enough for your stomach, nor for the healing of what he called, your trauma. All of what he made was sprawled out in front of you now‒ half of it’s heaping amount finished, much to the amazement of your classmates. They crowd around you‒ counting the empty containers, gawking at the speed in which you fed yourself. 

  “No, I haven’t. But I’ve bitten someone’s ear off before, does that count?” 

  The ginger who asked you the question smiles, but there is slight unease rolling through his expression, and he lowers the device he had in your face moments ago. “O-oh. Good one.” 

  You’re tempted to ask what is?- but the nerves wobbling through his eyes, and those around him, quickly turns to something distant‒ revolt, you think. It stifles your voice, and your hands. The area clears almost completely, leaving you only with Jamil and Kalim. 

  “What was good?” you ask.

  Jamil gives you a look you’re not sure what to do with. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk so much about your old life. People get unnerved, even if it’s normal for you.” 

  “Oh. Okay.” You accept his words with ease, but the food you begin to scoop back into your mouth turns heavy and tasteless. It forces cold and damp through your throat, and you almost gag, prompting you to excuse yourself for the water fountain. 

  “Trey, you have to see the new kid.” 

  The red head, you think, raising your head above the fountain. 

  "They're a tad unnerving. However, we should prevent our first impressions from welcoming a new student."

  "Yeah, yeah. But you know what they said when I asked them if they've ever had food before?"

  You hear the other student sigh, then ask. "What?"

  "They said 'no, but I've bitten off a ear before, does that count?' And their gaze gives me the creeps! Ugh‒ Trey this school just keeps on attracting more weirdos."

  Their voice reaches closer, until you're standing face to face with them, you settle your eyes on them, take in their nausea as part of their own. 

  “O-Oh! You scared us, (Name).” 

  “Sorry.” You say, gaze cast to the floor. 

  It is where you belong. 

  If spirits existed, ghosts certainly could‒ with the solidity of your master’s voice ringing through your ears, you were almost certain you could feel his thin fingers threaded through your hair, pushing it down towards the earthly filth. Even with your downturned gaze, you know how to read the unease fluttering sharply within the cavity of their chest, the unyielding distance between you, and them. You gild yourself in that iron again, head down, back straight. It was a shape you knew how to forge yourself into, at least, rather than some crude caricature of humanity. It’s just how it is. 

  “You didn’t hear us did- oof.” The student next to him jabs him in the stomach. 

  “We’re sorry. We don’t mean any harm, we swear.”

  You were already turning from their faces, measured breaths, jaw clamped, shoulders snared. Before this, you’d carefully temper your flesh and ask‒ was this the shape of a human‒ how they moved, how they felt, how they lived? But the softened iron of your palms had turned to something else, some smoothed, petrified alloy that could not be identified, found, or belong anywhere. All those years‒ hammered and fluxed by the crucible of human hands, and now suddenly that heat had died, and you would only be met with the frost of the water which treated you solid into an alien thing. 

  “It’s fine. Just how it is, don’t worry about it.” 

  You gnaw on yourself, swallow the blood but do not taste it. 

——————————————————

   You take your lunch outside the day after, but have no appetite to touch it. Since when have you had such a thing‒ an appetite? Spirits don't require food, you think. But there's a slight ache that rolls through your stomach, eating its way through the prickle of your skin. 

  "Kalim was looking for you." 

  You jump to your feet at that sudden voice‒ heart pounding, gripping the hand that reached towards you with unforgiving force. The soft spots, the places where blood would come fastest when it was cut‒ those shapes were found easily in your hands. But you let them go as soon as they came, noticing Jamil's pained expression. You snap your hand back. 

  Words rush to your mouth. "I'm sorry‒ I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to‒"

  "It's fine. I shouldn't have done that. I startled you, I apologize." He shakes out his hand, and seats himself next to you. "Why are you sitting out here?" 

  You gather yourself, knees to your chest, words clotted to the air that suffocates you. "I unnerve people, like you said. It's better this way.” The isolation in your cells comes to mind. “I’m used to it.” 

  He begins to lay out some of the containers in front of the two of you, takes a bite from the steamed lamb rice. "You're still recovering. You shouldn't expect change so quickly. Besides, no one from this school is normal by any means, trust me." There's a smirk on his face when he says this, you see more of himself leaking through his facade. You feel yourself soften. 

  A moment of silence. You think. 

  "Can't you make me normal? With your magic?" 

   You fill the emptiness of your hands with his, face him with your shrewd, all-seeing gaze‒ measuring, telegraphing. "You can make me your machine‒ won't you?" You would have called him Master, then. But the fear set deep within his gaze silenced that sound from you. 

  His eyes widen, all of his contempt scrunched to the center of his face. It takes a lot for him to relax it, knowing you would take all of that blackness into you soundlessly without any reaction to the way it should burn and tear all the way down to your stomach where you held too much or those things. When he does, he feels it rolling to rage inside him, glad that he at least knew one of the faces which had made you this way to stir it in that disgust.

  Still, that wasn't enough. 

  Jamil had never been one for justice, or righteousness‒ from the moment he opened his eyes, that notion would meet him at every turn‒ but, what tools that had shaped and twisted for this question from you, all the flecks of firelight that had been ripped from you when you were hammered into your current shape, for such a thing to fall from your mouth so normally. He often felt contempt for the world‒ if I had been born this way, if things were different, or if the world had worked in my favor instead of his‒ but rarely did that grow so sharply into what he was feeling now. For all the world’s violation, whatever divine plan that had planted every hand to shape you this way‒ he found himself coveting an ugliness, piercing like a blade through his chest when he met against it. 

  He was a servant too‒ he had also been stripped of his choices, his potential through his life. But it had never been unsheathed entirely from him. He'd spent all his life searching for the softness somewhere tucked in people's eyes, somewhere he could coil into to plant his own desires. But you stared back with all that emptiness‒ he wanted instead to take your hands, and tell you to fill them yourself. 

  He feels muddled, curdled in all that coalescence. He takes your hands. 

  "...I can't do that." 

  "Why? It would be better, for everyone else, wouldn't it?" You ask. 

  "You‒" He takes a deep breath in, lowers his voice. "...you shouldn't want that. To be controlled. It's not right."

  "It's not?"

  "No. It's not. Besides," he looks at his bandaged hand. You wince a bit. “It didn’t work last time.” 

  "Then…" The words cinder on your tongue. Then why? Why had I been taught so? If Jamil had the answers, you think he would have told you already. You spin it into something else. "Then what should I do?" 

  "That's not for me to decide. You should decide what you want to do, what you want to eat, what you want to like or dislike. Don't rush it‒ healing takes time."

  Jamil's words chokes you with warmth, prickling against your fingers, flushed and florid of all that heat he seems to open you to. "What is there to do‒ to eat, to like, then? I've never…" You could never truly recall what it was like, coming into being. It was like being pulled from the darkness into another, like vague, passing shadows‒ there was little between those lapses of confined shade where you could trail any light back to its voice in the trilling birds, the rustle of cedar forests, the lush silvergrass. 

  In your cell, life had always trickled through your cage in distant whispers, morning songs, dying flora‒ and with humans it had always been the same. You'd feel the blood draining from their veins, but never that warmth inside of them‒ flesh to flesh, heart to heart. The food always tasted cold, and so did flesh when you touched upon it. It was just how it is, no like or dislike to it‒ just some cold, inscrutable stone pillar that stood at the eye of your life. "I've never had a will, before. I don't know if I can." 

  Jamil presses together his lips, hesitant of his next words. “When you called to me. That night. What was that, then?” Mercy. He had heard it, and answered to it with something of his own will. 

  You jumble through the thoughts in your mind. “I don’t know. Why did you save me?"

  You hear the leaves and earth sing. But Jamil's heartbeat is still as loud as ever. He opens more of the containers in front of you. 

  "I don't know." He parrots back. There's a tick in his breath that catches your eye for a moment, but he continues. 

  "We can start with food, then. It'll get cold if you leave it in the container too long. Better to enjoy it warm." 

  He was right‒ the food had cooled while you had left it out. But the warmth when you put his handcraft into your mouth never chilled like those temporal things. He smiles warmly when you bring heaping spoonfuls to your mouth, and it fills you with that beat again. It rings louder this time, thundering in your ears vividly. Perhaps you were growing softer, learning to shape new curves and faces. You look to Jamil, memorizing the sculpt of his lips to know the composition of warmth. 

——————————————————

   "Why are you holding back?" 

  "Huh?" Jamil is wiping the sweat on his forehead with a towel then, water bottle in the other hand prepared to take a sip. But you trip him with your words, and he freezes on the spot, the perspiration that had felt so overwhelmingly warm and sticky seconds ago turning into icy streaks down his back. His silence urges you to continue. 

  "You were holding back. The beat of your footsteps, your reaction time, your breath. It's not the same as always." The words you say are sharp as ever, unsheathed from your tongue like a blade. "The position you were in when you passed the ball to Kalim‒ it was far better than where he was standing. The purpose of the game is to score points by getting the ball in the hoop, is it not?" 

  This part of your unexpected school career had been your best‒ moving your body with speed and purpose, surveying the field and each moving pawn, anticipating their motions through honed eyes and riding the rhythm of blood in other's bodies to intercept it. You had thought Jamil the same‒ but even with his refined gaze and nimble reception to it, his muscles stretched to pull back each movement, choking back all his vigor. You thought of your brimming bowl, the strangle of your body when you held it. The shapes you had known to forge yourself into were felt when you observed him closer. He had been a servant all his life too‒ but Kalim was always kind with him, and unlike you, he had warmth and fire within him. Desire, the word was. 

  "I guess. But Kalim wanted to make the shot."

  He shoots a look over to Kalim, crowded by the rest of the class who nudge and jostle him around with their bright laugher. But you continue to look at Jamil, noticing his strained breath was still there.

  “Didn’t you? I saw. The moment of hesitation before you passed the ball to Kalim.” 

  He stiffs under your piercing gaze. It’s unwinding, like a claw which catches a thread sticking by a single hair from its weave to unravel it, stitch by stitch. “I don’t want to stand out is all.” 

  "Why? You're amazing." You state flatly, as if you point out the blueness of the sky. 

  Jamil's heart bobs in his throat, it's weight silencing him. 

  "Did I…use that word incorrectly? I thought‒"

  "No. It isn't that." 

  You thought you'd ask him what it was, then‒ but he had already joined back in the game, quieting his breath, measuring each step with the beat of those around him, slowing it. Your fray at the thought. 

——————————————————

   “Bad dog!” You flinched slightly from Crewel’s pointer whipping against the hardwood table, but you smoothed your expression as usual despite the growing frost mangling your lungs, your collapsing chest, your fingers. “Wrong measurements again! Read the directions before you even attempt to touch the materials this time.” 

  Nodding mutely, you still your eyes on the book again, staring at the foreign letters and scribbles printed on the page. This whole situation was beyond you‒ you never expected to have to actually participate in classes after you had succeeded in your job‒ such a life outside your cell would be witless to even imagine‒ yet here you were. Still, you continued to dart your eyes around the page, looking for answers to perfect this task at hand. It must be perfect, always. Perfection or nothing. Perfection of failure. And what follows failure was stretched thickly over your body, carved into your face as its first feature. You knew its gravity, held it in your body like it's very lifeblood. 

  Your vision began to shift far from where your eyes were looking‒ your body feeling but so unfeeling. That unfeeling had worked before so well to harden yourself, to be able to be beaten and hammered thick and thin against any anvil, to be purified over and over, cast into knotted molds. But this distance was sharpened and gnashing‒ a mouth and its slashing teeth that ate away at whatever was left of you. 

  Your racing thoughts were interrupted with a hand lightly grazing the hairs of your arm. It reminded you of the sharp frostiness of your master's grip, gray skin glinting like a knife, elongated nails digging into your arm as if to herald the hours of punishment that was to follow with a simple touch. You flinch away, and see your lab partner snap his hands back with defensive palms. But when he jerks his body in such a way, he tips the bubbling cauldron towards himself, the scorching liquid lurching towards his skin. 

  You don't remember putting down your book, or pushing the student off to the side. First, it melts the cotton of your blazer, through the thick fabric and instantly through your blouse. But that's all you feel, until you follow the gaze of your classmates to your hands, and you see the steam rising from the acid raging through your flesh, reducing it to its gorey sinew and muscles you'd seen so many times before. 

  You offer him your free hand to pick the student back up. But he backs away, his eyes wild with horror. 

  "Let go of that now! Don't you know what you've done?!" Crewel marches towards you, thick rubber gloves on his hand to yank the still hot pot from your hands. 

  "But I caught it. It's not broken. And everyone is okay." 

   "That's not‒ just." A pitch at the bridge of his nose. He waves his hand high in the air and you imagine for a moment that it cuts across your cheek. But you stifle that flinch, the rising fear in your body. "Just go to the infirmary."

  You take his dismissal as a mercy, nod obediently. The rest of the students murmur, their gaze and conjurations in their minds prickling at your skin. It closes in, pressing hard on your veins like a grip on the neck‒ it's hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to feel and unfeel. Despite its enclosing suffocation, the permanent distance between whatever you were, and they were still stands unwavering and salient like a gilded column. You look to your hand, see the concoction eating a layer of your skin in angry red bubbles. But its sensation is little compared to the sharpness in which you feel yourself corroding, that alien metal rusting away at your insides like a gathering wildfire. The flesh, the sinew, the gore of your hands seem so distant, so unreal to you‒ so far from your body, and you do everything to raise a perversion of pain, of humanity. But nothing comes. Just that whetted withering inside. 

  The school nurse dresses the wound, some spells to take the pain away, despite the sharp smell of her unease when she notices you don't wince or shrill at it. She tells you to rest, recover. But you don't know what it means, so you sit soundlessly, eyes open on the cot. 

  "Hey." 

  You're so deep within the blur of your gaze that you don't see Jamil enter. But you hear the rhythm of his footsteps, his breath, his heartbeat. 

  "I heard something happened in alchemy." He sits himself in the chair beside you. "You alright?"

  You hum dully in response. 

  He chews on the inside of his cheek, it's a bad habit of his that he thinks no one notices. But you do. 

  "The investigation." He starts. "They found something." The hesitance in each of his words, the heaviness of his breath. Something wrong, again, you think.

  He retrieves a sliver of paper from the file in his hands, setting it on your lap. The edges of the thin newsprint paper are browned, rolled in their age, the words of the flaky paper sparse and rubbed off. You can barely make out a grainy picture of a barrel, tipped over from the bushes and vines it is thrown into. "I can't read." You simply state.

  Jamil takes it back from your hands, swallowing a breath to sound the words slowly, in measured care. You read the words from his expression. 'Body of child found stuffed in a cask, suspected (Name) Tarutani, child of sakagura owner. Father imprisoned, life sentence.' Grief. 

  "Oh." That sound comes echoed in your throat, hollowed out of any feeling.

  What were you supposed to do with that? 

  You'd grieve if you could, run up and down the hills and cry out to the stars. But you already knew of their blinding silence, their unwavering trek through the skies. There were glimpses, now that you thought about it. The smell of alcohol wafting in the stink of the guards' breaths that made you wince, closed spaces that would quicken your breath. But you held those things in that brimming bowl, not knowing what to do with them‒ should you bleed it dry, cradle them like some clandestine shrine, singe it to smoke? Either way, you'd keep it from surging‒ back straight, head down, muscles choked. "I didn't know."

  "I'm..." Jamil hesitates to give you his reassurance. “…sorry that happened to you.” 

  But you don't know what to do with his words, his kindness, his comfort‒ you didn't even know if he was talking to the person in front of him, or some ghost that had been lost to the air. You look at the print, see if you could see any glimpse of what came before‒ any scrap of fabric, wind tossed hair, green youth‒ anything distinctly human. Were you a happy child‒ if one at all? 

  The stars don’t answer to you. 

  You measure the distance between the tragedies of your life. There is none.

  Just one unfinished memorial of your pain, built flimsy atop another. The way extravagant palaces were burned to the ground, before a new one sprouted, already neck deep in its corrupt blood. You wish you would visit the monuments of your mind like those fracturing buildings, stalking through its outstretched limbs before you'd find a crack and crumble you could slip your hand through to set ablaze its heart‒ bleeding it's inhabitants over and over again like pulling brambles from the red earth. But commanding all of that destruction inside you‒ you'd be every break and burn of it all‒ the blazing memorial, the fire, the witness, the ash. Then the stars would cut through your flesh‒ wounds for the sun that burns through the morning mist, unfolding into another immature skeleton, for another memorial, another house, another place where shaded blood moves. 

  Perhaps it was better if you just watched, now, the construction of your blight. But your hands itched, forged and brazed for slaughter. 

  You gnaw on yourself. 

  “You alright?” Jamil tests the far off expression sculpted into your downwards face. 

  "Fine." You answer, taut, measuring with his expression an appropriate response, instead of some desolate look. 

  "Just…processing. I remember, now." You didn't, merely slivers of darkness, damp and choking, before you were pulled from it to your master's feet as a ceremonial spirit. But it seemed good as a lie as any, what good would a tragedy be without the curse of remembrance? But perhaps the fog and distance of it all was its own pain, own memorial, own blood, spilt. You didn't know. 

  You weren't sure how to mold yourself in a way that could meet it, know its shape to cast its features onto yourself to know that pain inside and out. Your face‒ what did it look like again? The fingers you bring up to it are as foreign and cold as a stranger's. That face, that body, that world‒ you could never belong to it, but only, be. The fire, the witness, the memorial pyre, the ash‒ you'd be all of that fracturing degeneration, but it could never belong to you. 

  And what was that even‒ being? You had never been allowed that either. 

  Jamil keeps on drinking in your expression like flooding water‒ catching the light in a thousand ways, changing direction into itself with every pebble lain, every breath of wind cast. It seems he has learned the trick of your stillness, the gilded iron of your face when he says, "...let me show you something.", and takes your hand. 

  He brings you to his room, it's just like yours, but filled. You're slightly embarrassed at the thought, feeling bare all of a sudden. As Jamil sits you down on the floor, you don't let him see your expression. 

  The glass vial he slips into his hands is tipped to his palm, and he rubs the oils which is poured from it into his hands. An ugly thought passes, then another. Poison, some sort of sleeping potion, another weapon, another blade? 

  But he turns to you, you see his face. And it puts you at ease. 

  "Is it alright if you touch your hair?"

  You nod. 

  He takes the tangle of your hair, dips his fingers through it and massages your scalp. The fragrance of the oil is soothing, calming both the skin on your head and your senses. It smells a little like him, you imagine some honey-sapped crimson flower and the aroma of spices he surrounds himself in when he works in the kitchen. 

  "My mother used to oil my hair for me back home. Especially when I was upset over something."

  "Is there something wrong with my hair?"

  "No‒ although it is a little bit damaged. But it's just to relax, to feel more grounded."

  You think to the way you would listen to the earth’s song and blood. There’s a similar pulse moving softly within Jamil’s fingers that work through your scalp. You lean into it. 

  "I like it."

  "That's good. I'm not too used to this. I've only done it to my sister a couple of times."

  "Sister?"

  "Yeah. She's younger than me, a brat. But, she's family."

  Family. You tried to imagine that word as faces, but nothing came to mind. 

  "What is it like having a sister?"

  Jamil laughs through his nose. "Mine is very demanding, gets on my nerves at times. But she's smart, clever, quick on her feet. She scolds me a lot for my attitude, but I think a lot of times she takes after me in some ways."

  "And mothers?"

  "They're all different, you know that right?" 

  "Sure, but I don't know any."

  "Well. My mother is beautiful, and hardworking. I've learned all my cooking from her‒ but she still makes all the best tasting food. Curry, dolma, knafeh‒ the flakiest, most mouth watering pastries you could ever imagine."

  "It’s even better than yours?"

  "By at least a hundred times, at least."

  You curve your lips into what you think is a smile‒ its rounded movement novel, finding shapes it never forged itself in. Servitude required sharpness, taught, straight lines and jagged sounds. This softness was new. Had you been a happy child before all of this, to feel the stinging crackle of your lips when they moved so little from their straightness? You shake off that feeling, eclipse it with that buzz inside your chest‒ bright as a forge’s heart. From now on, you could take that silvery radiance bursting forth from that furnace nestled inside you, and shape that curve, that softness against the beat in Jamil’s hands. 

  You find Jamil doing the same.

  “I..” A moment with the smile, before it fades. "I was lying before. When I said I remembered." You admit. "I don't remember anything about my human life. My mother, my father, siblings if I had any." Come to think of it‒ did you even remember your Master's face? All you could recall is his hands, the grind of his teeth. "I don't have anyone, or anything. And I guess I never have."

  Jamil continues to massage the oil into your scalp. "That's not true. You have us now, you have…" Me. The two of us. We'll be... He bites his tongue, swallows the blood with ease. You hear a deep breath sipped between his lips, as if the words would continue to tumble out. He lets it go. "You have the people here at NRC. You'll make friends in no time."

  "But I already have you." You loll your head upwards, look at him with weary eyes. "And Kalim. Isn't that enough?"

  His heart at his throat, again. That unforgiving weight. Fast learner, his mother always praised. He's learned now to speak through the gulping waves, but he still can't look at you. So he moves your neck back, continues to work his hands through your hair. "You'll learn how to make connections with more people. You can start a new life. You're safe now." 

  "I know I'm safe." You lean into his touch, he's here. "I know."

  "Then you'll be making friends in no time."

——————————————————

   You didn't think you'd find yourself in a situation like this again, but you know human cruelty could cross all borders, all worlds. 

  "You're such a fucking creep, you know that?"

  There’s no movement from you as they grab you from behind, binding you with their arms. 

  “Hey, say something, freak.” 

  You swallow their gaze with your own‒ a step back, fear in their eyes. “What would you like me to say?”

  A scoff. Two steps forward. “Is that all you do? Do as you’re told? Are you even human, or just some fucked up emotionless puppet?”

  “I was.” 

  There’s a sensation in your gut, you find his knee embedded in the skin against your ribs. A breath out, you don’t let out a sound. 

  "You're no fun."

  “I bet you don’t even bleed the same color as us.” The knife glints behind his back. 

  People always did that‒ they seldom took you head on with their blades and tools‒ their flesh. They always binded you, knocked you cold on the ground before they revealed their gnashing teeth between their crumbling facade. “Show us then, here.” He signals to the other two to let go of your arms. You land on your hands and knees, center to the knife he tosses to the ground. 

  “Go ahead, show us.” Ah, there it is. That smile that is cut and carved in that estrangement.

  Like us, but no longer. 

  They're right. You're not. 

  You've always had to move head on with your weapons, your flesh. Contact had always been a way to reap people of their life so you’d never been afforded such delicacies as lily white hands and hidden blades. All the pain in your life had been faced as a straight swinging hammer. And you were already priming yourself for this one, sanding down sensation and feeling that had heightened with every day you spent here. With him. 

  The flesh is as cold as the blade. You hug the silver against the vein emerging violet against your skin. Would it be red, like the stain of your hands? Or some darkened thing, sunken of all its color and rotten from your vice? Truth is, you were curious too. 

  You draw. 

  "You…!" One of them gasps between the teeth that spread wide on the red of his cheeks. "This freak really did it!"

  It's too dark to see the color of the smooth liquid, but you bring it up to the light to inspect it. The three who stand illuminated against it back away gasping in disgust. 

  It's red, after all.

  "Let's get the hell out of here before anyone finds us with that thing." They snicker, shove each other and scramble away. 

  You lay awake, dying. 

  You're used to seeing the weight of blood draining out of bodies, but to feel it pouring from your own makes you feel more alive and crimson than ever. This soaring must be the reason to the confessions of love, you think. But for you it's always been an immutable distance between other flesh‒ like us, but no longer. And you were no longer, if you had ever belonged. There is no one you could weave those sentiments into if you wanted to. No matter how flushed you felt with that writhing red substance, you knew your face had never been softened with it enough to reach towards others‒ to say, here I am too. Always, it had been straight backed, stone faced strokes you faced life's hearth with, and now it was all twisted into ash now, too.

  You dragged yourself upwards, feel the blood rushing down your body to the earth. There’s barely anyone in the halls‒ you think of that night where you fought Jamil, where he had saved you once before you had even asked for it. 

  You want to see the stars. 

  The door creaks open as you stumble into it. There’s very little in your room‒ the things they had provided you with‒ covers, linens, mattresses, pillows, all that softness had been enough. You think yourself greedy‒ hungry as you look to the metal lunch boxes that sit clean on your bedside table. It was a ritual every morning to bring it to Jamil and help him prepare everything‒ let him slowly work the old habits from you as he told you everytime, “do you want more?” And of course you’d accept every time‒ how could you not? Everything tasted amazing and warm, you’d be a fool not to run straight towards all of that when you could, all of that “from now on”. But, it’s all over now. It was all the world’s delight when it lasted. There’s still an ache, in your chest, and all over like keyholes pricking through your body to see something you could not. 

  You see the stars. 

  The window you press your cheek against is cold as you devour the scene outside the window. The breath that comes dried from your throat is choppy, thickset with iron, but you’re used to the taste‒ savor it even, as your tongue had longed for such a taste of your own, thrashing life. 

  Tomorrow, you’d be a cold, fallen thing that will be burned of all of your hardened flesh to your brittle bones‒ and those who witness the pyre will claim to have not seen a heart within it that had moved you in any meaningful way. 

  But tonight‒ tonight is a perfect night. You hear your own heartbeat, and the warm breeze that combs through that sound carries the sand lapping against the starlight, brushing them into the skies as their own dazzling things‒‒ and the stars‒ oh the stars. It’s as beautiful as you remember when you had nearly plummeted into them the night you had met Jamil‒ and all the blissful moments with him you had to gaze upon it, drinking in each constellation, each speck of starlight with a hunger you had never had before him. You feel alive, tonight, and hungrier than usual. But there are twice as many stars out tonight, so you ravage all that splendor.

  You’re tired, you want to close your eyes, but you tell yourself‒ one more second. Another. Another. 

  The thought rolls in your mind at least a thousand, thousand times before there’s a knock at the door. 

  "It's open."

  “I figured you couldn’t sleep either.” He carries two cups, hands you one. You take it with a smile with your clean hand. “It’s tamarind juice from my home. I think you’ll like it.”  

  You take a sip, delight in how the sweet sour taste rubs raw on your tongue. “I do. Thanks. Why couldn’t you sleep?”

  “Just…” he looks down at his hands. “...thinking. About some things. Someone.”

  You hum. “Yeah. Me too. The stars are beautiful tonight, don’t you think Jamil?” 

  His breath catches in his throat when shape his name with your voice. “They are. What’s this all of a sudden? Feeling wistful?” The amusement in his voice climbs to his cheeks. 

  You let out a breathy laugh, before it fades to something heavy in your throat. “I’m really going to miss you, Jamil.” Your eyes begin to weigh down, you slump your head against the wall, and do everything in your draining power to tilt it towards him. 

  He laughs for a second. “What are you…?” The deep inhale he takes comes out as a sharp shudder when he sees the red staining the entirety of your forearm. “Are you…!” He rushes to clutch your forearm, putting pressure above the cut. But it still spurts forth‒ you knew it would. You counted the seconds it would take before it would be too late. “You’re bleeding! What happened? We have to‒” 

  You smile, and when you put your hand over his you feel his pulse hammering against his skin. The flood of his words cease to a dried breath. 

  "It's funny, Jamil. I think I’ve said goodbye to so many things, you’d think I’d know what to say now. But I still don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

  The reflection of the stars in his eyes are far more alluring than any of the lights traveling hundreds and hundreds of years to reach this sky. It softens you. 

  You feel your body lifting‒ from the pull of death, or Jamil you don’t know. But you lean into it, reaching.

  I am here. 

  You feel it answer, but you find yourself dismembering, fraying to nothing.

——————————————————

   I should have said thank you. You think. Or‒ at least‒ I'm sorry a dozen more times. 

  Thank you Jamil. 

  You think it’s a fading thought, but the light bleeds red through your eyes, and you find yourself waking again. This time, there is a face which awaits you, and a warmth which meets your hand, your touch. 

  “(Name)!” Jamil stands from his chair, pulled immediately to your side. 

  “Jamil.” You rise to your elbows, you want to see him better. “Where am I?” 

  “The infirmary. You‒ ” He casts his gaze down, holding his breath deep in his lungs as he squeezes your hand. You’re here. You let his fist hit your shoulder lightly. “You asshole. You scared me. You idiot.” 

  "I'm sorry." You let him hit against you again, squeeze back. I’m here.

  "You're going to learn how to live‒ weren't you? Why then‒" He takes a gulp of air. "Why?" 

  "I'm sorry."

  He lifts his head. "That wasn't an answer to my question." 

  "I…" You hesitate to let the words unravel from you in the air. "I would say I was just doing as I was told. But I think I wanted to see for myself too."

  “Who‒” The center of his face creases further. "See what?"

  "If I was really human. If I would bleed red like everyone else. If I had a heart that pumped blood instead of an empty tomb of a body." The blood flushes against your skin as you press your hand deeper into his. 

  You continue. "But I think. I think this is proof enough." He’s silent when you lift your hand, already intertwined with his, heartbeats singing. "I can feel the warmth in my hand when I touch yours. That's human‒ right?" You feel the pulse breathing under his palm, and the twitch of his fingers laced through your own that closes it ever so slight around your knuckles. 

  I am here. 

  There's a slight tremble. He's scared‒ you're terrified. You’d thought you knew hunger, after realizing those years of ignorant starvation. Desire is such an ugly thing. To witness. To want. To be unbearably bare‒ nerves flayed and butterflied while you hold your hands in his, that bowl now flooding crimson into your hands. 

  But you feel his heartbeat, the song memorized and echoed with the second one growing in your stomach. Flesh to flesh, heart to heart. 

  There's surprise in his eyes, delight blooming on his cheeks. It pleased you to see him like this, cracking his stillness as he had your own. 

  "Jamil‒ I think‒" You breathe his scent in. "I don't know what I want, yet. But I want to move forward. And live." 

  You hold tighter. I'm here, I'm here. He answers back, closer to his beat. 

  "And, I think‒" You collapse the nerves festering in your mind. "- I know I want to do that with you. If you'll have me." 

  You feel yourself kindling under his touch, you take that fire in like hot coals, smoldering slowly‒ higher‒ higher, you rise. 

  "Will you?" 

  There’s panic that rolls through him, one which nearly chokes his entire body. But you press further and further into him‒ find his shapes in the air. But for once, he doesn’t let himself stifling his ardor, instead, he lets it feather throughout his body, melting that sweetness into his blood and bones. He’d always been a fast learner, but this one he would have to swallow piece by piece.The moments he spent under your unyielding gaze come to him at once, that straight shooting thing like a resplendent comet comes to mind. It is etched into his memories‒ your face which swallows and shows him his own pains, his own desires pressed into him in your hand. Perhaps you were that‒ desire, will. That very thing itself. You’d be with him, help consume every piece of him hand in hand, heart to heart. 

  In that moment, the two of you stand closer than the constellations in the sky‒ such godly things that have been thrust into the cosmos in all of their dazzling, eternal radiance which tethers and claws at the ether. And it feels like forever, with the two of you. A soft thing like the thousand thousand stars reaching their crumbling hands towards each other. 

  You’d never thought of himself a martyr for anything soft. Something of flesh and blood. But that reaching hand was more than enough. A dead thing like the stars you were, but whatever light Jamil had pulled from you was whirling towards him‒ a straight shooting comet. 

  “Of course."

  You curve his desire onto your lips. He does too. 

  You shake. But the two of you grasp your hands tightly to quell it, hand in hand, heart to heart. I am here. What a merciful thing. 

  Together, you take the brimming bowl in your hands, soften your body‒ and drink.

——————————————————

Notes:

Washi is one of the many papers shoji doors can be made out of. There's tesuki kouzo (handmade, made of kouzo/mulberry, usually very expensive and laborious), and more modern materials like rayon or plastic. Washi is a bit of a rarer material, but adds the benefit that it can be dyed, and produced cheaper than kouzo (in most instances), I imagine the mansion as dark‒ black lacquer, darkly dyed washi, embellished with spots of decadent gold.

Sakagura is where sake is brewed and stored, similar to shuzou, a place where sake is made and sometimes also brewed.

Tarutani is a surname that means "cask valley" (cask being the barrels used for alcohol storage)- surnames were often used to indicate status, occupation, even location during older times, much like how family crests (kamon) did

Rice was actually a delicacy up until really the Nobunaga era where agricultural advancements happened, even then until the Taisho era, Rice was not readily available to lower class since the Tokugawa Shogunate (feudal military government) had very strict rules about class mobility and what certain classes could eat, do, speak of, and even wear. I wanted to base the house that MC was serving on Daimyo (feudal lords under Shogun) because they're very grimy and scheming, especially as the military class and samurai began to grow stronger with the Shogunate's influence against the more "democratic" Imperial family‒ and they grew in their corruption before the fall of the Tokugawa Shogunate and instead replaced with a more democratic government with the Imperial family as head during the Meiji restoration ("knock knock, it's America" and Perry's boat lol). Their slimy nature would also kind of fit with MC's master and his motive to take down the Al-Asim family down as assassinations were very frequent during the Sengoku era where Daimyo were killing each other left and right because of their paranoia and greed lmao.

Hair oiling is practiced in a lot of different cultures‒ predominantly in Indian, Egyptian, and Black African cultures. However, in the modern day, it has spread to many different cultures as both a health and therapeutic measure, so I think it would make sense that Jamil would know about it, what with his long luscious locks and all lmao. According to my research Ghergir leaves and oil, as well as Blackseed are commonly used in Arab cultures? Please correct me if I’m wrong lol it’s kind of hard to find historical records and research on this because academia likes to center on the western world and treat non-western cultures as a monolith unfortunately

Tried to incorporate mostly Arabic cuisine but I am not an expert by any means I just know that entire region does magical things with spices the food tastes so good

Weirdly enough a lot of blacksmithing research for this. Idk why I kept reaching for that metaphor but it kinda slays

Tamarind juice or Tamar Hindi is a type of drink meant to be consumed during Ramadan to quench thirst and hunger, something something metaphor

[heartscrypt]

im thinking really hard about this video @supersteiiar made and i want everyone to see it

[artsybelle1015]

Not Safe Here Pt. 2

“See?” Kalim uttered to the Prefect. “He’s out of it!”

“I am not,” Jamil disagreed, he was fine, there was no reason for him to be there; he began to remember how Kalim kicked him out and forced him the ramshackle dorm. There was a glare boring into Kalim, his breath quickening from the hatred he was feeling.

Part One || Part Two

Warnings(!!!): gore, death, panic attacks, aggressiveness, SPOILERS FOR BOOK 4!!!

•••

A slow blink came about, nothing was quiet anymore, nothing was blurry anymore. He heard voices discussing. What he saw down below was a wooden ground on the verge of breaking.

Snapping his head up, Jamil eyes laid upon Kalim and the Prefect.

For some reason, he was holding a bag and so was Kalim. Everything around him had an evening glow, strange, last time he checked it was bright as day out.

Wait, how much time has passed?

A snap of fingers quickly flashed over his face, it was very loud too that it made Jamil jump, backing away. He furrowed his brows and hunched over, glaring at Kalim for scaring him like that.

“See?” Kalim uttered to the Prefect. “He’s out of it!”

“I am not,” Jamil disagreed, he was fine, there was no reason for him to be there; he began to remember how Kalim kicked him out and forced him the ramshackle dorm. There was a glare boring into Kalim, his breath quickening from the hatred he was feeling.

Kalim backed away, seeming to be a little frightened, even the Prefect backed away.

Jamil face distorted back to numb. He did it again, he isn’t any better. Now everyone is scared of him, he will be alone forever. All he will ever be is Kalim’s servant. There’s no way he should go out into the real world anymore, all he would do is get angry and crave to abuse. He would overblot again and may never be pulled out.

Everything is unfair, he was still a complete failure. He could never look at his parents and sister again. What was the point in all of this? What was the point in his life? He can’t even serve.

Life was suppose to be him out of the spotlight, an average student, an average person.

His thoughts went silent for some time.

___

You quietly stared at Jamil sleeping on your couch.

The three ghosts and Grim were examining him as well. Grim shouting protests about him being here whilst the ghosts were thinking of activities to do as he stayed in this busted up house.

Sitting down at the table, your head began to pound, regretting the choice of bringing him in here. He wasn’t your problem, yet Kalim made you feel responsible for him even though he didn’t mean to. He kept begging and pleading, on the verge of tears for his friend. You felt obligated for sure.

When you saw Jamil about to lose it on your porch, that’s when you realized how hard this will be. He was mentally unstable.

Goddamn Crowley for not putting counselors or therapists on this god forsaken school. It wasn’t fair you were the one stuck being a therapist and caring for everyone while you were already about to break down too.

“Henchman!” hollered Grim, jumping up on the kitchen table at which you sat. “Let’s just send him to another dorm, I’m sure Azul would love to have him.”

Your nose scrunched, disgusted by that idea. Sure, they may be getting along better, but Jamil barely has in interest in Azul and was terribly annoyed with his existence, that would make Jamil lose it more. And you had already promised Kalim to take care of him, how could you break Kalim’s heart? He was a good guy towards all of you, he deserved some help especially after all he went through with the manipulation and hypnosis.

“No Grim, that’s a horrible idea,” you sighed.

“Is not?” he hissed. “That guys psycho!”

Thinking of a solution to get Grim to shut up, you decided to just bargain with the stubborn cat. “I will buy you that tuna you really wanted everyday for dinner if you suck this up.”

Grim paused, thinking on it. “Well, henchman, you think you can just bribe with me on this, how stupid you are, but I will take you up on it.” He was refusing to admit that he wanted to do it, of course. That’s how he always was.

“Okay.”

___

No. No.

He was staring down at Kalim and the Prefect. Kalim was facing down, face hidden by the ground. The Prefect was breathing heavily, bleeding out.

Staring down at his hands, they were covered in blood, their blood specifically.

The Prefect kept a whimper, tryna stand a bit to get away, but their body couldn’t budge. There was a small crack, indicating many broken bones in their body. He did this to them.

Slowly turning to Kalim, he took some shaky steps. Crouching down, he saw no movements within Kalim’s body. His heart froze.

Without much of a choice, his arm reached out and turned Kalim’s face towards him.

Still movements, time froze. What stared back at him made the world stop. Now he could feel his heart, it was pounding, trying to break free of him, probably disgusted at the monster it kept alive.

Kalim, dulls eyes stared at him; his mouth ajar, spilling blood. Pale and cold, that’s how he felt, yet the blood covering the top of his head was warm and fresh.

Backing away, Jamil saw the world speed up. Everything spun but Kalim’s body, his dead eyes staring at him.

He saw people now, staring at him in horror. Glancing to the side, he saw Azul, Jade, and Floyd broadcasting this scene, laughing their heads off. It wasn’t funny, Kalim was dead, why wouldn’t anyone do anything?

Even though everyone was a blur, their eyes weren’t, they were boring into him.

The Prefect slowly stood up, like their bones weren’t broken and had no reaction to anything. Instead, there was an exhausted yet numb look. Mimicking the one he saw in the mirror. All the Prefect did was walk to the students of Octavinelle, Jade coaxing them into a hug as they all walked away.

Soon enough, everyone walked away, like they never saw a thing. Yet, Kalim body remained there, still dead.

The world fades to black, yet him and Kalim still remained.

He killed Kalim, he killed Kalim and overblotted. How could he do this—he was a monster. Looking back down at his hands, he finally saw behind the blood how different and dried up they were, he was in overblot. How did he not see that before?

Tears began to pool in his eyes, he hated Kalim yet was grieving his death. This was unexpected yet made sense.

He was thinking maybe it was because he swore to his family he would protect the eldest son of the Asim. But no, it wasn’t that. He wasn’t upset because of his family right now, he was upset because Kalim was dead and he was dead because of Jamil, not an assassin.

Covering his face, he let out a cry.

“Jamil.” a hasty voice rang out.

Lowering his hands, his pupils shrunk in horror as he watched Kalim stand up. He still looked like a corpse, but held a smile.

Walking over to Jamil, he hugged him, nuzzling into his shoulder. He killed Kalim- but Kalim was forgiving him.

“Are you stupid?” Jamil sobbed. “I killed you.”

Kalim only looked up and smiled to him, suddenly pushing him to the ground, but instead of a thump, Jamil fell through the floor.

He couldn’t see, when he tried to open his eyes, but it was all black and stung. This was ink, ink like from his overblot.

Throat now pooled up. He started to choke, to drown. Drown in the mess he made.

If only he had stayed quiet, this wouldn’t be his fate, it wouldn’t be Kalim’s fate. Things would’ve been okay and normal. Doesn’t matter how upset Jamil was, how much he hated his life, that past was better than what was happening now.

When he felt like he was about to be dragged to hell, he suddenly landed on solid ground.

Jamil eyes shot open, quickly he sat up and coughed up ink. He was covered from head to toe with the black substance, but he noticed he was in his school uniform and warm again. He was himself.

There was standing room, the ceiling about being flowing ink that stayed in place, refusing to drip down.

He decided to get up and looks around, the ink slowly fading off his body. Everything in his body calmed down, now wanting to explore this new place. He had always wanted to explore, it was one of his dreams, but he didn’t expect a blank gray space.

Maybe this was limbo, or possibly hell. Hell was associated with being hot and burning, yet this place was cold and empty. Was it a personal hell?

Well, he thought it was empty, but the sound of wailing proved otherwise. Quickly whipping around into that direction, Jamil almost tripped from the speed.

His eyes widened. It was Kalim’s mother who was wailing like her life depended on it. She was dressed in all black and being consoled by her husband.

Next to her stood all of Kalim’s younger siblings, some crying, some staring.

But the worst sight to see, was Jamil sister and parents there too, a pained and sorrow look on their faces.

Not only had he hurt Kalim, he hurt two whole families.

Guilt wallowed up, filling him to the core. He slowly walked over, steps heavy and loud, like there was a weight trying to stop him. No, he needed to apologize to Kalim, but his body was trying to refuse.

With each step the force made it harder until Jamil crashed under it. Smacking his face against the ground and his groan in pained caught attention.

His parents specifically, looked at him while everyone else seemed to have not noticed. There faces filled with hatred, hatred for their own child. Yet, there was pity and disappointment mixed in.

Slowly, everyone faded away. And Jamil sat there, helpless, unable to move even an inch. His eyes slowly shut in exhaustion.

___

Something was vibrating against his legs, the thing felt quite soft.

He didn’t want to open his eyes, he didn’t want to see this world again, yet he had to, he had to face hell and his punishment. But he had to… he needed to know what was against his leg.

When Jamil opened his eyes, all he saw was a normal ceiling. No ink, no gray, it was a warm brown and dusty. There was a hue of orange coming from his right, he glanced over to investigate and it was a fire.

The thing against his legs was the Prefect’s friend, Grim. Strange, Grim didn’t seem like the type to do this cat—like sort of thing, he was normally aggressive.

Looking back up at the ceiling, he realized it was just a dream. A nightmare actually.

He noticed too looking around with his eyes this was most likely the ramshackle dorm, considering that Grim was next to him and the place was worn down. The couch even felt scratchy.

Despite how disgusting this environment felt, he stayed glued to the couch, forced to lay down by his own body. Just like how it was in the dream but more comfy, it had a pillow and blanket at least, and was warm.

The ramshackle, why was he here? Did Kalim actually kick him out? Stupid question to ask, obviously. Yet he doesn’t remember entering or falling asleep. In fact, he couldn’t remember much, everything would go blank and then suddenly he would appear from place to place, his mind bombarding him about his failures and how worthless and pathetic he was. He kept thinking about ending up as overblot again, he didn’t want that to happen so he would force his body to numb the emotion.

Clearly, that didn’t work in his favor, because now the days were shortened.

Creaks from floorboards could he heard. Jamil’s heart races, he wanted to get up and leave, run away, but couldn’t. He really was stuck.

The footsteps creeped closer.

He shut his eyes, not wanting to see who is there. Fearing for his life now, fearing of the look he would get. Heart was pounding the same way as the dream, wanting to escape, wanting him dead.

There was a long pause, long yet quick.

Then, all he felt was the blanket being slightly lifted and pulled up more.

He was okay?

Finally drooping his eyes open, he saw the Prefect walking away.

•••

Authors Note: I want to cry- tried to generalize the reader by going off what I felt as if most people felt playing the game plus some realism in how a person would feel in this situation, I promise the character you’re written as won’t be boring!

[flutterbysnowflakes]

Vipers and Dragons

Summary: Jimin belongs to the dangerous, opposing Mafia clan of the Dragons. Y/N belongs to the vipers. What happens when their paths cross?

Genre: smut, light angst, fluff.

[jesjokes]

Hehhehe

T4T bitemark!!! They have been on my brain a lot recently :3

[reagan-the-saunders]

Just finished (I think), or at least the start of, a little story taking place on Solstheim during the Dragonborn era of Skyrim. I also have a WIP of one of the key scenes. Enjoyeth <3

CW: Nudity, Banter, TES Spoilers.

Vyeshna looks down at her map with confusion, trying to mix her memory of Solstheim the last time she was here with the piece of paper she holds in front of her. “We need to go… general… that way- direction.” She says looking up, shaking her befuddled look off of her face, and she tucks her map into her pocket.

“Should we really be trusting her with our navigation?” Marina whispers to Viper as she trudges behind Vyeshna and the others. “I mean, Maevynn is better with maps and compasses and the like.”

Viper chuckles softly. “You may be right, but Vyeshna knows the land better than any of us. Were we travelling by sea, I’d actually have a reason to trust our good captain with something.” She laughs.

“I heard that.” Maevynn groans and rolls her eyes. “I just hope Val’s holding down the Silver Wing well enough.”

“I am sure he and Teldryn are doing just fine, captain. I thought you would put more trust in a man you decided to marry.” Nerivyne teases, walking slowly and gracefully as she reads Vyeshna’s movement plans telepathically. She chuckles when Maevynn simply grunts in annoyment.

“Hold on.” Vyeshna says, stopping them suddenly.

“What is it?” Marina asks, promptly jogging up to her. She sees it, standing lonely atop an ash hill stands a spriggan, she knows them well, but this one seems… wrong. Its vibrant greens are gone, turned only to browns and oranges, there are no animals flocking to it, and it is not hiding in a tree, awaiting anyone who should wish to harm its land. No, it's almost like it wants to fight something, not a defender but more of an offender. “A… spriggan.” Marina sighs suddenly.

“Not a normal one, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Burnt spriggans are spriggans that have been changed and warped by both Red Mountain’s hot lava and its devastating, corrupted chunks of rock, cursed by the Heart of Lorkhan I destroyed years ago.” Vyeshna sighs sadly. “We’ll have to kill it. We need to get to Fort Frostmoth, and sneaking around it won’t be possible in such a tight area with so many people.” 

“No.” Nerivyne says, walking up next to the two. “I know her kind, and they can be reasoned with.” She explains confidently. “I am not being a fool, Vyeshna, you do not understand this race like I do, corrupted though she may be.” Nerivyne then slowly walks up to the spriggan, and senses her anger and hatred as she approaches her, ready to attack. “I am not your enemy, spirit of the woods. I ask that you calm yourself.” Nerivyne speaks inside of the burnt spriggan’s head in its native tongue.

The spriggan shuffles for a moment, hesitating after hearing its own language after so long. It doubts Nerivyne’s intentions but stays its hand. “What are you?” It thinks.

“I am a nymph, a guardian of Kyne’s green Nirn, not unlike yourself. I fear you have been led astray, and I only wish to aid you.” Nerivyne says in its mind, and in the spriggan language again. She senses the disbelief in the spriggan, and quickly realises why. Nymphs do not typically wear clothes. Nerivyne gently pulls at the shoulders of her robe-like gown, and tugs until it completely falls off her body, leaving her entirely nude, with the gentle curves of her body gracefully outlining her every step, her bright white hair and the flowers she wove into it flowing behind her. “I know you are in pain, your body burning up from the inside out, unable to protect or govern over the wilderness I know you care for so deeply. Let me help you, spirit.” Nerivyne finally closes the gap between her and the spriggan, holding her hands close to her chest.

The spriggan is weary for a moment, pondering whether or not she should choose to believe the possibility of her healing, or to accept the fact that she might never be the same again. Somehow, her wooden facial features soften when she looks at Nerivyne with her burning eyes.

“I have a friend who is a healer, she may be able to aid you. If not, I will not rest until I find a way to return you to Kynareth’s embrace.” Nerivyne says telepathically. She holds her hand out towards the spriggan, showing no fear. 

The spriggan understands, and she quells the fire magic burning in her gnarled hands, and then gently grasps Nerivyne’s as best she can.

Nerivyne smiles gently when she feels the wooden grip of her new friend. “I am not going to hurt you.” She says in the spriggan tongue.

“Nerivyne.” Vyeshna says softly. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed.”

“S- so, wait, wait, wait a moment here.” Maevynn shrieks, shaking her head to try and stop blushing. “You just walked up, and tamed a s- spriggan?” Her eyes go wide and she flails her arms around wildly in disbelief.

The burnt spriggan flares her fires up slightly at being considered “tamed”.

“Easy.” Nerivyne coos and holds her arm out in front of her friend. “It is better to view this spriggan as a person, Maevynn, not an animal. I have promised to help cure her of the volcanic corruption she has fallen victim to, and then will return her to her people.”

“Hm, I did hear rumours that an island off the coast is actually teeming with unharmed spriggans. Maybe she could join them?” Marina says.

Nerivyne hears the words of approval inside the spriggan’s mind, who is currently too shy to speak aloud. “That would be… acceptable.” Nerivyne says for her.

“But how are we going to get it there..?” Maevynn asks.

“Well, captain, I suppose your ship is the only one in the area capable of holding a burnt spriggan.” Nerivyne says with a grin.

“N- now hold on a moment, I did not agree to this.” She squeals.

“No? Well, I suppose if you do not allow her aboard your ship, I will have to tell your husband how flustered and attracted to me you were when I dropped my dress…” Nerivyne sighs. “More is the pity, I suppose.”

Viper laughs when she watches Maevynn’s face go blood red. “Well, Maevynn?”

“Urgh, fine! Fine, she’s… welcome… aboard.” Maevynn hisses, stamping off in the direction they were originally heading.

“Good girl, captain…” Nerivyne says using her nymph charm in Maevynn’s head, just to rub it in a bit more.

“FOR SHOR’S SAKE, NERI, JUST GET DRESSED!” She screams, whipping around, her face now noticeably red and sweaty even from a distance, and it only grows when the group bursts out laughing.

And the WIP drawing <3

I also put small references to other media in here, let me know if you spot them. If you have any questions about my OCs after reading this, shoot me an ask!

[2000skid4ever]

My version of a sega vs capcom game (Sega now owns the angry birds developers rovio for some reason btw)

[caliberbook]

Part 1 VINCENT Chapter 2 (part 3)

            ***             The elevator dinged, bringing Marielle back to the present with a jolt. She dashed for the closing doors and made it just in time to get off the elevator before it started for the next floor. She straightened the bottom of her tank top and made her way down the hall to the meeting room, noting the people seated around the large oval table when she entered.              Liam’s agent name was Brimstone, but no one called him that. The bearded redhead was the father figure at headquarters, and his heart was as big as his muscles. If Marielle squinted, Liam reminded her of a young Arnold Schwarzenegger. He specialized in things like grenade launchers and tactical planning, but mostly he taught the younger and newer agents like Jamie, Mateo, Tala, and Marielle herself, opening his arms and his heart to all of them.              Liam’s past was sad. No one knew much about it, but he’d lost his daughter, Molly, and his wife in a fire. Marielle thought he blamed himself for their deaths since he had once been a fireman.  After that, he had spent some time leading a group in the military, although Marielle didn’t know much more than that. Even though it was her job to counsel everyone, she never pushed them about things they didn’t want to discuss, and Liam didn’t want to talk about his past, even though he always wore a rust-colored army beret.                     To his immediate right sat Sabine, who threw a disgusted glance her way before looking down. Her agent name was Viper, and it suited her well: although she was a good chemist, she had a bad personality. Marielle remembered when they had been close. Not anymore. In fact, very few could get close to Sabine because her formerly occasional bitterness had become a permanent part of her personality shortly after the accident. But Marielle wouldn’t think about that right now. It was too difficult. Sabine created poisonous gases which she used through personalized gloves Klara had made for her. They emitted deadly smoke that, when inhaled, caused extreme damage. Some of them were also acidic and could eat through clothing, armor, and skin.             Marielle didn’t recognize the older blonde woman who sat across the oval table directly across from Liam. She appeared to be just shy of fifty years old, but still beautiful, if stern in the face. She wore a blue-gray suit and a loose-fitting eggshell blouse. Her hair was cut in bangs that rested just above her eyebrows, and her blue eyes glinted at Marielle as she gestured to a chair next to Sabine.              “What’s this about?” Marielle asked, slipping into the chair and leaning in the opposite direction.             Liam took a deep breath, lifted a hand, and gestured across the table. “Marielle Chaenes, this is Barbara Hammond.”             Barbara took over from there. “Hello, Marielle. It’s nice to finally meet you.” She extended her hand over the table.              Marielle stood reflexively, took it, and grasped it firmly as they shook hands. She zoned in on her abilities. This woman wasn’t trying to put on an air of superiority or pretense; she was strong both inside and out. Still, something about her didn’t sit right with Marielle. Marielle couldn’t detect what it was, but she had a difficult time trusting the government, so perhaps it was her own prejudice messing with her.              Marielle noted from Barbara’s almost undetectable pronunciation that she was from the East Coast, probably Tennessee or Kentucky, although she had not lived there for at least forty years now. She could also determine that the older woman was an only child, probably due to the death of an older sibling; the need to make something of herself was strong but genuine.  ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Want more? https://www.caliberbook.com/

[shattered-eagle]

Shattered Eagle: Fall of an Empire

Demo (216k WIP, 07/14/2024) | Forum

You are an advisor in a declining empire, beset by unrest, barbarians, and forces beyond your comprehension. Can you save the empire from doom?

Explore a fictional world inspired by the late Roman Empire.

Be male or female, cisgender or transgender, straight, gay, bisexual or asexual.

Serve the imperial family dutifully, or secure your own rise to power.

Choose from up to five careers, from a veteran of the legion to a shadowy spymaster.

Learn the secrets of sorcery or untangle the ancient mysteries behind the Empire.

Navigate the viper’s nest of imperial politics to find allies or paramours, including the empress herself, a cunning senator, a ruthless crime boss, a barbarian general, or a foreign prince.

SETTING SYNOPSIS

Through over five centuries of conquest, the Iudian Empire has come to rule the Inner Sea, becoming the most powerful realm in the known world.

From the western hills of Ezperia, the northern forests of Hevernica, the sophisticated cities of Attika, the eastern deserts of Midyan, and the southern rivers of Seyet, all fell before what the world calls the Iudian Sorceresses, the women who wield fire itself against their enemies. For it is indeed women who rule in Iudia, as ordained by the mother goddess Gaia herself.

Yet, the Empire is not without troubles, and her glory days seem past her. Crippling civil wars, endemic corruption and ceaseless invasion have all contributed to the woes of the once great Empire.

Threats old and new rear their heads in times such as these. A resurgent Pharia, the Empire’s old eastern rival, threatens to seize the eastern provinces. Civil unrest has escalated in the capital of the capital, the flames fanned by an increasingly bold criminal underground.

The greatest danger may come from the north, however. Beyond the cold barbarian lands comes a enemy you have only heard rumor of, the Witch King of the Ongi. It is said the warrior rides at the head of a massive host, wielding great magic that has united all the tribes of the far steppe together out of fear of his power. He has called a holy war against the Empire, claiming it as a nation of demons to be cleansed from the earth.

Will you hold the Empire steady in her time of crisis, claw your way to power, or seek to solve ancient mysteries? The fate of Iudia is in your hands.

MAJOR CHARACTERS

Empress Julia Vitallia Hevernica (48F)

A harsh woman who forced the Empire back together with blood and steel, Julia has reigned as Empress for a decade. She is a strong military leader and a pious woman, who frequently prays to the Goddess for guidance. She is cruel towards her enemies, but possesses a certain pragmatic streak, and has invested much of her authority in you so that you might govern the Empire while she wages war.

Consul Consentia Plinia Dorica (55F)

The leader of the now-sidelined Senate, the ancient legislature of grandiose aristocrats which once governed the Empire alone, Consentia is bent on advocating for what she sees as the fundamental rights of the public and restoring the power of the old Republic. She is a passionate orator and the wealthiest woman in the Empire, barring the Empress herself, and has struck a deal with the crime lord Ceto in order to gain the support of the masses for her reforms.

Tribune Ceto Vera (43F)

Coming up from the poorest slums of the capital, Ceto is the Empire’s most notorious crime lord, ruling the streets by both spreading out her ill-gotten gains to the people and making brutal examples out of those who refuse to acknowledge her authority. Lately, she has entered politics and become a staunch advocate for the rights of the common people, forming an uneasy alliance with the Consul to push back against the ever encroaching imperial autocracy.

Legate Antonius Lethungius/Amalrik Wulfhid (40M)

Born to an imperial mother who named him Antonius and a barbarian father who named him Amalrik, the Legate is a man caught between two bitterly opposed worlds. A skilled and charismatic general, he has won the steadfast loyalty of the Empire's barbarian auxiliaries with his victories on the field of battle, yet his true loyalties remain unknown. Is he a dutiful man of the Empire, or a proud, unbowed barbarian?

Prince Darius of Pharia (33M)

Darius, third son of the great King of Kings, serves in the imperial capital as the ambassador and hostage from the eastern realm of Pharia, the Empire’s oldest and most powerful rival. Over the past decade and half, however, Darius has become more than a mere captive, having established great wealth and influence in the capital with his charm and wit, and is now a major power player in his own right.

CONTENT WARNING

These themes and depictions are present in the current demo, or are planned to be present in the final product.

Depictions of violence & warfare (including gore), references to torture, sexual references and themes, drug & alcohol abuse, physical & emotional abuse, sexism, suicide, slavery, homophobia, & transphobia.

UPDATE LOG

04/14/2024: Chapter I (50k Words | 18k Playthrough) 05/07/2024: Chapter II (105k Words | 39k Playthrough) 06/05/2024: Chapter III (156k Words | 59k Playthrough) 07/14/2024: Chapter IV (216k Words | 73k Playthrough)

[the-messy-artist]

Fuck you list of my favorite amputees canon or not

Edward Elric - Canon. His missing limbs are essential to his story, and while people view and treat his prosthetics as a disability, they don't see them as a limitation but rather as a tool.

Paninya (I forgot her name and had to look it up) - Canon. She lost her limbs in an accident and now she too has prosthetic limbs that conceal weapons that she can use to her advantage.

Lan Fan - Canon. She loses her left arm in a duel and gets it replaced by a prosthetic with a knife in the elbow because fictional prosthetics are allowed to be cool.

Tamatoa - Canon. Diversity wins! The giant killer crab is missing a leg.

Jamil Viper - Headcanon. He has no reason in canon for me to give him a prosthetic, but I felt like there should be more "canonical" diversity in Twisted Wonderland, so now his right arm is an incredibly high end prosthetic with all the bells and whistles.

Jose Baden/First Officer - Canon. His right hand is actually a prosthetic.

Violetta/Soul Weaver - Canon. Full body amputee, although her "prosthetic" is a bit unconventional.

Weeping Clown - Canon. He is missing his right leg.

Kalawea Tui - Canon. He's my Twisted Wonderland oc based on Tamatoa, so naturally, he too is missing a leg.

Diluc Ragnvindr - Head canon. The Head canon comes from the fact that he was in Shneznya for a long time, likely unable to find food, resulting in him eating his own arm for survival.

Franis Scott Key Fitzgerald (Bungou Stray Dogs) - Head canon. Another one where I have no reason for it in canon. He's just missing his leg.

There's probably a lot more but I can't think of any so add your head canons or more canon characters in the tags or comments

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

HEAR ME OUT LI!! Image if our little mermaid found a small sculptor of a man,(it could either be a real figure of a man, or just some random dude). And she somehow falls in love with the figure. Like- "this is who i want to be mates with!" "I wonder what he really looks like..!" "Maybe the Gods will be merciful and grant me my wish on seeing him!'

She goes to Orion, asking him if he knows who the guy is while handing him the figure — having heart eyes and all.

Here's one about Viper bc he is forever my fav !! She brings it around with her, talking to it as if its real, even naming it. She drops it one day deep down the dark trenches and has been floating around pouting and even rolling around crying about her only one slipping away from her

(I just love jealous boys!!)

🦪 Anonn!!

Yandere! Male! Deep sea creature x mermaid! Fem! Reader x Human! Male! Hunter

🦪anon again with the amazing asks. Also, Gojo, anyone?

What if: darling finds a figure?

It was a normal day for you.

Well, it was supposed to.

You were just finding more stuff to decorate the trenches, since the decorations you placed were getting a bit stale for your taste.

Not until your hands touched something smooth, yet a bit too complicated for your fingertips. It has long twigs, four of them. A bulbous circle on top yet has weird spikes, and what seems like ridges.

It was buried under the kelp, and with a bit of tugging, you unearthed what seems to be...

"A human... sculpture?"

Your eyes sparkled, looking at this man in front of you.

The color has faded a bit, but you could tell that this man was wearing what seems to be a dark blue, almost black uniform type of outfit. With him, lifting his eye cover revealing gorgeous icy blue eyes. And he had spiky white hair accentuating on how ethereal he look.

"W-wow... Is this..?"

Were humans always this colorful? He looks so handsome.

"Who are you, mister?" A fair blush on your cheeks, you checked around his body to see if there's an indication for who he is. "Nothing? But..."

You were in love with a figurine. How insane is that?

That's what Orion told himself as you swam with him, showing the figurine days after you first found him.

"I found who this guy is." Orion muttered, making you freeze and grin.

"Really?! Oh my god! Who is he?!" You asked, hugging the figurine clsoe to your body. "I must meet him!"

Orion scowled.

He can't believe that he's getting jealous over a figurine of all things.

"Ah, but like, he's unattainable." Orion badmouthed the Gojo figurine in your arms, making you pout. "He's like... A ladies man. You got way too many competitions."

Well, it was true. Gojo Satoru of Jujutsu Kaisen has too many fans, not just from the ladies.

"But still! I want to meet him!" You begged. Your soft, wet eyes filling with tears. "I truly do! H-he may be my mate!"

Orion was now slackjawed. "Excuse me? Mate?"

"Yes! Mate! It's love at first sight. Then maybe, just maybe..." A bashful expression, you gazed longingly at the figure. "He'll fall for me too."

'Gojo, thank your damn ancestors that you're fucking fictional.' Orion gritted his teeth before turning around and entering his yacht, making you flinch from surprise.

"Orion?"

"I'm leaving."

You gasped, totally not expecting this. "But, I still need to know who this man is!"

"I don't care! Procure legs and find him on your own or something!"

Now that stung. You frowned, a bit saddened, angry, and honestly, humiliated by his words.

Annoyed, you turned around and dove down to the trenches, not wanting to see Orion who was regretting his words and beating himself up from being too jealous of a damn fake guy.

Once you got to the trenches, you sniffled.

"He was so mean." You muttered to the figure. "Really! Like he knows it's hard for us mermaids and rare to get legs... Why can't he just help me?"

You hummed, dancing around with the figurine to make yourself cheer up.

"What should I name you... I can't just keep calling you mister..."

You looked at the figurine once more, and was totally enamored by his icy blue eyes.

"I get it! Ice!"

A certain deep sea mermaid almost coughed violently.

You were so bad at naming things.

The same as Viper, he incessantly heard of your whims and whiles about this figurine in front of you. Honestly, it didn't even bother him. But the fact that this guy can be real is getting to his nerves, making him grit his teeth.

He's bad at handling jealousy, and all he could wish is to crush this figurine to smithereens.

"AH!"

And will you look at that, it fell straight to his lap.

It was kind of heavy, in what seems to be a much more intricate figurine that looks like it was too expensive due to the detail placed in it, with the heftiness that made it sink quickly.

Clumsy you tried to place it on a sticking ledge from the trench that's crumbling, and accidentally broke it, making the figurine fall to Viper's lap.

Viper could hear your panicked screeches.

"My man!"

"Oh no! Come back to me!"

"Please... My love..."

Viper rolled his eyes. As if he's gonna give this back to you.

And you're calling this puny figurine your love? How stupid.

With one coil of his tail, the figure broke to pieces, and he let the pieces fall down to the sandy floor, forgetting about it as he heard your lovely soft weeps.

"Viper... Please, if you see a figurine of a white haired human, please give it to me!"

Your desperate pleas did not fall on deaf ears, but Viper only shrugged as he replied.

"I will."

As if he would.

[fizzyxcustard]

Why Did I Trust You?

Masterlist of fan fiction

Fandom: Robin Hood

Pairings: Guy of Gisborne x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Sadness, angst, betrayal (sort of!), depression mention, fluff

Comments/Notes: Requested by @puggledy-huggledy-is-not-a-pig who is the biggest Guy fan that I know. From the prompt "They told me not to trust you but I didn't listen."

I hope you like the fic. As always, like, reblog and comment if you enjoy. If you wish to be added to any of my tag lists, let me know.

Everyone kept telling you how Guy had always been taken with Marian, and that his heart still belonged to her. No one could get over lost love that easy. She had disappeared into Sherwood Forest with her lover, Robin Hood. Leaving Guy to pick up the pieces of a shattered heart. You had never met this Marian woman, but had heard plenty about her from the locals. 

You had travelled to Nottingham in high hopes of better income, and thankfully, you had been given a roof over your head, alongside the work, for all for your trouble. Guy had sorted that out for you. After all, he knew your father, who worked as a fellow tax collector in the next town over and often visited Nottingham to report to the Sheriff. 

Being a newcomer also meant that everyone was suspicious of you. And you had become aware of the rumours that people were spinning behind your back, despite being polite to your face. Snakes, all of them. Most days when you walked through the courtyard of the castle, heading in for your day of work, you’d see people gently shoulder each other. You’d see this action out of the corner of your eye, but as soon as they saw you’d noticed them, they would smile. Vipers! 

By the time you had been there six months, you knew it was time to move on. Nottingham was not quite the charming place that you had been told by your old townsfolk. Maybe the stories had been spun from those assuming that due to Nottingham being a central stronghold for finances, that the streets were paved with gold. That couldn’t have been any further from the truth. Only the Sheriff’s personal chambers were lined with gold; everywhere else was run down and full of squalor.

The last arrangements were in place, and the following day, you were ready to return home. It would take you about a day to walk to your meeting point with your father, who was coming by horse and cart to collect you. Messenger pigeons had been flying between you and your father for the last month, as your depression had gotten deeper and beckoned you home. 

The only good thing about the place was Guy. In fact, he was the only friend you had in this horrible place. The thought of leaving him was hitting you hard, and as you cleaned the larger chambers of the castle, you kept Guy’s until last. 

Upon stepping inside the room, you saw the seat that you sat in most evenings, where you would share dinner with him. You would watch the candlelight dance across his pointed features, highlighting the sadness in his ice blue eyes. Was the sadness remnants of an unrequited love? 

Tears kept threatening to fall down your cheeks as you cleaned the surfaces with a rag. At his bedside table, you moved the vase of flowers you had placed there three days ago, sweeping the dust beneath it. All you could feel was the painful, burning sensation of something lodged in your throat. 

Don’t you cry. Don’t you dare cry! 

As you made the bed and took one last sniff of his pillow, you realised that you had nothing of his. And you couldn’t leave Nottingham without at least one token from him, even if he had not given it you freely. 

There was a jewellery box which you knew Guy kept in his wardrobe, just behind his boots, on the floor. You could remember him telling you about it, where he explained that no one else knew of its existence, but you. 

Your hands were shaking as you approached the wardrobe, and slowly you opened the door, listening to it creak. The box was simple, with no inscription at all. It didn’t matter what it was that you took, as long as it was Guy’s; something to remember him by. Not that you could ever forget him in a hurry. 

Blood was thumping in your ears as you opened the box and looked upon two gold rings inside. That was all the box held, these two gold rings. The first one was a simple band, with no jewels or inscriptions. The other was gold, but had a simple green stone upon broad shoulders. You snatched the ring with the green stone and slipped it into your apron pocket. 

“What are you doing?” a deep voice came. 

You gasped, stepping back at the sight of Guy. When had he come into the room? “P…please, it’s not what it looks like.” 

“Oh, I know it was exactly what it looked like. You stealing one of my grandmother’s rings.” His eyes were so wide now, and you couldn’t help but swallow hard, feeling a rod of ice shoot down your spine. Guy was terrifying when angry, a trait that many a person had seen who lived in Nottingham. This was your first time of seeing his anger directed at you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered. You pulled the ring back out of your pocket and placed it down on the table next to you. “It really is not what it looks like.” 

Guy turned on his heel. “They told me not to trust you, but I didn’t listen.”

“Guy, please,” you pleaded, touching his shoulder. 

“Don’t touch me!” he growled. “I let you in. I offer my vulnerability to you, and I offer you so much, and this is how you value our relationship? By stealing from me?” 

Tears fell down your cheeks. Your heart thundered, shattering even more with each beat. “I wanted something of yours, to remember you by.” 

“Remember me by? What do you mean?” Guy asked, his voice less hostile now. Slowly, he turned back to face you. 

Tears had begun to form in his eyes. His gaze was intense, and locked on you. 

“I would never have betrayed your trust, Guy. Believe me. I value you more than you realise.” 

“Yet you still plan to leave?” 

Of course he knew what you had meant. “You have no idea how it’s pained me to complete my duties today, knowing it will be the last time we stand face to face.” 

“Am I not enough to stay for?” The words only just came out of his mouth, broken by the breath that was struggling to get out. “I’m never enough.” Those words were despaired whisper. 

“Guy, no!” you exclaimed. ��Never think that.” 

“But you’re leaving!” His voice had re-gained its power, and he stared at you. “I’ve been beside you in everything since you came here. Why am I not enough?” 

You reached out and took Guy’s leather-clad hand. “You are enough. Why don’t you think you are? Is it because of Marian?”

Guy closed his eyes for a second and sighed. Then he focused his gaze back on you. “I see the townsfolk enjoy talking about me.” 

“Don’t blame them. You’ve mentioned her before, and I guessed she’s the woman you love.” 

“She isn’t. Not anymore. I did love her once and she left. Every woman I grow to love leaves me.” 

Did that mean…? Breath caught in your throat, but you tried not to get above yourself in your want of him. “So other women before her have left?” 

Guy smirked. “Don’t deny what’s right in front of you.” He whispered your name and came closer, his body so close to yours. He looked down from his taller height.

You placed both of your hands on his chest, wanting so much to feel his bare skin beneath the leather. Your gaze met his and you leaned up, placing a gentle kiss against his lips. 

Guy opened his eyes, seeing uncertainty in your face. And gathering his confidence and love, he wound his arms around your waist and kissed you. 

The kiss was full of love, passion and desperation. Your tongues met, and within a few more seconds, Guy’s lips were on your neck. He was panting, and you whimpering.

As you both slowed down, your breaths harsh, you embraced Guy. 

“Is this now enough to make you stay?” he asked. 

You looked up from his chest, and smiled. “What do you think?” 

“And maybe I have more reason.” Guy reached across to the ring you had placed on his table and held it to you. “I want you to have this…and be my wife.” 

***

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[artsybelle1015]

Not Safe Here

In the mirror, he saw him.

Warnings(!!): hallucinations, panic attacks, minor injuries, SPOILERS FOR BOOK 4!!!!

Part One || Part Two

•••

He hissed, feeling a burn settle onto his hand. Quickly turning off the stove, Jamil held his wrist and investigated the feeling. Just as expected, it was oil from the cooking that had done this, leaving a little yet painful mark on the outside of his hand, close to the thumb.

How could he be so careless?

A sigh escaped his lips, he didn’t mean to get distracted while cooking; in fact, he never does. Strange.

Deciding to pause on the food he was making for himself, he turned off the stove and walked out of the kitchen to find a first aid kit in his bathroom. If it had been a meal for Kalim he would’ve simply pushed through, but it was only for himself so he didn’t think it meant much to eat right away.

Turning on the sink on, he ran the hand under the cold yet gentle water. It had reminded him of Kalim’s Oasis spell.

Glancing upwards into the mirror, where the first aid would be behind, his eyes widened. He backed away and instantly tripped near the bathtub. The middle of his spine protested against the sudden hitting from landing back into the tub, but he could care less about that right now.

In the mirror, he saw him. The overblot.

It had only been a couple of weeks since then, many people choosing to avoid him and fear him. He numbed himself to it though, it was already bad enough he hurt Kalim and betrayed his family’s oath, he didn’t want to think of his reputation. He didn’t want to think of his overblot.

But, it was staring at him, menacingly, tilting its head, ink spilling from its mouth with a huge grin, wide eyes.

His breath quickened, his lungs feeling as though there was a rock squishing on them and his lungs moved like a balloon being pressed down on and it was going to pop soon. Coughs came out, it felt like he had the ink welling up in his throat. As the coughing turned into pathetic chokes, he quickly snapped his eyes shut, tears pooling in them.

Everything faded at once… into a twisted black.

___

It felt like an eternity he stared into the darkness.

“Jamil?” called out a familiar voice. This voice ruined his state of numbness and peace in the void he saw.

Slowly opening his eyes, he was right back there, pressed to the bathtub, looking at the mirror. Only this time, it was him, his tired eyes and furrowed brows.

With quick steps, Kalim rushed in front of him and crouched. His face filled with concern and panic, he stayed close yet far to Jamil. “I’m so happy you’re awake. I saw the food on the stove in the kitchen, and you never woke me up so I was scared something happened to you!”

Those were the words Jamil could make out. The rest was just Kalim’s voice, just a muffled voice.

Jamil kept his eyes on the mirror, a blank and dead stare. Noticing he had eye-bags. Since when did he have eye-bags? It was probably from the inability to sleep he had gotten it from.

With a sigh, closing his eyes for a second to look at Kalim, he felt devoid of anything in that present moment. He just perched his back straight, not feeling the pain, and stared to Kalim, who was still talking.

Finally, Jamil spoke, “Enough Kalim, I’m fine.”

“How? I’ve never seen you in this state!” Kalim protested, leaning in closer. “And look at you, you look so tired!”

Jamil gently shoved him away and stood up, Kalim quieting down in response to that. Brushing off his dorm uniform, Jamil wanted to make sure it looked neat and not appear as thought he was panicking.

“Anything you want to eat?”

Kalim’s eyes widen. “How could you say that after just being like that?” Quickly standing up.

“It’s fine, okay? Just answer me.” There was no emotion coming from his voice, and he was beginning to walk back to the kitchen.

Quick footsteps followed behind. Kalim was extremely worried, yet Jamil could not care any less. A part of him still hated Kalim despite everything that happened. But, it was his job to serve for Asim family, whether he liked it or not, he must do so.

That said eldest son spoke up again, “I don’t want you to make me breakfast right now, I’ll just make it myself. You should go and lay down!”

Jamil stopped and sighed, turning over to him. “You know very well you can’t cook, and as I said I am fine, it was just a rough night and I got sleep anyways.”

Kalim brows lowered, he looked almost angry. “Jamil, you burned your hand.”

Looking at his hand, he remembered it, he had forgotten about it for some time and now that it was mentioned it started to hurt again. All he did was shove that hand into his hoods pocket and exclaimed, “Yes, but it’s small and inconvenient.”

“Jamil, I’m kicking you out.”

His eyes widened and he quickly stared at Kalim, exasperated look. “What?”

Kalim took a deep breath, and said in pure confidence, “Jamil, I know you have been tired and upset, I’m not stupid. You need to take care of yourself and clearly living here isn’t doing it.”

Jamil eyes went dead again, he was feeling angry now, but didn’t want to express it. When he was angry he overblotted. He didn’t want to do that again. “Kalim, you and I both know you can’t take care of yourself alone. It wouldn’t be a wise choice to do that.”

“Quiet!” Kalim hushed, then quickly covered his mouth in guilt, Jamil couldn’t care right now though. “Sorry! I didn’t mean it like that. I got this though, okay? Plus plenty of people who I can talk to! Jamil it’s important you do things on your own and get rest.”

“I’m not leaving.” Jamil decided to head back to the kitchen anyways and try to continue the day as normal.

Under no circumstance was he going to leave, it would be a foul idea. Jamil Viper leaving Kalim alone, what a ridiculous idea. His purpose in life was to serve, and serve he will. There is no anger or trying to seek revenge, he must push on.

Kalim rushed in front of him, blocking the entrance to the kitchen.

Raising an eyebrow, Jamil asked, “What are you doing?”

“Pack your bags!” Kalim cheered. “You and I are heading to the ramshackle.”

“You can’t be serious?” he was freaking out now, panic rising again, not as much as last night, but still a bad amount.

Oh sevens, he was a failure to his family and Kalim and Scarabia as a whole.

His head began to pound, vision getting fussy. Quickly grabbing his head he backed away stumbling a bit. He messed up, why did he have to manipulate people? Why did he try to hurt others? Why did he have to hate Kalim.

“Jamil!” Kalim screeched, grabbing his arm. This snapped Jamil out of his thoughts, staring at him with paranoid eyes. “It’s not safe for you to live here.”

Jamil lost his voice, everything hurt in him. His throat once again felt as though it was clogged by ink. This wasn’t fair.

Grabbing his hand, Kalim guided Jamil to his room.

Too much in shock, he just watched Kalim back up bags with uniforms and clothes for each day. All of his daily care stuff such as hairbrush, and toothpaste were being thrown in too.

Now that he thought about it he hadn’t brushed his teeth or hair, he didn’t make himself look presentable. He looked horrible and people were realizing it.

“Kalim…” Jamil choked out. “Doesn’t the Prefect hate me?”

Slowly turning his head, Kalim looked into his thin snake eyes and shook his head. “Well, you see I talked to the Prefect and we talked. It was their idea to let you in. In fact, they want to get to know you, the real you. Yes they’re not happy with you but…” he softly smiled “wouldn’t it be nice to make a new friend?”

Jamil honestly couldn’t remember much after that, only that he suddenly appeared at ramshackle.

•••

Authors Note: First time I’ve ever posted a fanfic oh em gee. Anyways, thinking of a part two honestly, but it’s mostly for my own main character/Yuu. I enjoyed this though, so I hope whoever is reading did too!