#also I love blood to an unnatural degree so

[decaeysa]

might add to my rules abt how I promise nothing anyone ever suggests rp wise is ‘too much’ for me. i love torture & gore & awful dark horror shit and all the psychological problems that come with it. i’m fucked up & used to really go into the undead depraved shit when I had sylvanas the first time so as long as it isn’t sexually explicit i’m always here for bloody rp topics. if it wasn’t for akali being my whole brain cell I’d market this even more as a horror focused blog but alas she is an outlier in my usual aesthetic and taste. fucked up muses are my speciality and I am always here to talk about fucked up horror driven shit.

[oh-no-its-bird]

Chasing Shadows inspired time travel au where Fugaku and Kakashi get zapped to the warring states, but things become tricky when they keep looking to Hikaku as their shared "figure of respect/responsibility" (bc hes the Uchiha head in future Konoha, having lasted long enough to make Fugaku his heir) when at this time he's just barley third in command and Madara is like. RIGHT there.

That's not even mentioning the ticking time bomb of "Kakashi looks like Tobirama did as a child" that's already been established, that's gonna cause problems (half-Hatake Tobirama who's Kakashi's blood uncle agenda goes brrr)

(For those who don't know what Chasing Shadows is, all u really need to know for this is that Kakashi is 6, Fugaku is 19, and Hikaku is the acting Uchiha clan head at 76. A week after his fathers suicide, Kakashi found out he's related to Tobirama via his grandmother, projects on him really fucking hard, and eventually ends up with Hikaku acting as one of multiple mentor figures to him.)

Fugaku, aware that the Uchiha compound of this era isn't uhh. The best place for a Hatake kid who resembles one of their greatest enemies to a suspicious degree: "maybe u should leave actually. Go shack up with the Senju or smthn"

Kakashi, now heavily biased towards the Uchiha bc of Hikaku and Fugaku: "ok but why."

Izuna, standing directly behind him holding a giant mallet:

The Uchiha are arguing ab what they should do w Kakashi and if they should like. Take him as political hostage (assuming, not entirely incorrectly, that he's related to Tobirama and Hashirama) but also like. The Hatake are an isolated clan that famously react very fucking badly when their kids are threatened. So is this a potential political tool for them to use or a ticking time bomb to when they accidentally potentially get a new clan (who's already allied to the Senju) involved in their feud.

The Uchiha writing to Tobirama and Hashirama like "we have ur secret little brother/cousin(?) come talk to us now or he gets it"

"You have our what."

Hashirama is going "ahaha oh nooo my secret little brother,, who I love very much and also know exactly who ur talking about but would love it if u could send a portrait or chakra signature or smthn just to make sure its the right kid,,, u know how it is <3"

I feel like I've used that beat before actually. Which one of my like 20 Kakashi to warring states time travel aus have I pulled this in?? Possibly multiple tbh

Anyways Hashirama also going "oh nooo u have my baby brother,, I guess we have no choice but to talk andmaybedopeace"

Anyways. I need a Hikaku focused character study sooo badd,, the pipe he uses in Chasing Shadows is Madara's, have I mentioned that yet? Bc it totally is and no one really knows that and like. Hikaku sure as fuck won't mention it bc it'd really only bring bad things

Kakashi and Fugaku are making surprised Pikachu faces at Hikaku like every time they see him, neither can get over seeing him this young and not blind and also not in charge. It's unnatural.

Even logically knowing that they can't just place their full trust in him bc hes not their Hikaku, they still can't stop themselves from doing it accidentally— Fugaku is his ward, he was raised by the guy. And Kakashi is a moody 6 year old who only has like 5 actually trusted adult figures in his life and only 3 of those he gives actual respect and Hikaku is one of those 3.

That's totally gonna fuck them over in the future bc, again, Hikaku doesn't know them!!! His clan and his loyalty to Madara + Izuna will always come first over these odd strangers, sorry

Maybe throw Mikoto in too, who's Izuna's granddaughter (that resemblance is gonna cause issues) and Fugaku's begrudging fiance (Hikaku said Fugaku could become clan head on ONE condition— marrying Izuna's granddaughter back into the main line), could be fun

Maybe I'll try to write smthn like this once I'm more into the meat of chasing shadows and have set up the Hikaku-Fugaku-Kakashi dynamic enough that people are invested in it

[chaninfused]

Roseborn: Part One | Hwang Hyunjin

◤“The ravenous fire that crackled in your souls was one and the same, stoked by repressed fear and the overwhelming desire to survive in a world that only valued material power.”

A human soldier and a magic-less heir find an unlikely connection in their desperate battle to survive House Amaranthine. 

◤Disclaimers: Female reader insert. This is the backstory of Hyunjin’s character in my ‘Gilded Kingdom’ wip. Can be read as a standalone. An enemies to lovers, forbidden love, fantasy debacle. Slow burn. Includes lots of angst but also some good fluff. Abusive mother. Descriptions of heavy violence and fighting, as well as blood and injury. Sparse use of vulgar language. Several made up terms are used in this story but are explained throughout. Have a quick read through the Gilded Kingdom World Guide to avoid confusion. 

◤Word count: 16.5K

◤Note: This idea is a 100% mine and any case of similarity with someone else’s is purely coincidental. Events are pure fiction. Please do not take my content without my consent. masterlist.

◤Dedicated to the lovely @missinghan​! I’ll spare you the excessive sappiness, but just know that our friendship means the world to me, and you deserve nothing short of the world itself. You’re one of the most talented people I know, and I’m constantly in awe of your wonderful ideas and even more wonderful writing. This took criminally long and it’s not yet done, but I can only hope that you enjoy it nonetheless. Happy reading, and I love you so much! ♡

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

She was trying to humiliate him again, and Hyunjin knew it damn well.

He stepped into the flat square of pearly sand, schooling his features into rigid stone as he drew his Kizāri from its sheath on his back. The weapon’s trident-like head trailed in the sand, drawing a perfect half-moon around him until it met the tip of his opponent’s weapon on the ground, wielded in the same fashion.

“Y/n,” his mother had introduced her. “The best human Azārāhi we have.”

It was an insult, glaring and plain. She was mocking his Nilfyn roots by pairing him with a human—mocking the Tilt in him she deemed useless and pitiful.

Hyunjin caught the silver of her hair in his peripheral, piled on her head elegantly like strung starlight. His mother was watching him from where she stood poised as a knife in the shadows. Every blink, every breath of his was under her unrelenting scrutiny. This was a test like many before, and Hyunjin was going to cleave mountains with his bare hands if it warranted his mother’s approval.

He lifted his free hand, curling it into a fist and holding it against his right shoulder in salute. His new training partner mirrored him, her moves practiced to an unnatural degree of precision. Her black Azāri uniform was sharply tailored to her figure, the high collar brushing against her jaw as the ends of her overcoat waved in the slight breeze. Her hair was styled clear of her face, letting her hardened features be illuminated by the morning sun.

Azāri was a delicate fighting art developed by the Nilfyn centuries past, mimicking the fluidity of water in its grace and precision. It required a level of agility unnatural to humans, but stood there, his opponent was every bit the part. Her mortality was only given away by her ears, bare and unadorned. Unlike Hyunjin’s, which were extensively hooped with deep purplish-red Channeling Cores.

Channeling Cores that served little to no purpose.

The air settled around him as though the forbidding pillars surrounding them were holding their breaths, anticipating the lethal whistle of swinging Kizāris. This was a game to his mother, and if Hyunjin wanted to prove himself, then he’d have to kill that human.

As soon as that thought materialized in his mind, her still Kizāri lifted off the ground in a magnificent arc, nearly sweeping him off his feet and spurring him into action. Leaping over the silver head, he swung his own weapon down in a clean diagonal line as his muscles tensed with welcome familiarity.

Kizāris were made to be nearly the height of their users, with long and thin handles, supporting broad, double-edged iron heads that spread like butterfly wings. The weapons moved like pendulums, making dips in the sand that resembled overlapping circles. It was an art, albeit deadly.

Hyunjin fell into the familiar flow of the fight, the faint scream of air as his weapon cut through it was a welcome song to his attentive ears. His blood thrummed, dancing to the steady beat of his heart as his mind whirled with his movements, calculating, strategizing. His eyes followed the blur of her weapon arcing toward him unceasingly, one bold plunge after the other.

She fought impeccably, Hyunjin had to admit. If she were intimidated by him, her stance told nothing of it. His new partner didn’t hesitate to strike first and strike hard, but he was soon able to identify the pattern in her attacks.

Ducking to avoid the silvered weapon swiveling toward his neck, he raised his Kizāri as though to swing it upward. When he saw her eyes follow the movement, her Kizāri turning to clash with his, he reversed his aim and swung it toward her feet, successfully disrupting her balance. In the gasp of her confusion, he lunged, hurling her at the ground with his Kizāri pressed against her chest.

White sand clouded the air after the impact and Hyunjin inhaled. He would drive the weapon into her chest and watch as her mortal blood tainted the sand—show his mother that he refused to accept the insult.

But as he applied more pressure on his Kizāri, he felt the human slacken under him. The prospect of death loomed over him, a destiny and a threat. He expected her to fight back, but she was giving up, her Kizāri a whisper away from her fingertips. Her eyes were fixed on him, stern and unsettling, as if daring him to proceed, glaring at the face of undisputable doom.

It made him pause. But it was too late.

“Pathetic,” she breathed the word as her legs hugged the handle of Hyunjin’s Kizāri and pulled it downward. The weapon flew out of his grasp before he could react, and she was on her feet again, Kizāri in hand. She pushed him to the ground in one swift motion and briefly touched the sharp edge of the iron to his neck.

In one moment’s difference, Hyunjin had proven the weakness he’d been so close to destroying.

The Azārāhi retracted her weapon before turning to where Hyunjin’s mother stood watching. She bowed then stepped out of the square of sand. Its even surface now exhibited the circular indentations of the Kizāris.

Hyunjin couldn’t pull himself up quick enough before his mother’s scathing words lashed at him. There was sand in his hair, dusting his cheeks and muddling the inky black of his attire. His Kizāri was discarded shamefully on the ground. And he was just bested by a human.

The head of House Amaranthine had aimed to humiliate him, and she succeeded.

“How Shameful.”

Those two words landed like a slap to his face.

She was never discrete at expressing her disappointment in him. It was the only emotion she seemed to know how to express. Never pride. Never compassion.

All because he was simply born.

Hyunjin lifted his gaze, willing himself to meet her eyes despite the oppressive urge building up in him to curl into himself and vanish without a trace.

He would allow himself no further humiliation.

“I expect you to train every waking and sleeping hour of the day.” she stepped out into the light, and instantly, the space of the court seemed to shrivel. His mother was carved out of quartz and ivory, her sharp eyes pools of onyx that saw everything. She demanded attention, and a cower from the people who knew her.

Her fairness told nothing of the disdain dripping from her words. “Paint these sands red for all I care.”

Hyunjin was foolish to think he could challenge her gaze with his own. He stared at the disrupted sand beneath him when he forced out an answer.

“Yes, mother.”

•❃•

Life in the Kingdom of Greria was many things, but it wasn’t easy. Not for your kind.

Your villages were small and few, riddled with illness and poverty. Children were forced away from their families for better lives as servants or soldiers, while the elderly were left to rot alone under tattered roofs. Their loneliness was common, expected, even, since most families were prematurely broken by the aristocracy or by death.

The Nilfyn didn’t burn down your homes, but their indifference to your suffering might’ve as well. Their biases killed and tortured and ripped little children from their mothers’ desperate arms. Ruled by an uncaring king and a heartless aristocracy, being born human was condemnation in Greria.

Some might say that you were one of the lucky few. Donated to the Ērmār of House Amaranthine when you were six, you hadn’t set foot in a human village ever since. You were fed and sheltered, and that was a luxury more than most could afford.

The Ērmār was an austere lady. It was rumored amongst the palace servants that her heart was made of an iron so cold it never warmed up.

House Amaranthine operated on that coldness.

The life you led was governed by countless, unchanging rules. You had to watch your every word and action in order to keep your neck intact. And as one of the human Azārāhis, trained to be sacrificed on the first line of defense, you were under the Ērmār’s direct examination. She could deem you unfitting or insolent at any moment, and your life would be tipped over with a wave of her hand.

You were given the merest respect for being an Azārāhi when strolling through town, but you were still a human girl in a warrior’s uniform. A sacrificial lamb. That Azārāhi title was hollow.

And you were reminded of its emptiness when the Ērmār summoned you to train with her son.

Sōrsānt Hyunjin was a presence whispered in the shadows and not uttered aloud in the palace. Very few of you had laid eyes on the House’s only heir, but you all heard about his mother’s contempt for him. The Ērmār was harsh, but she was the harshest on him.

No one understood her reasons, neither did any pity the Sōrsānt. He was a Nilfyn aristocrat after all, with enough privilege to distribute amongst a village and still have an abundance to spare. If anything, you found him pathetic.

And your notion of him was fortified when you first dueled with him. You recognized the insult of your new role as his training partner, and you had expected him to plunge his Kizāri into your chest when he had the chance. You had expected him to show the Ērmār that he wouldn’t let her humiliate him. You had expected him to kill you because that was how things worked in House Amaranthine.

But he hesitated. And he damned the two of you in that fraction of a second.

Weakness was unforgivable. It was a sin. You couldn’t think of a single valid reason for his reluctance, and you didn’t want to know. The Sōrsānt had no business sparing a random human, and if you wanted to keep your place in the palace, then such an incident could not reoccur.

That was what you woke up to ensure.

Just like the previous day, you waited in the Sōrsānt’s training court after finishing your drills. The sun was barely awake, its gradual light painting the slumbering sky in golden hues. It was better that way. If the Ērmār wanted you to train during every waking hour, then you had to be up before the sun itself.

You didn’t wait long before Hyunjin appeared, striding out of the lacquered doors with an ease that could only be found in those carrying aristocratic blood. Something akin to anger twitched in his jaw when his gaze settled on you for the briefest moment. It was as though he were upset by the fact that you arrived before him.

The Sōrsānt was a sight to behold. A presence to be revered. His towering stature was accentuated by attire excellently tailored to his figure, drawing attention to the breadth of his proud shoulders. Half of his long hair was tied up to clear his face, but a few dark strands escaped to frame his countenance regardless. Purplish-red stones encrusted his ears—instruments of summoning magic, marking him as a Nilfyn and specifically symbolizing his relation to House Amaranthine.

In many ways, he was a mirror of the Ērmār. But the ruthlessness that lined her eyes was missing in his, replaced by solemn guardedness. He was a hostile fortress, yet his staggering features demanded lingering gazes.

It was said that their magic made them ethereal like that. Nature’s last favored children. Hyunjin’s eyes seemed to be made of the purest obsidian, wrung from the bleeding heart of the earth itself and shielded by the generous brush of his brows. His full lips were pressed in a line of permanent scorn, as though he couldn’t smile even if he tried to.

Sculpted by iron and starlight, he was beautiful, like all the Nilfyn were. He was also a conceited fool, like they all were.

“Good morning, Sōrsānt.” you kept your tone even, greeting him only for the sake of formalities than actual concern for the quality of his morning.

Haughty as they were, Hyunjin spared your greeting no acknowledgment as he walked past you to the rack of polished Azāri equipment nailed to the wall. You ignored the urge to roll your eyes, fixing them instead on the identical pillars surrounding the court like soldiers on duty. The sand in the center was flattened again, erasing all evidence of the humiliating duel of the previous day.

When the Sōrsānt moved toward the training square, you followed him, situating yourself on one side while he took its opposite. He didn’t bother to lay out the plan for the day’s training. Perhaps he didn’t care, or perhaps he only wanted to spar until one of you fell dead. Whichever it was, you didn’t dwell on it for too long. For all you knew, he expected you to simply know what he wanted and follow along.

You tugged at the leather straps wrapped around your hands, making sure they were secured properly. Reinforced with iron cuffs, the brace was designed to protect an Azārāhi’s wrists from fracturing or dislocating when handling the weight and force of a Kizāri. The weapon was difficult to master and similarly dangerous without the necessary precautions.

Once you were satisfied with the fit of the leather straps, you fixed your footing and inhaled, letting air pass through your lips slowly before letting it out through your nose. Your mind had to be an empty slate before a fight. You couldn’t afford distractions unless you wanted your arm chopped off.

You detached your Kizāri when Hyunjin wordlessly reached for his, letting the head touch the ground and dragging it across the sand in a perfect half-circle. The two blades met halfway, connecting your trails like an incomplete infinity. That was the routine way of drawing the Kizāri during professional duels, one you practiced over and over until it became as natural as breathing.

You raised your free fist to your shoulder, slightly jutting your elbow out in salute. Hyunjin mirrored you, allowing the greeting to settle for a moment before he swung his Kizāri.

Every emotion you painstakingly forced into hiding unfurled at once, fueling your muscles as you countered his attack.

Your Kizāri was an extension of your arm, moving alongside your body as though the two were instinctively aware of one another. You’d long since tamed the weapon, understanding the way it moved not out of necessity, but because you loved the art of Azāri.

You should’ve hated an art developed by the Nilfyn, for the Nilfyn, but you were entranced by its splendor from the moment you first saw the Azārāhis of House Amaranthine thirteen years ago. Their bodies were mere vessels for the fluid movement of the fight, one with the blur of Kizāris. It was enchanting. It was deadly.

An Azārāhi master herself, the Ērmār had been recruiting human students to join her legion of soldiers. So when you showed potential, you were thrust into the tough life of an Azārāhi, never to look back.

You leaped over Hyunjin’s Kizāri when it came arcing toward you, lashing yours in a slanted line he narrowly missed. You had never fought a Nilfyn Azārāhi before the day you were summoned to train with Hyunjin, and you noticed the difference immediately. The Sōrsānt was incredibly lithe, and that agility seemed instinctual, easy. Unlike the overly practiced movements of your fellow human Azārāhis. In another lifetime, you might’ve sat and admired his motion for hours, like a stream of crystal water. A sly breeze. A graceful shadow. A delicate destroyer.

But you weren’t a dreamy girl in that impossible timeline, and you had a warning to deliver to the foolish Hwang Hyunjin.

Anger at him set your blood ablaze, mangled with your silent fear from the previous day. You hadn’t built a life in House Amaranthine for the Sōrsānt to take it away by being cowardly. You refused to let that be the direction of your fate.

Your Kizāris clashed and the curved ends hooked into each other. Seeing the opportunity, you flicked your wrist sideways. Hyunjin’s weapon jerked as a result, distracting him before you swiveled to dislodge your Kizāri and swing it past his neck.

Your heartbeat rang in your ears, deafening.

It all happened in the slight space between a breath and another.

Your Kizāri whooshed behind him before you pulled it back, making its blunt underside catch his neck and drive him toward you until you had your hand fisted in his coat. You were aware of the Kizāri still in his grasp, idle due to the smear of shock that contorted his face, so your words came rushing out. He could snap back into his senses at any moment and cut through you with ease. “I don’t know what made you leave me unscathed yesterday, and I don’t care to know.

“Do not disgrace me before the Ērmār like that again,” you bit out before releasing him and swiftly backing away.

He could kill you for your insolence. He could call for the guards and they wouldn’t question him while dragging you away. But something told you that he wouldn’t. As you trailed a new half-moon in the pearly sand, you knew that his colossal ego wouldn’t allow him to quit the fight so early.

Hyunjin stared at you, his Kizāri limp in his hand, his formidable fortress down. You saw the gall of your actions flit over his features as it sunk into his mind. Your words were clear, the intentions behind them plain, and the set of his eyes darkened with realization soon enough.

You had done it.

He had barely completed his half-circle in the sand before his Kizāri went flying through the air, aimed at you with no space for mistake.

You caught the steel in his eyes, and you wanted to laugh. This was what it felt like to fight a Nilfyn Azārāhi. Brute force and swings aimed to kill. It wasn’t the harmless flow of water, but the slither of a serpent. A dance of venom.

This was Azāri. Relentless and deathly.

Adrenaline surged in your veins as you evaded his blow, swinging your weapon with newfound force. Sand rose in clouds around the two of you. Sunlight pooled into the open court. Your Kizāris never faltered. Your feet never stayed at the same spot for a moment too long. The minutes blurred into each other, and as your muscles screamed against the strain, Hyunjin seemed unaffected. The anger in his focused gaze only seemed to grow, festering into an ugly mess of lethal, unforgiving swings.

The blade of his Kizāri landed on your upper arm in a hazy moment of vulnerability, and before you could register what was happening, it was cutting through the thick sleeve of your overcoat.

He retracted his weapon, and you swallowed a low hiss as the new cut on your arm burned in the dusty air. The only thought that broke through your pained daze was a grim ‘fucking finally’.

This way, they would see that the Sōrsānt injured you during training. They would know that he didn’t value a meager human life and you would be safe from the Ērmār’s retribution. After all, you didn’t want to break the first rule in House Amaranthine.

You were still gripping your Kizāri when you straightened your back, holding Hyunjin’s gaze and ignoring the tingling pain in your arm. He looked at you with his chin in the air as if daring you to wince. Daring you to cry out.

You only dragged your Kizāri through the disrupted sand. A half-moon.

And you drew it again and again until your limbs were no more than floating muscle. Until your mind was no more than a muddle of consciousness. Until you drove your body to the limits of blood loss.

It was better that way.

•❃•

When Hyunjin saw you again, it was as though you hadn’t trailed blood as you left his training court the day before.

You stepped through the door with your head up, shoulders firm, and your Kizāri strapped to your back, only pausing mid-stride for a hesitant moment when you noticed that he had arrived before you.

He watched as confusion, curiosity, and then concern painted themselves on your features respectively. All appropriate reactions, he supposed. It would be deemed highly disrespectful if you kept him waiting, but likewise, he didn’t want you to best him in attendance as well.

It was silly, he was vaguely aware, but this was a competition. Such was life in House Amaranthine. Even the most trivial things mattered.

You cleared your throat shortly after, speaking in the same monotone voice, “Good morning, Sōrsānt.”

Hyunjin didn’t reply, and you both knew that he didn’t have to. Neither of you actually cared about mornings and whether they were pleasant or not.

Taking your positions across the flat square of sand, Hyunjin pretended not to see the way your eyes clenched when you reached for your Kizāri. It was the first sign of pain you showed, and he suspected it would be the last.

He was aware of what you were doing. By making him injure you, you ensured that the palace wouldn’t pay attention to the way he hesitated to kill you first. It was grim, but it helped mask his earlier humiliation.

Though, Hyunjin knew you didn’t do it for him. You did it to protect yourself from him. If his mother grew suspicious, then there was no way to avoid the punishment she would give the both of you. Humans and Nilfyn were not supposed to be friends, and his little slip-up could’ve condemned the two of you.

You drew your half-moons in the sand and began what would become a daily routine—sparring wordlessly until the sun centered the sky.

Hyunjin allowed the faint voice in his head to begrudgingly admire your strength. You were still in pain, he noticed it, but your aim didn’t waver, your swings didn’t weaken. When his mother introduced you as her best human Azārāhi, she had truly meant it. You were an untiring weapon in her mortal arsenal.

Perhaps, in another lifetime, he would’ve been horrified by your endurance. But he wasn’t an innocent boy in that impossible timeline, and those were the cruel instruments to surviving a world that didn’t value you.

The two of you were sparring in rounds each a few minutes long. Hyunjin didn’t miss the looks you were giving him by the end of each one, staring at him like he was a riddle you couldn’t solve while trailing your Kizāri in the sand again. He could guess a hundred reasons behind those looks, and he found that he didn’t care to know which was specifically circling your mind.

But as the day progressed, he began noticing the strange new pattern in your strategy. You were trying to corner him, push him to an edge as though to see how he would react. When he swung his Kizāri at you, you only ducked and arced your weapon to trap his. Then, to his bewilderment, you waited, narrowing your eyes at him as though anticipating his response. When he frowned and twisted his Kizāri free, your unnerving intrigue only increased. It sparkled in your eyes gloriously.

He didn’t like it.

Or more precisely, he didn’t like being the object of your mysterious scrutiny.

Hyunjin stifled a snarl as he swiveled his Kizāri at your feet, raising the pale sand. Goodness, you were really getting on his nerves.

•❃•

It had been a week since you began training with Hyunjin, and although you hated every moment of it, it was a routine you eased into quickly.

Maybe a bit too quickly than you’d like to admit.

The Sōrsānt was an insufferable bastard, but you appreciated the challenge he presented to you. All your previous duels paled when compared to those with him. It was as if you’d finally found a worthy opponent.

That morning started like the rest. You stood in the sand square and dragged your Kizāri through as Hyunjin mimicked you. The soft clink of metal sounded when the two weapons met, and you raised your fist to your shoulder.

Just then, the doors groaned open, and you heard her approach before you turned to see her.

Shrouded in the finest black, the Ērmār’s presence in the training court made the air quiver. You caught the glint of a Kizāri behind the silver glow of her hair and your eyes widened unwisely.

There could only be one reason for that Kizāri.

Immediately, you retracted your weapon and bowed to her, beginning to retrace your steps toward the door at the opposite end of the court when her voice boomed behind you, “Stay.”

You froze at her command, trying to calm the panic rising in your throat as you stood still near the door. Your thoughts pounded against your sanity. She suspects you. This is it. She’s here to end it all.

You were a fool to think your plan would ever work.

Hyunjin glared at his mother as she stepped into the square of sand, undoubtedly displeased by her order for you to stay. She stopped at the spot where you stood moments ago and pulled out her Kizāri, letting it meet his on the ground. Her tone was gravelly demand, unaffected by the irritation in his gaze. “I want to see your progress.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer her, and you could see the clench of his jaw as he bit back any protest he had. A breath too long later, he relented, touching his fist to his shoulder briefly before he swept his Kizāri across the sand in front of him.

You observed them from the side, not bothering to mask your expressions anymore. You didn’t know whether to be afraid, excited, or baffled by the dangerous duel before you.

A visit from the Ērmār never had pleasant results, and your fear was all-encompassing. The last time you’d seen her, she was watching as her son spared your life when he shouldn’t have. She wouldn’t forget, you knew. Eventually, she would decide to finish what Hyunjin couldn’t.

At the same time, you couldn’t drown the thrill pumping in your blood. You’d heard much about the Ērmār’s mastery of Azāri, but you’d never seen her fight. Not until that moment. And you could easily see where Hyunjin earned his fighting style.

The Ērmār was him, except quicker and deadlier. She moved as if she had mapped all his steps beforehand and expected them. He was a puppet in her hands, forced to counter, counter, counter, and never given a second chance to attack.

The Ērmār’s age didn’t seem to give Hyunjin an advantage either. She was a dagger that always landed true, an ancient willow swaying with the wind of the fight.

Then, there was your faint surprise to see the way Hyunjin bent to his mother’s will without so little as an objection. Somehow, you knew what the Ērmār was doing. By letting you watch, she was pushing his humiliation further. It was a twisted play of power that you unfortunately understood. Weakness was a sin, after all.

The duel didn’t last long. Hyunjin held up against the Ērmār’s unfaltering blows impeccably, but one could only defend for so long before an opening showed itself.

And the Ērmār was a keenly perceptive lady.

In a blink, her Kizāri swung skillfully, disarming him successfully and hurtling toward his side. She turned the weapon and its flat side slammed into him, throwing him off balance and sending him to the ground. A puff of dust floated around Hyunjin’s fallen figure, and you grimaced before you could think any better of it.

The Ērmār stood over her son’s body, pristine and undisturbed after their abrupt duel. Her tone was enough to make flowers wilt. “And I didn’t even need my magic to best you.”

Hyunjin was still sprawled on his side, and you found yourself urging him silently. Get up. Get up, you absolute buffoon.

As if he could hear you, he pushed himself to his feet, fighting back a wince as he met his mother’s withering gaze. Sand was powdering the side of his face and chalking his dark hair, but that didn’t seem to bother him. The words left his lips quietly, seething, “You say this, but my father bested you without—”

“Your father was too incompetent to keep himself alive. Do you wish to compare yourself to him?” she snapped, suffocating whatever flame of courage he had kindled for himself at that moment.

He lowered his eyes, squeezing his fists and dropping his shoulders, truly defeated. “No, mother.”

The Ērmār didn’t grace him with a response, simply looking him over with a disappointed click of her tongue before she turned and left. Only when the doors echoed shut behind her did Hyunjin lift his gaze, letting it crash on you instantly. A maelstrom of anger and humiliation.

He picked up his Kizāri and stalked in your direction. You opened your mouth to speak, but he only shoved past you, wordlessly pushing the door open and disappearing into the palace.

You had sworn to never feel sorry for the Sōrsānt. But at that moment, standing alone in his training court, your heart broke the vow of your better judgement.

•❃•

You could tell that Hyunjin’s mind was elsewhere when his Kizāri flew out of his grasp upon clashing with yours.

It was a mistake only a beginner would make.

You heaved an exasperated breath and stabbed the ground with your Kizāri, glaring at a confused Hyunjin while he stared blankly at his disgraced weapon. With a shake of his head, he crouched down and grabbed the handle, dragging the Kizāri with him to his side of the sand square.

He drew a new half-moon then looked up at you, surprised to find you unmoving at the center of the court. He lifted a brow in mute question, and you frowned, unable to keep the frustration to yourself anymore.

“Why didn’t you say no?”

He didn’t owe you conversation. He didn’t need to talk to you unless he had an order to give. The Nilfyn were above engaging with simple humans.

That didn’t stop you from pressing further, hefting your Kizāri with two hands as you stepped toward him. “I didn’t have to see that, and you could’ve objected.”

Silence.

You let out a sizable sigh. Of course your attempts wouldn’t make him budge.

Returning to your spot, you shaped your half-circle and fell back into the rhythm of the fight. But the unanswered questions and his curious behavior seemed to bubble over in your mind. If the Ērmār was using you against him, for whatever reason, then you were in immense danger. You weren’t willing to let Hyunjin go until you had your answers.

Seemingly distracted as he was, Hyunjin let his Kizāri swoop lazily and you took that opportunity to arc your weapon toward the ground, successfully trapping his in the sand. You swiftly set a foot on the blunt underside of his Kizāri, its head now buried in the sand, and threw your best glare at the Sōrsānt. He’d have to counter the full weight of your body and the fix of your Kizāri if he wanted to free his weapon.

“I need answers.”

At your shameless demand, a scowl distorted Hyunjin’s handsome features. He tugged on his Kizāri, and you pressed your foot harder in response. It was his fault for allowing you to trap him so easily anyway.

“Why didn’t you object?”

His grip on the Kizāri’s handle tightened, but he remained silent. Your frustration only multiplied. He was more stubborn than a traitor in interrogation.

“Why did you let the Ērmār humiliate you like that?”

He turned his face away in a show of disinterest, but you saw the tick in his jaw. He was getting irritated.

“You’re the Sōrsānt, for goodness’ sake! Why do you feign weakness?”

That seemed to do it. He snapped his head toward you, eyes thundering with turbulent anger and another emotion you couldn’t quite place. The steely edge of his words could break stone. “You don’t know me.”

“Oh? I think I’ve seen enough to know what I need to know. You’re conceited, callous, and careless, and you’re weak. Why am I training with you?”

Hyunjin kept his lips pressed together, his frown deepening. You were the one being careless with your words, but you couldn’t stop. Once they slipped past your lips, all your thoughts came tumbling out.

“You don’t use your magic.” your statement sounded more like a question. You had been observing him during your training hours, and he never resorted to an Elemental Tilt to turn the tides of your fights. Hyunjin relied on his skills solely, and although it made the match between the two of you a notch fairer, it was suspicious. The Nilfyn prided themselves on their magic.

You leaned closer, lowering your voice skeptically, “Unless…you don’t have magic.”

He flinched at that—flinched—and you didn’t pretend to overlook it, murmuring, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

You retracted your Kizāri from the ground and lifted your foot from his weapon, raising your chin in challenge as you stepped away. Almost immediately, Hyunjin’s Kizāri swung at you, frantic yet precise. Metal clashed on metal, and you were pivoting away, fighting the crazed laugh threatening to erupt in your chest.

It was almost too easy to rile Hyunjin up.

If the Sōrsānt had no magic, then that meant that he was an illegitimate child. That would explain his avoidance of using it and might be the reason behind the Ērmār’s harshness with him.

If he had no magic, then that meant that he was a human like you. You only needed to prove it.

You lowered your guard, purposely giving Hyunjin the chance to disarm you. His swings, whereas still strong, were erratic, as though he was desperately fighting for his life. His dark eyes were glazed over with that same desperation.

Reminiscent of your first duel, he pushed you to the ground, pressing his Kizāri against your chest. Your weapon slipped out of your grasp.

You inhaled sand, looking up at him with a satisfied smirk. “See? No magic.”

Before giving him time to react, you raised your legs to hook them around his and toppled him over. In the breath of his surprise, you snatched his Kizāri, rolling and pinning him under you easily. You clutched the weapon like a spear as you aimed it at his neck, barely hearing your voice over the wild beating of your heart. “You’re powerless. You’re a liar.”

His beautiful face was marred with distress and fury, and with a sharp pang of realization, you recognized the emotion that filled his eyes moments earlier. Fear.

Hyunjin’s hand gripped your wrist to divert the Kizāri. A growl rumbled in his throat as he tried to wrestle you off and regain the upper hand. He didn’t acknowledge your accusations while the two of you tumbled across the court.

Your back hit the soft sand again as Hyunjin held you down, his hand slamming into the ground beside your head. His Kizāri was discarded. The strands of hair that framed his face whispered against your skin when he leaned in, seething, yet so incredibly vulnerable. He rasped, the smoothness of his voice hardening into ice despite the warmth of his presence. “You don’t know me, human.”

Then, as if struck by lightning, his eyes enlarged, and he scrambled off you suddenly. You furrowed your eyebrows at his bizarre change of behavior, noticing a moment too late that you had been holding your breath.

With a grunt, you pushed yourself to your feet. Blood was rushing through your system too quickly, but you weren’t going to let Hyunjin flee just yet. You needed answers, and this fight wasn’t going to end until you had them.

You turned to find your Kizāri and paused, eyes landing on a single flower resting on the pearly sand.

Right where Hyunjin’s hand had hit the ground.

A flower, where there was nothing but sand before.

•❃•

Hyunjin wanted the ground to swallow him.

Horror streaked his face as he stared at the flower that sprung amid the bleak sand.

He knew he made it bloom. In a surge of fear, he lost control of his idle magic. He felt it gush through his body, cold yet soothing, felt the lingering tingle on the tips of his fingers—the kiss of the flower’s petals on his palm before he scrambled away, panicked.

You crouched down and pulled the stray bloom out of the sand. The small tangle of roots let up easily. Cupping it gently, you snapped your head up at Hyunjin, meeting his terrified gaze with wonder.

Some part of him faltered.

It screamed and shook with a violence so tremendous it snatched his breath away—a part that longed for acceptance and approval. He hated the way your simple expression seemed to rip him apart, hitting every brick he painstakingly stacked to build the fortress around his heart.

Your awe was sweetly revolting, your whisper too loud for his liking. “This is your magic.”

The flower in your hands had unfurled like a rose, its wide petals curling outward in a shy blush. A single leaf padded the blossom, brilliant in its green sheen. It seemed to smile at the two of you, urging you to caress its soft petals.

It was beautifully horrible, Hyunjin thought. He had to discard it before his mother learned of his slip up.

But before that, there was the problem of you.

Deciding he could no longer look at his mistake lying prettily in your cupped palms, he diverted his gaze elsewhere. Only then did he find his voice. “You were not supposed to see that.”

“Why?”

He’d asked himself the same question every day of his nineteen years. Why did he have to hide his Tilt? Why wasn’t he allowed to practice his magic? His mother’s voice sounded in his head, her words slipping out of his lips unthinkingly, “A Flowering Tilt is of no use to an Azārāhi.”

“You have magic, and you’re deeming it useless?”

Hyunjin fought back a sigh. He had already said too much. He shouldn’t have been entertaining you in the first place, but you seemed to have a knack for making him act against his better judgment.

“It is useless to me.”

Silence stretched between the two of you until you finally said, “You don’t believe that.”

What a feeble, feisty human soul.

He turned to face you again, avoiding looking at the glaring blossom in your hands. “When will you stop thinking that you know me?”

“I can identify a lie when I hear one,” you only shrugged, and he almost admired your boldness. Surely, you understood the danger of speaking to him so freely.

Yet, you demanded answers and it was clear that you weren’t leaving him alone until you acquired them.

Hyunjin huffed, the truth tasting sour on his tongue, “It doesn’t matter what I believe. If the Ērmār thinks that my Tilt is useless, then it is.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but he beat you to it, wanting to end this conversation before he did something he regretted. He’d give you the answers you wanted, and nothing more. “This House obeys her word, not mine.

“I couldn’t object yesterday because I don’t have the power to. I don’t use my magic because I don’t need to. And I didn’t choose to be paired with you. I don’t want to do this any more than you do. This was the Ērmār’s decision alone.” he crossed his arms, raising a brow. “There are your answers. Satisfied?”

You clamped your mouth shut then, and Hyunjin knew that that would be the end of it.

His heart was beating with a desire to indulge itself in the now distant memory of your fascination, but he ignored it. Picking up his Kizāri, he strode toward you and extended his hand. “Give me the flower.”

You handed it to him wordlessly, and with an unreasonable pang, he realized it was for the better. Your silence was better for the both of you.

Hyunjin crushed the blossom in his fist, snapping its stem and forcing his emotional ramparts up. He had messed up enough for a thousand lifetimes. This mistake could not happen again.

He made his way to the double doors then halted with his free hand on one of the handles. “Oh, and, Y/n?”

He turned to find you looking at him, waiting with your expressionless mask back on. His warning was whispered, but the faint breeze carried its weight to your ears before buckling under. It settled bitter in the disrupted sand. “If word of my magic spreads around the palace, I’ll finish what we started on our first duel.”

Hyunjin didn’t know if he truly believed those words, but you had claimed to be able to discern a lie upon hearing one. He hoped you would be able to tell him in due time.

•❃•

Silver plates clinked softly as servants set the first course on the table, a mouthwatering display of the House’s best: Pine-Stuffed Eggs arranged like bursting stars. Fresh spinach leaves tossed with vibrant berries in a unique concoction of lemon cider and sesame oil. Roasted Pillow-Top Mushrooms bronzed by cinnamon and freckled with salt flakes. Pale blades of fermented Bone Grass accompanied by a mound of floral Moon Cheese.

It was food fit for the start of a feast, but only four people sat at the long ivory table.

Hyunjin’s gaze traveled politely over his mother’s guests, the Sōrmār and Sōrsānt of House Sapphirine. They sat proud, squaring their shoulders and flaunting their adorned ears. Their grayish-blue Channeling Cores were cut into smooth round shapes, pierced in decreasing size from the earlobe to the helix. The blue of their attire was stark against the grim palette of House Amaranthine.

But that was as far as they stood out. Those Nilfyn were just like Hyunjin and his mother, aristocrats who were always scheming, devising, and calculating. Life was nothing but a mere game of power to them, and tonight’s feast was an opulent performance of such.

The Sōrmār of House Sapphirine was stern-looking, with cheeks that hollowed in despite his wealth and eyes that never exposed his true emotions. His late wife bore him one heir, whom he paraded around like a prize.

Sōrsānt Juyeon was everything Hyunjin’s mother wished her son had been. He was haughty, cruel, and powerful. All the things Hyunjin couldn’t feign strongly enough.

They were both born with Hybrid Tilts, but while Hyunjin’s was useless, Juyeon’s was dangerous.

His Corrosive Tilt allowed him to create chemicals that ate away at human flesh and dissolved stone. He could bring down entire villages if he wanted, torture them until nothing remained but ghastly bones.

He saw it once, and while his mother clapped for the performance, Hyunjin couldn’t silence the echo of those tortured screams as the human’s skin melted off.

It was a wicked kind of pleasure he never understood.

Once the servants stepped away from the table, the dining began. Hyunjin kept one ear on the conversation happening between his mother and the Sōrmār while he scooped some of the salad onto his plate.

“Morileus’ soldiers were spotted near the border earlier this week,” the man had said, and his mother entertained him, “So I hear. They must be scouting for those rebels of theirs. They wouldn’t dare cross over.”

“It’s unbelievable how the Ambellium continues to evade him after all these years.”

“It is incompetency on the King’s behalf, nothing more.”

Hyunjin tuned out the rest of their conversation in disinterest. The bizarre political state of their neighboring Kingdom, Morynna, was a recurring subject in aristocratic dinners. Their seemingly immortal king had been ruling long before Hyunjin was born, and as far as anyone could recall.

Anyone but the citizens of his Kingdom.

To them, King Morileus was the Eternal King, his throne and power unquestioned. They found no fault in his endless rule.

Hyunjin visited Morynna once during a diplomatic trip with his mother. He remembered Moryns greeting them with glazed over eyes and tireless cheer. Unnatural, like sentient puppets. Royal soldiers permanently swarmed their streets, but they didn’t seem to mind. All the people did was sing Morileus’ praises, for he had saved them from the savage Silfyn.

The Nilfyn weren’t always nature’s favored children. Four centuries past, the old Morynna was ruled by humans alongside the powerful Silfyn, enchanting creatures that were said to have raised the Kingdom’s imposing capital from desolate earth.

Their magic knew no bounds, transcending the barriers of one’s soul and reaching for the seams of existence itself. If Hyunjin could make a flower bloom, then they could awaken gardens across deserts. If Hyunjin’s mother could manipulate water, then they could split the mighty sea. If Juyeon could destroy a village, then they could bring entire kingdoms to their knees. It was even said that some could raise the dead from their rest.

Yet, all that power didn’t save them from slaughter. Perhaps that was where the Nilfyn earned their abundant arrogance. Despite being restricted by their magic, they were the only remaining magical race.

“Is Hyunjin still Unclaimed?”

Hyunjin’s fork froze on his plate, and he looked at the Sōrmār with masked nervousness. The memory of the blushing blossom in your hands flickered in his mind, fresh and frightening. Tender.

“Unfortunately. His Tilt is yet to show,” his mother lied, to which the Sōrmār nodded sympathetically. His true condescending intent was obvious in his tone. “His case is a peculiar one, but a Nilfyn is a Nilfyn. His magic will appear eventually.”

Hyunjin felt Juyeon’s smug gaze on him, and he suppressed the urge to glare in response. In this game of power, he must’ve thought himself Hyunjin’s better simply because he had magic.

Their patronizing didn’t go unnoticed by the Ērmār, who responded curtly, “We are anticipating signs of his Tilt, but we are in no rush. Hyunjin’s mastery of Azāri is unmatched and unaffected by his lack of magic.”

Hyunjin wanted to feel the prickle of pride, to sit straighter and match Juyeon’s smugness, but the sweet tanginess of his food turned bitter in his mouth.

Unmatched mastery? He scoffed inwardly. That was not what she had said when she stood over him in the training court.

“Ah, do tell! I’ve been eager to see your famed Azārāhis,” the Sōrmār barked a resonant laugh, to which Hyunjin’s mother smiled. Charming, but anyone who bothered to look would see the icicles behind her expression. “Of course. They are waiting for us.”

•❃•

Hyunjin had only seen his mother’s miniature army twice before, and each time, it grew impossibly.

The court they stood in was ten, or maybe twenty times the size of his personal training court, packed with grim-faced Azārāhis. Their black overcoats were a void night sky, their Kizāris a shimmering sea of silver.

One thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven Nilfyn Azārāhis, Hyunjin had the number memorized, more than double any of the other Houses’. They stood in orderly clusters in accordance with their respective Tilts. Their hair was pulled back or sheared to display their ears, encrusted by a pattern of black and purplish-red rings. Soldiers of House Amaranthine.

Hyunjin stole a glance at Juyeon and his father, drinking in the astonishment they failed to conceal.

His mother’s success with Azārāhis was rightfully enviable. A startling majority of aspiring warriors had pledged allegiance to her House over the other six, aiming to be part of its illustrious history. It made her an ever-growing force to be reckoned with.

“Before you are the best of our Azārāhis, those who have completed extensive levels of training and continue on the path toward mastery,” Hyunjin’s mother declared, her voice filled with self-centered pride. She considered each of the Azārāhis her achievement alone. “Allow them to perform for you.”

On cue, the first group of Azārāhis stepped forward while the rest backtracked. Their leader introduced them as the Hydro Contingent, soldiers with the same Tilt as the Ērmār.

Hyunjin watched as their Kizāris swung in magnificent curves, creating arcs of crystal water as the weapons clashed mercilessly. A spectacle of both magic and skill. Their Kizāris weren’t just blades, but magic wielding instruments.

The Pyro Contingent was next, setting their Kizāris and their bodies ablaze, followed by the Aeros who created mighty whirlwinds with the swoops of their weapons and flew after their opponents. The group of Terrestrial Tilts was the last of the Old Disciplines, raising the pearly sand in forbidding shapes and transforming the terrain as they sparred.

Then, the Hybrid Types began their performances: Mirroring Tilts who split into a hundred duplicates. Fuming Tilts who blanketed the court in dense smoke. Grounding Tilts who sparred upturned in the air. Corrosive Tilts who liquified solid training dummies. Bestial Tilts who commanded vicious wolves. Metallic Tilts who turned their bodies into impenetrable steel. Photo Tilts who manipulated light to appear invisible. Sound-bending Tilts who deafened their opponents. And finally, Metamorphic Tilts who slithered as snakes in the sand.

Every known Hybrid Type had been present except one.

There was no Flowering Contingent.

Your earlier words rang in Hyunjin’s mind, chastising, you have magic, and you’re deeming it useless?

He found himself wondering what Flowering Tilts would do in such a presentation, but the only answer he could think of was utterly frivolous. Turning the square of sand into an exquisite garden would impress no one, and likewise endanger nobody.

The Sōrmār of House Sapphirine’s hollow praises drowned in the background as Hyunjin trailed behind them, leaving the court, mind elsewhere.

No matter how hard he tried to accept the bar on his magic, it never felt right. Regardless of his Tilt’s so-called uselessness, it was still part of his soul.

Watching the Nilfyn Azārāhis made him feel as though he’d been robbed of something he never had in the first place. An emptiness that could never be satiated.

The four of them stepped into a significantly smaller court, where an array of Azārāhis stood rigidly. Their number was many times lesser than the previous soldiers’, but the feat of their achievement was equally impressive.

“Our young troop of Human Azārāhis,” the Ērmār announced with a flourish. “A hundred and eighty-one.”

As if by some mysterious force, Hyunjin’s gaze was drawn to you at the front of the group. You stood alone in the first row, an amaranthine band on your arm differentiating you as their leader. The sand that covered you earlier that day was washed away, your uniform crisp and clean, your Kizāri strapped comfortably to your back.

You kept your gaze forward, impassive, and Hyunjin felt the mystifying weight of your silence again.

Your fist met your shoulder roughly as your voice carried out across the court. “Heed!”

The following sound of fists was like rain on stone. All the Azārāhis bowed in eerie unison, their Kizāris glinting in the bright light of the lanterns surrounding them.

“As you know, teaching Azāri to humans has always been difficult due to their flimsy nature,” Hyunjin’s mother told the Sōrmār, “But I have found an effective training method with this group, and their numbers will only increase from here onwards.”

She gave you a slight nod and you turned on your heel, gesturing toward an Azārāhi on your right while the rest stepped away to clear the square of sand. The two of you moved to opposing sides of the court, pulling out your Kizāris and trailing them across the sand in symmetrical half-moons.

The Azārāhi you chose had a massive build, his bulky shoulders and muscled arms straining against the sleeves of his uniform. Years of training were visible on his physique. A scar ran faint against his olive complexion, cutting across the hard edge of his cheekbones. When you finished your salute, he raised his Kizāri first.

You leaped out of his range with ease, and Hyunjin allowed himself a moment of pride. Your performance didn’t burst with splendor and magic, your Kizāris didn’t catch flame or summon lightning, but it filled Hyunjin with the soothing warmth of familiarity.

This was the Azāri he knew. A waltz of iron and sand. The pure mastery of the Kizāri.

No magic was involved. It was only a battle of skill.

Hyunjin had sparred with you enough to familiarize himself with your fighting style but watching you from the sidelines was a wholly different experience. He could appreciate your evident talent without simultaneously fearing for his life.

Your Kizāris clashed, and it wasn’t long before you skillfully disarmed your opponent and briefly touched the sharp edge of your weapon to his neck.

Your short performance for the Ērmār and her guests was over, and Hyunjin forced his attention back to his companions, reprimanding himself silently. He shouldn’t feel so connected to a group of frail humans.

Oh, but you weren’t frail, and Hyunjin knew it very well.

“Impressive,” the Sōrmār remarked, and his son stepped forward, strangely eager as he addressed you, “What is your name?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Y/n, sir.” You didn’t use his Sōrsānt title since you were pledged to House Amaranthine, and as such, the only Sōrsānt you recognized was Hyunjin.

Juyeon raised his chin in abundant arrogance. “I would like to see her skill personally.”

Hyunjin stiffened, and he caught you doing the same. He was sure his mother did too, but she hid it better than any of you.

Juyeon’s intentions were obvious. It was clear that you were a valuable asset to the Ērmār’s arsenal, and a duel with him would end with your definite death.

Hyunjin’s mother wouldn’t let a member of a rival House kill her soldiers. But if she refused his request, she would be showing concern over a lowly group of humans. The Ērmār couldn’t let that tarnish her reputation either.

After an uncomfortable moment of consideration, she waved her hand dismissively. “Go ahead.”

Juyeon smiled as though humbled by her approval and walked into the square of sand. His bronzed Kizāri winked wickedly from where it was fixed at his back as he situated himself opposite to you. He drew it in a half-circle, and you mimicked him without protest.

Hyunjin didn’t understand the game his mother was playing, but he hoped she knew what she was doing. The uneasy voice in his head depended on it.

If Juyeon ended the fight the way Hyunjin couldn’t, then his weakness would be forever solidified.

You let Juyeon have the first swing, leaping over the head of his weapon as you brought your Kizāri down diagonally in response. Your weapon swiveled expertly in your grip, deadly in its perfect aim. It was the one thing that remained constant in a fight that soon became messy.

Hyunjin was aware of Juyeon’s abilities, and without the threat of his magic, the Sōrsānt of House Sapphirine was average at best. If he kept things fair, you could easily claim a win over him.

But this fight was never fair.

Hyunjin didn’t know why, but it angered him to see you hold back. You were giving Juyeon the illusion of a fight, allowing him to strike at you and parrying endlessly, calculating your attacks such that they narrowly missed him every time. Even though Hyunjin was sure you could’ve disarmed him after a couple of tries.

You were only delaying impending slaughter by a less than competent opponent. Simply because you couldn’t overstep your manners, all while trying to prove your capabilities to the Ērmār.

Juyeon was beginning to tire of your resistance, it was clear in the agitated energy that wobbled his aim. You swiftly adjusted to accommodate his wearing out. It only annoyed him further.

The Ērmār was watching grimly, her lips pressed into a stern line. Hyunjin knew that her mind was whirling with schemes, ploys to set her foot down again and put Sapphirine back in line. Their game of power was constantly shifting, its winds eternally changing.

Hyunjin couldn’t stop to try at guessing his mother’s plans, for he saw Juyeon raise his Kizāri, eyes blazing with maliciousness. He felt you slacken against the press of his blade again, the memory unwelcome. A moment too late, and your tormented screams would fill the court.

Without much thought, Hyunjin found himself blurting, “Juyeon!”

The mentioned Nilfyn paused, turning curiously as Hyunjin made his way to the two of you. He could feel his mother’s blistering gaze on his back, but he disregarded it, steadying his breathing. He would either make his place known in this tug of power or doom himself.

“Enough wasting time with insignificant humans,” Hyunjin said, willing all the authority he could muster into his voice. He grimaced inwardly at his hollow flattering. “You should spar with someone of your caliber.”

That seemed to amuse Juyeon, who settled his Kizāri on the ground with a quirk of his dark brow. He wouldn’t back down from such an invitation. “You are right.”

Hyunjin assumed the spot where you had been standing, barely catching your faint murmur of ‘Sōrsānt’ as you bowed to him and stepped away. The soft padding of your shoes against the sand faded away. His intervention caused no uproar, though he vaguely remembered your angry warning. Do not disgrace me before the Ērmār.

He unsheathed his Kizāri, trailing its familiar weight across the sand to meet his opponent’s. The two weapons clanged, silver against bronze. Hyunjin saluted, and Juyeon followed him, wearing an expression he could only liken to a vulture’s. He thought their duel would be a victory handed to him graciously.

Hyunjin wanted to laugh. Someone had to humble the Sōrsānt of House Sapphirine before his own ego devoured him, and he would gladly take the job. With a swing of his Kizāri, they plunged into the haze of sand.

His opponent would not withhold his magic, Hyunjin knew. But he had spent his years training with Claimed Nilfyn. He knew how to work around their magic when he had none. It was a skill not many cared for, but he was his mother’s son after all. He could fight blind if he had to.

He pivoted away, making Juyeon’s clumsy Kizāri sink into the ground. The sand sizzled, dissolving.

That was all it took. Mere contact.

Hyunjin’s Kizāri might’ve been made with enchanted and reinforced iron, but his skin wasn’t immune to magic. He would suffer the same fate as that unfortunate helping of sand.

He swung his weapon low, slamming it into the bronzed Kizāri still planted in the ground and causing it to rip out of Juyeon’s grip. His magic disconnected instantly.

Too bad Hyunjin wasn’t planning to dissolve any time soon.

His Kizāri flew again, rushing towards a disoriented Juyeon. Hyunjin twisted his wrist such that the impact didn’t kill him, and the flat side of the weapon collided with his middle. With a choked noise, Juyeon lost his footing, surrendering to gravity ungracefully.

His ribs would bruise, maybe crack slightly, but that was the message Hyunjin wanted to deliver. The Azārāhis of House Amaranthine were not to be challenged, magicless or not.

He brushed the blade of his weapon against Juyeon’s neck, not drawing blood but making his victory clear. Securing his Kizāri back in its sheathe, Hyunjin turned and held his mother’s cold gaze. He didn’t shy away. He didn’t shrink into himself when she narrowed her eyes at him as though he were a piece of a puzzle she had overlooked.

It would take more than one spar to earn her praise, but this was enough. She didn’t scathe him with her disappointment, and it was more than Hyunjin could’ve ever asked for.

The Sōrmār’s disappointment, on the other hand, was darker than the night sky canopying the court. “You are right. Hyunjin is a remarkable Azārāhi despite being Unclaimed.”

“Of course I am,” the Ērmār huffed, drawing her shoulders back and heading towards the lacquered doors. “We must move along. We’ve spent far too much time idling in this court.”

As Hyunjin followed his mother and her guests out, he tried to convince himself that his intervention was solely for his own reputation.

That it had nothing to do with you—the only person who looked at his magic with something other than horror and mortification.

•❃•

Your Kizāri caught Hyunjin’s in the air, and you pulled the two of them toward the ground. Your muscles sang with the strain as you swiftly dislodged and touched the edge of the Kizāri against the soft skin of his neck.

One round, over.

The steady rhythm of your inhales and exhales filled your ears, sonorous, as you jogged back to your place, readying to start anew. When you looked up again, you found Hyunjin unmoving in his place.

His stare was curious, almost like a child’s. He parted his lips as though to say something, but no sound left him. He pressed them shut again.

Perhaps he thought better of it, you reasoned, watching as he treaded gracefully to the other side of the square.

You decided to shrug off his strange behavior, beginning to draw a new half-moon instead. Hyunjin started to mimic you, his Kizāri cutting through the sand toward yours before it halted suddenly.

“Are you not mad at me?”

Hyunjin’s voice was rich velvet, smooth unlike the confusion that wrangled your mind. You matched his narrowed eyes with a plain frown. What has gotten into him?

He had made it clear that he didn’t want anything to do with you. Your last interaction in his training court said as much. Yet, there he was, initiating conversation when there was none to be had.

Was this some sort of test? You maintained your silence until you couldn’t bear the heaviness of his gaze anymore, tightening your grip around your waiting Kizāri. “Why would I be?”

He hesitated as if he didn’t know how to phrase it. “I intervened in your duel with Juyeon last night.”

Right. That.

You diverted your eyes, recalling the dread that overcame your mind when the Sōrsānt of House Sapphirine requested to spar with you. You weren’t stupid. His intentions were unmistakable. Your tone was frayed with anger and shameful helplessness. “He was going to kill me.”

“I know.”

You scoffed. “Don’t think that I would believe, even for a moment, that you did it to spare me.”

“Oh?” he tilted his head, raising a brow, to which you reminded him pointedly, “You had threatened to do the same only hours prior.”

“Ah,” he mused drily. “Clever, human.”

You made no effort to hide the roll of your eyes. Exasperated, you tapped the ground with your Kizāri to remind him of the purpose you were there for.

Hyunjin didn’t budge. His Kizāri didn’t move. He was waiting for something, though you couldn’t quite place a finger on it. Standing there and watching you, that child-like curiosity resurfaced again.

You sighed quietly. “Sōrsānt, if you wish to end today’s training session, then I will take my leave.”

“But we’ve only begun,” he glanced at the young azure of the morning sky, and you nodded. “Indeed.”

But that didn’t spur him on. His face remained a blank slate, save for the strange twinkle in his beautiful eyes.

You prayed for patience, placing both hands on the handle of your Kizāri and leaning forward. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Sōrsānt?”

His mouth formed a ‘No’, but he hesitated, and it never sounded.

You muttered a curse under your breath. Fine! the thought rang in your head. Since you had wasted so much time already, you didn’t see why you couldn’t feed your curiosity about the previous night’s events.

You lifted your Kizāri, jutting it at Hyunjin inquiringly. “He called you Unclaimed.”

That snapped him back into his senses, it seemed, for he made a disgruntled noise and began mindlessly twirling his Kizāri in the pale sand. “That is the term they use for Nilfyn whose Tilts haven’t shown yet.”

“But you…” you trailed away as the pieces lined up for you. Hyunjin’s Tilt had shown, but no one knew about it because he hid it. You remembered his bitter words. A Flowering Tilt is of no use to an Azārāhi.

“Does the Ērmār know about this?” you whispered, regretting your reckless curiosity.

“Of course she does,” it was Hyunjin’s turn to scoff. Then, he added in a lower voice, “She’s the one who wants it hidden.”

Your blood ran cold. If the Ērmār knew, and she wanted his Tilt hidden, then why were you in this mess? Why did Hyunjin let you see his magic?

Dragging your Kizāri with you, you marched up to him and demanded in an irate whisper, “If this is such an important secret then why did you show me yesterday?”

“I didn’t want to show you.” Hyunjin’s taut features broke into a scowl, and he pulled his Kizāri closer.

“What, then?”

He didn’t answer you at first. Then, so softly you almost missed it, he spoke while avoiding your gaze, “I can’t control it.”

As soon as those words slipped out of his lips, he brandished his Kizāri, locking his mask of indifference back in place as he ordered, “Enough idling. Return to your position, Azārāhi.”

You broke your promise to never feel sorry for the Sōrsānt before, yet there was your unwise heart, foolishly mourning over the meaning behind his words.

•❃•

This is a terrible idea, the small voice inside your head repeated as you strode past humble shops and zealous vendors. This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.

Yet, as terrible as you acknowledged it was, you couldn’t help it. Every morning you spent training with the Sōrsānt swelled your oh-so-human sympathy. You didn’t understand Nilfyn magic, but that didn’t lessen the silent horror of the Ērmār’s cruelty.

Though, you still found Hyunjin to be an impossible oaf.

Pulling your hood lower over your face, you sidestepped a group of Nilfyn kids who played with the color of the dull pavement. Their little ears carried gemstones of a light violet hue—the common folk’s color.

“Come one, come all! Hurry and try the best Jade-Fire Cakes in the Kingdom!” a woman called out from her stall while setting down a fresh batch of the dessert, steaming and glistening with sugar. She grabbed a handful of crushed almonds, sprinkling them atop the golden cakes that earned their name from the Jade-Fire fruit filling in their molten centers.

You soldiered forward, maneuvering around strolling families and curious buyers. Your legs didn’t stop until you reached a crooked alleyway between abandoned fronts.

There was a faint light at the end of the night-cloaked alley, and you made your way toward it while gripping the long blade fixed at your hip. You preferred your Kizāri, but it was too conspicuous to carry around town and impractical in trivial street fights. A knife would do for a quick trip.

You came to stand before a featureless oak door, illuminated by a lone lantern that hung above it. No sign carried a memorable name in winding calligraphy, no windows invited you in with lavish displays. This was a shop only meant for those who sought it.

You pushed the door open. Its resonant creak heightened your guard as you walked in.

Orange light washed over the cramped space. Shelves upon shelves were stacked with all the oddities you could envision, frightening figurines and dainty trinkets, rare herbs and mythical gemstones, bizarre contraptions and cursed jewelry. You even spotted a Kizāri that looked like it was forged from the starry night sky itself. Twisting purple, blue, and black crystals made its body, dotted with swimming pearls that seemed to shift every time you blinked.

A portly man stepped out from behind a moss-green curtain at the back of the shop. He was dressed in a smart orange suit, his grayed hair swept back to expose proudly bare ears. His thin mustache twitched as he spoke. “Good evening. Has the weather been kind to you today?”

“Generous. It didn’t rain boars on our house.”

Your ridiculous response was a whispered code that the humans of the capital used to identify one another in hiding. Each town had a slightly different variation of it. It hailed teeth on the stable. It shone dragon fire on our crops.

In this shop, it was code for something more.

The shopkeeper gave you a slight nod, your message received, before disappearing behind the curtain. When he appeared again, he was carrying a large wooden chest that he then set on the narrow counter with a heavy thud. A key blinked out of his sleeve. The movement was so momentary you could’ve mistaken it for a trick of light, but the sure click of the lock assured you otherwise.

He turned the chest around and lifted its lid open before he stepped away to give you a semblance of privacy. It was an illusion, for you knew that he was watching your every move with the sheer attentiveness of a hawk.

He would be a fool not to. That unremarkable wooden chest was full of stolen Nilfyn artifacts.

Your eyes raked over a kaleidoscope of glowing Channeling Cores. Smooth-cut, mellow turquoise ear cuffs and bulbous studs of a garish orange. Elegant swirls of a bewitching purple and crescent shaped gems mottled with gray. Most of them were soft violet and inky black gems that had once belonged to common Nilfyn or unfortunate soldiers. You spotted a handful of jagged, purplish-red gemstones that eerily reminded you of those that encrusted Hyunjin’s ears. There were some gold-plated pendants and rusted brooches as well—what the Nilfyn used before opting for ear piercings.

But you weren’t looking to buy misplaced Channeling Cores, and your eyes settled on a stash of leather-bound books tied with pale twine. You reached into the heart of the chest and grabbed the knot that secured the books, pulling them out and onto the counter carefully. Another bundle of books lay underneath them, and you decided to keep it inside the chest until you finished checking the first stack.

The Nilfyn took pride in their magic. They boasted by flaunting their gem-covered ears and displaying their powers at any given opportunity. But most importantly, they wrote about their magic, detailing every aspect of it to relay the information to future generations. Those books were distributed amongst aristocratic households to be preserved. Or to be stolen like the ones you had in your hands.

You knew that their covers were modified to appear unimportant and identical, but under the dark leather were pages upon pages of invaluable knowledge pertaining to different disciplines of magic. That was what you sought of this shop.

Tugging the loose ends of the bowknot at the top, you freed the first book and lifted the bottom-right edge of the cover. A hastily drawn sun symbol peeked back at you and you shut the book, picking another one and repeating the process.

A ripple of waves. You reached for the third book and found a snarling wolf.

You drowned out your disappointment. There were still many books left.

In the fourth, you found a whirling wind. An empty flask was in the next book. Dejection was beginning to trickle into your veins as you deftly turned edges.

An unblinking eye.

A lone flame.

You hid your frustration and sudden dread as you reached for the other stack. What if someone had already bought the book?

You flipped the first edge.

A blotched mountain.

The shopkeeper’s sly attention grew heavier on your shoulders. You needed to find the book fast before you raised his suspicions beyond bribery.

The unmarked leather of the covers seemed to mock you as your fingers brushed over the next book. You turned its edge, ready to be let down and move on when you saw it.

A rose in full bloom.

A wave of giddy triumph washed over you, but you made sure to keep your tone steady as you spoke to the shopkeeper. “How much for this one?”

A calloused hand rose to stroke his chin as his brows furrowed, seemingly deep in consideration. A long moment later, he declared gruffly, “Six Greda.”

You grimaced internally. That was three months’ worth of your allowance, but you couldn’t risk rejecting the offer and trying to find the same book somewhere else.

Begrudgingly, you pulled out your pouch, counting six silver coins which the shopkeeper whisked away greedily once you placed them on the table. He stuffed the coins into his copper-colored suit then fixed his lapels with an air of confidence, eyes shining dangerously. “Good making business with you.”

But you weren’t finished yet.

You fished out another six coins, ignoring the immediate stab of regret in your chest. They clinked enticingly as you pressed them on the polished counter. For his silence.

“You never did business with me,” you told him, your underlying warning clear despite your calm tone. His eyes widened before he nodded once, and you watched as half a year’s worth of money vanished into his jacket.

It’s fine, you tried to convince yourself, hiding the leather-bound book under your cloak. You never buy anything anyway.

You left the uncanny shop behind, striding through the ominous alleyway and plunging into the bustling night market quickly.

If you dared to look back, you would find the flickering light of the lone lantern, taunting, leering, reminding you of how terrible of an idea that was.

But you never looked back.

•❃•

You squinted at the blazing orb of fire centering the sky like a throne, crowned by wisps of feathery cloud.

It was noon, signaling that your training time with Hyunjin was over for the day. You hauled your Kizāri up, securing it in its sheath before dusting sand off your sleeves. It was a futile effort, for the chalky grains latched onto the fabric, nevertheless.

From the corner of your vision, you saw the shape of the pouch you brought with you earlier slumped against the wall. Dull, but its contents lit your heart with anxiousness. Your terrible idea was still half-executed.

Hyunjin had drifted toward the rack of Azāri equipment, unfastening the leather braces wrapped around his wrists, and you grasped the opportunity with feigned courage. All you had to do was give him the book and leave his training court.

The rest would be up to fate.

You maintained an easy gait as you walked up to the handspun pouch, containing your growing dread. You crouched to unravel the string that pinched the pouch shut, reaching in and meeting the rough skin of the leather-bound book. It felt pounds heavier than it actually was when you pulled it out.

You drew in a slow breath, closing your eyes to collect your thoughts. Why were you even following along with this silly idea? For all you could predict, the Sōrsānt would report you to the Ērmār and it would be your fault entirely.

Truthfully, you were annoyed. You didn’t want to sympathize with Hyunjin. Someone like him didn’t deserve an ounce of your pity.

But perhaps this was what it meant to be human, weak and turbulent. Ever since you saw the humiliation in his eyes on that unfortunate morning with his mother, you couldn’t discipline your heart back in place. Back to apathy and passiveness.

You thought that maybe this would quell the strange sorrow you felt for him. It was dangerous to delve deeper and let such emotions fester. The sooner you rid of them, the better.

With one last exhale, you gathered your bravado and marched up to where Hyunjin busied himself, clutching the book so tightly as if it were anchoring you to the ground.

His head turned in your direction when he heard you approach, brows twisted in a subtle intrigue that turned into fully-fledged confusion when you shoved the book into his arms. You stumbled over your words, “Take this.”

There. Done.

“What’s this?” Hyunjin arched a brow, regarding you as one would regard a pup behaving oddly. His voice came breathy with the exertion of training.

You only shrugged in response and took your leave before he could press further, nodding lightly. “Good day, Sōrsānt.”

It was fate’s turn to mess with your terrible idea.

•❃•

Hyunjin lay sleepless in his bed.

His limbs were weary from hours of unforgiving Azāri practice, begging him to shut his eyes and rest, but those pleas went unheard by his mind. Void of thought, yet utterly restless.

It was another typical night for the Sōrsānt.

The world slept around him. Not a squawking bird outside interrupted the palace’s numbing quiet. Hyunjin turned to his side with a sigh, tired of hearing his lonely heartbeat in the silence. He blinked in the dark, gaze landing on a book washed over by shy moonlight.

There, on his empty desk, sat the item you hurriedly shoved into his hands once your training finished. He should’ve ignored you and left it at the court. He should’ve thrown the book aside and reported you to the Ērmār.

Instead, he carried it with him and tossed the book onto his desk when he entered his room. Going about the rest of his monotonous day, he forgot about your sudden gift.

Only now did he remember it.

With nothing to do except toss and turn, Hyunjin’s curiosity got the better of him and he found himself slipping out from under the bulky covers toward the desk.

The book was heavier than he recalled, its leather unblemished and in perfect condition. No imprint hinted at its contents, and perhaps it was his exhaustion or boredom, but Hyunjin thought nothing of it when he flipped the thick cover.

A blank page stared back at him.

Curious, he turned the page. The velvety parchment whispered against his fingers. You wouldn’t give him an empty book, would you?

Ink lined the following page, the careful script too small for him to discern from afar, save for the few words brushed with gold at the top.

The Art of Flowering: Cultivating and Practicing Flowering Magic.

Hyunjin dropped the book with a shrill gasp, clamping his burning hands over his mouth a moment too late as his gaze flickered across the room in horror. Was this an ill joke of some sort?

The walls seemed to bristle around him, grey and looming and suddenly too close. His lungs refused to relax, holding in air as though the faintest sound from him would alert the entirety of the palace. Not a sigh of breath. Not a murmur of silk.

The petrifying silence of the palace continued, unperturbed and unaware of the intense clamor that erupted in Hyunjin’s mind. A hundred invisible eyes were set on him, prickling, making him want to crawl out of his skin and hide from no one.

He was sure that if he left the book on his desk a second longer, his mother would barge in and unleash her unfading scorn on him.

With trembling hands, Hyunjin reached for the book again, shutting it and tucking it under his arm with frantic haste. He refused to ponder upon its contents any further. He had to hide it before those simple words festered into a beast in his thoughts, hunting him down, ravaging his sanity until it unraveled.

He stumbled toward his bed, throwing the heavy blanket over and thrusting the book under the dense mattress. He pushed it as far as his arm could go, uncaring for the weight crushing his bones. He needed that book forgotten until he figured out a way to rid of it completely.

His shoulder was close to popping when he pulled his arm out recklessly, but his consciousness was too muddled to notice. He left the book pressed somewhere under the enormous mattress, and only then did he dare to exhale, albeit weakly.

Fatigue wracked his body, fiercer and more intense than it was some minutes ago. He scrambled onto his bed, lying limply as his internal clamor continued.

Was this your way of taunting him? Reminding him of his fatal, irredeemable flaw?

You were mad. You had to be. Or maybe you had a death wish, Hyunjin didn’t want to know which of the two it was. You were treading perilous land, and he wanted nothing to do with your foolish adventures.

Even though the broken desire in him whispered otherwise.

•❃•

It seemed that fate took many twisted liberties with your terrible plan.

“Where did you get that book?” Hyunjin’s voice boomed like thunder in the space of the training court. He had his Kizāri drawn, and he stood in the center of the sand square as though ready to plunge into a fight. A real fight.

The air around him seemed to buzz and fizz, seething with an anger you should’ve expected. He wouldn’t accept a so-called gift from a human, especially not one pertaining to his hidden magic. You had to choose your next words carefully.

Ah, but if he had expected you to give away your secrets, he was dreadfully wrong.

“Does it matter?” you shrugged as you stepped closer, fingers flexing with the crazed urge to grab your Kizāri and cross it with his. A lazy smirk drew itself on your lips. “If you don’t want the book, you can give it back.”

The Sōrsānt glowered. Your answer wasn’t the one he was seeking, but you weren’t trying to please him anyway. Tension twisted around the two of you, deafening in its silence. The yawning moments before the tempest.

You set foot in the square of pale sand, basking in the young morning sun as you dared Hyunjin’s gaze with yours. If he wanted a fight, then you would gladly appease that wish. “It was quite costly, after all.”

Snap! went the thin cord of tension, and Hyunjin’s Kizāri glinted in the light as he raised it in a deadly arc. The air screamed. The first wind in the storm.

Your Kizāri was drawn in a flash, meeting his with a force that rattled your bones. Blood roared in your ears, fueled after days of dull practice.

You leaped away, swiveling alongside your Kizāri as you brought it down. Sand rose upon impact, a benevolent wave of pearly dust.

Hyunjin ran through it, swinging his weapon at you with familiar precision. Your Kizāris waltzed in the air, a blur of silver and black, clashing and separating and spinning to the macabre rhythm of the spar.

Oh, how you craved the thrill of a proper fight.

Hyunjin’s Kizāri hooked around yours, and he pushed it against you, snarling, “Are you trying to get us killed?”

You propelled your weapon forward, freeing it from his trap and swinging it at his legs unsparingly. “Us?”

A laugh threatened to bubble up your chest, roused by the adrenaline pumping in your veins. “Don’t assume that I did this for you, Sōrsānt. I gave you the book for the peace of my own mind.”

Iron screeched against iron. Hyunjin was close enough that you saw shock flicker over his features before it melted into something darker. His Kizāri was in the air again. “I don’t need your pity.”

“No, you don’t,” you agreed, breathless as you evaded his blow and redirected your weapon. “What is it that you always say about us humans?”

You weren’t waiting for an answer. “We are weak. Subject to the volatile tides of the heart.”

Your Kizāris interlocked again, and with a pull from Hyunjin and a pivot from you, the spar came to a stop. Your Kizāri clattered against the floor outside the square. Hyunjin’s was impaled in the sand some feet away. The two of you were left standing there, face to face, chests heaving and gazes burning.

Neither of you moved, and it felt as though the world came to a halt alongside that fight.

Hyunjin held your stare, and you held his. In a breath that seemed to encompass the two of you, you were almost equals in an impossible timeline. The ravenous fire that crackled in your souls was one and the same, stoked by repressed fear and the overwhelming desire to survive in a world that only valued material power. The very differences that separated him from you made you alike.

Yet, you refused to acknowledge that harrowing revelation. Hyunjin was nothing like you, and he would never be.

“Do with the book what you will,” you spoke through gritted teeth, breaking the trance you were captured in. “This is not a favor.”

After a moment that felt like an eternity, you turned away, knowing that the both of you reached a wordless, mutual understanding. You picked your Kizāri off the dark marble, tossing it over in your grip once, twice, before assuming your regular place at the square of sand.

You still had a tedious morning of training to go through now that your fit of violence had been quelled.

•❃•

The night was silent again.

Hyunjin stood before the small flames of the stone burner in his room. The leather-bound book was tightly clutched in his hands as he watched the blazes rise, swaying like dancers in a joyous ball. Their flickering light created eerie shadows that cackled against the bleakness of walls, taunting.

You told him to do with the book what he willed, and he was doing the best thing he could think of. Burn it. Lose it. Forget it.

It was the only way to kill the voices that reemerged after years of lurking mutely in his head. Voices which murmured and spoke and screamed at him to indulge in his magic. To disobey his mother. Unknowingly, you had incited them by giving him the book.

He had to destroy it before it destroyed him.

Hyunjin held the book over the fire, readying to drop it in as his hand shook unreasonably. He had burnt many things before, many magical blunders in the form of innocent flowers. This was no different. It shouldn’t have been.

Yet, the voices in his head grew increasingly shrill when a rogue flame licked the edge of the book, darkening the leather slightly. All he had to do was let go, but his fingers were stiff.

Hyunjin wanted to fight them, peel them off one by one until the book dropped, but he couldn’t. The heat on his skin was merciless, unbearable. Soon enough, gruesome blisters would mar the smooth surface.

He pulled his hand away with a hiss.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t burn the book.

Like an ever-resonating bell, the voices in his head rejoiced, pounding against the desolate chamber of his thoughts. This was the closest he had ever been to his magic, and he had overestimated his strength to turn his back on it.

Eying the burnt corner of the book, Hyunjin tried to convince himself, if not tonight, then tomorrow.

Maybe then, the voices would quieten.

•❃•

Hyunjin told himself the same lie every following night after he pulled the book away from the burner in a moment of panic.

For three nights, his grip would turn into rigid wood. For three nights, he would be paralyzed before the eager flames. For three nights, the blistering air of the fire would torture his hand until he gave up.

He couldn’t burn the book, that was what the voices told him, but he refused to succumb to them.

The skin on the back of his hand was reddened and pulsing with a pain so great as though lit by an invisible fire. He knew he couldn’t keep at his lousy attempts without gravely harming himself. If burning the book wasn’t a viable option, then he had to figure out another method of destroying it. Fast. 

His fingers touched his earrings subconsciously before he realized what he was doing and pulled his hand away. It was a bad habit that the Ērmār hated. 

Shredding it? Hyunjin frowned with the thought. It would be pointless. He would still need to burn the remains.

His fingers brushed over the fine leather of the cover, having grown familiar with the rough texture of its minuscule patterns. The top of the book had browned due to being exposed to fire, but it was still in a useable condition.

Would it be so bad?

Yes! he wanted to yell back at the stupid desire, but every time he tried to, he heard his mother’s voice instead of his.

Would it be so bad? the voices repeated, for the question was meant for him, not the Ērmār. Would it?

Hyunjin found himself voiceless.

He knew the answer. Why couldn’t he say it? Why couldn’t he think it without imagining his mother?

Frustrated, he flung the book at the wall as a pathetic scream threatened to rip its way out of his mouth. The book thudded against the floor somewhere in his room, and his head fell into his hands heavily. Why was it so difficult?

Hyunjin wanted to rip his hair out. This was your doing. If you hadn’t given him that damned book, then he wouldn’t be entertaining the moon with his ridiculous dilemma. He wouldn’t be teetering on the edge of catastrophe with his wandering thoughts.

Perhaps, he should order you to burn the book instead. Like a sun peeking through stormy clouds, his mental chaos cleared up at the idea. He might’ve been unable to destroy the book, but you would have no reason to hold back.

Dragging his hand down his face, Hyunjin sighed. The solution made perfect sense to him. And you would keep your silence about his order if you wanted to keep your life.

Soon enough, he would forget that such a book ever existed.

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, Hyunjin stood, and his gaze darted across the expanse of the room to find the book lying facedown beside his desk. He crouched to pick it up, accidentally catching sight of the colorful page it had fallen open to. Quickly looking away, he slammed the book shut before he thought more of it.

Too late.

Would it be so bad? he heard that whisper again, like a devil speaking forbidden desires into his ears. You’re returning the book tomorrow. A quick look would do no harm…

Hyunjin knew better. Just as he knew that he should’ve killed you the moment you stepped into his training court.

He knew better, yet just like your first encounter, he was too weak to act on that knowledge.

He would always be.

The book met the smooth surface of Hyunjin’s desk with a slap. His palm settled atop it. Hesitant. Stubborn.

Just a harmless page…

His hand went to the side of the book, brushing the edge of the leather. Once he returned the book to you, he wouldn’t be able to ask for it again. And all he’d read of it was the mere title, which sent a flurry of mismatched feelings to his heart.

It wasn’t curiosity that clouded his judgement, but a blinding, smoldering want that was as old as he was. Being barred from his magic for so long, being ridiculed and insulted for his magic ever since it emerged, this book was something a younger Hyunjin could only dream about having.

Even though he had spent years silencing those intrusive voices, he recalled his childish jealousy when his friends began showing their various Tilts. The memories he had of his childhood were a dismal canvas of depthless sorrow, helplessness, and fear, but he kept them alive as a reminder of his mother’s wrongs toward him.

If he were to read a page from the book, then it was for the little boy whose spirit was stolen years ago. A frightened Hyunjin with a bleeding shoulder, too young to understand the dark disappointment that filled his mother’s eyes and made her a stranger before him.

He took in a shaky breath and flicked the book open.

The page was just as he remembered, crammed with words and headed by that gold-brushed title.

The Art of Flowering: Cultivating and Practicing Flowering Magic.

The voices spurred him on. Rather than panic, a strange relief paired with excitement washed over him. His dread was still present, and so was the urge to stuff the book back under the mattress, but he dared himself to read a few lines, squinting in the dark.

Foremost, let it be known that the blessing of a Flowering Tilt is a tremendous gift, and an honor to those it is bestowed upon. Flowering is the fourth of the ten Hybrid Types to be discovered, and as the name indicates, wielders of this magic can create and control flowers.

It was easy to read those words on a parchment that was going to be burnt in mere hours. They were empty like a drunkard’s promises. Perhaps that was why Hyunjin let himself be immersed in the book further than he intended.

The Flowering Tilt is a Hybrid Type discovered nearly two hundred years ago. Studies have shown that centuries of marriages between Hydro and Terrestrial Tilts resulted in the formation of this new magic.

He turned the page.

Chapter One: Cultivation. 

Cultivating Flowering Magic is similar to cultivating other magics. Without adequate training, spurts of magic may occur at random or upon emotional uproar. Thus, young Claimed Nilfyn are encouraged to begin training immediately, as these uncontrolled spurts increase with age.

To better understand magic, let us envision a water reserve tank in an odd village. At the beginning of every week, the villagers pour buckets of water into the tank, but none of the villagers use the water throughout the week. Soon, the tank begins to overflow as more water is added but left unconsumed. Such is magic. It is an ever-growing source that overflows when left unused.

To cultivate, the wielder must begin by finding their Heart of Magic. This skill may be learned easier during childhood, as the Heart is bare and unbarred by the tribulations of life, but it is not unfeasible amongst adult Nilfyn.

There are no teachings regarding the intricacies of finding one’s Heart of Magic. It is a slow process that requires patience and strong will. However, aspiring wielders are advised to practice in tranquil spaces that inspire a meditative state.

Once reaching the Heart of Magic, one must set their palm against an empty surface and focus on drawing magic toward the tips of their fingers to manifest an object of their Tilt. This is to familiarize the wielder with the process of directing magic in a useful manner. Flowering Tilts may use the following while training to quicken results: a flower posy, a cut of wood, a handful of soil, or any natural piece of the earth.

Hyunjin tried to imagine that Heart of Magic. He closed his eyes and searched for something magical, something bright, something beautiful. He wanted to remember the way his magic felt when it surged through his body to manifest in a single blossom in the sand.

There was nothing.

He was hollow, his soul long crushed, his heart long dead. The polished surface of his desk felt cold against his fingertips, unkind proof that whatever the Heart of Magic was, it wasn’t something he had. At least, not anymore.

The foolish hope in him withered, and he closed the book with a scowl. Empty words for an empty boy.

But when Hyunjin left his room the following morning, he didn’t take the leather-bound book with him.

•❃•

The prying moon was a witness to the many lies Hyunjin told himself as he flipped through the pages of the book night after night.

Deep in a cranny of his heart, he knew that he couldn’t return it much like how he couldn’t burn it. But he thought that if he said it enough times, he would convince himself otherwise. As he poured stolen sand on his desk and closed his eyes, trying to revive his Heart of Magic, he repeated that crooked lie. Just one more day, one more page…

But a day wasn’t enough to stir his magic, nor were two. The voices—no, he wanted more. For all his heartbreak and misery, he deserved more than a few measly attempts at his magic.

A chilling thought ran through his mind. Why should he be obeying a mother that cared little for him, anyway?

The fifth night was similar to the rest. Hyunjin sat still at his desk, right hand settled on a small bed of sand as the world fell silent around him. He searched the remnants of his soul, scouring for the faintest trace of magic with timid hope. He couldn’t permit himself more than that inkling of confidence, for he had failed countless times before.

Only on this night, he finally found something.

Folded away. Forgotten.

A flicker of light.

A whisper of power.

A pulse of another life.

He clawed at it, overwhelmed by sudden desperation. There it was. There was his Heart of Magic. Bleeding and dim, but there.

He caught a wisp of the fleeting light and pulled. At once, he saw color in otherworldly hues, erupting around him and through him, shaking his core like a tremor from the heavens above. That soothing cold washed over him again, a glorious stampede, and he dared to loosen a trapped breath.

The magic slipped out of his grasp.

No, no, no, no! Hyunjin scrambled back, grabbing at anything he could and dragging it with all the force he was able to muster. His focus had faltered for the barest moment, and that made him lose sight of his Heart of Magic. He couldn’t let that happen again. Not after all the work he had done.

A chill spread to his fingers as he pulled the magic forward and outward. It was taxing, and he felt his heart beat as though it were in the heat of a duel.

Then, a sensation akin to the puncture of a thousand needles swarmed his body. Something in him locked into place with a resonant toll, and he opened his eyes with a gasp.

There, on the chalky mound of sand, was a single smiling blossom. Dull white petals fanned around its yellow center, and it embraced itself with two grey leaves.

Hyunjin’s breath stilled, defying the rampant palpitations in his chest.

He had done it.

Not through an emotional outburst. Not by mistake.

He created a flower in coarse, lifeless sand on his own.

His magic, finally.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Mini Glossary:

Azārāhi: a skilled practitioner of Azāri.

Azāri: a fighting art developed by the magical Nilfyn.

Ērmār: high master (feminine).

Ērmārvi: minor high master (feminine).

Ērsānt: lower master (feminine).

Ērsānvi: minor lower master (feminine).

Kizāri: the long-handled weapon with an trident-like head used in Azāri.

Sōrmār: high master (masculine).

Sōrmārvi: minor high master (masculine).

Sōrsānt: lower master (masculine).

Sōrsānvi: minor lower master (masculine).

Hey there! Thank you for reading this far! This fic is very special to me and it would mean a lot if you could give it a reblog and tell me your thoughts. Part two will be posted in September, so keep an eye out for it! Thank you once more for reading, and I hope you have a lovely day! ♡

[murfpersonalblog]

How Interview with the Vampire Got Racebending (Mostly) Right - Princess Weekes

Princess’ other video on Confederate Vampires is a tour de force. NGL I thought this Racebending video was ok, even though I wish she’d’ve spent more time going more in depth, cuz I’m a greedy ungrateful wench who loves long-form content, sue me.

The 1st half of the video is the 20 minute background of Anne Rice’s The Vampire Chronicles franchise: how AR created Louis as a representation of herself, grieving for her daughter, and her reactions to the adaptations of 1994 IWTV & 2001 QotD--both of which AR had A LOT of issues with.

Which is hilarious, cuz now AR’s the only white woman played by a Black man in a tv show, LOLOLOLOL. XD

The 2nd half of the video is another 20 minutes dedicated specifically to AMC’s 2022 IWTV.

Louis’ Softness & Sacrifices

I love what Princess said about Louis’ inherent softness, and how society (his family, business contacts, Lestat, etc) forced him to toughen up in ways unnatural to his true nature, not wanting to hurt or mistreat anyone.

“Louis has to harden himself toughen himself up in order to present himself to the world. It translates really well to his anxieties about being a vampire. He is genuinely a soft man, and it's like, you know, don't be a hard rock when you really are a gem. But that is who Louis is. He tries so hard to be strong for his family, to be a provide--to be sort of like the black strong male provider character, but at the expense of his own soul. So, he is someone who's already felt for a long time that he had to sacrifice himself to do things, and so the vampirism add to that: How much more is he expected to give? How much can he sacrifice, before he no longer understands the shape of his own heart?" (23:19 - 3:00)

I just thought that was so beautifully put. That sat with me for a WHILE.

The Dark GIFT

There was also this great bit about Louis’ relationship to vampirism & Claudia:

“I think by giving him that autonomy for Claudia also shows how he does see The Dark Gift as a gift, and was willing to give it to someone else, rather than do the right thing. And again, that complicates his own morality, because at the end of the day he was a pimp; he was someone who was used to using other people to make his money. So, at a certain point, he's also used to using people for emotional needs, physical needs, and to a certain degree spiritual needs; and I think those things are compelling for a character like him,” (24:38 - 25:10).

This is why I get mad when antis take Louis’ self-castigation far too seriously, eager to see him in bad faith and accept all the negative things he says about himself as gospel, while not realizing that Louis’ view of himself is rooted in self-loathing & self-hatred. Cuz EXACTLY, Louis DID see vampirism as a gift! That’s why he accepted it in the first place. 

He saw the “barbarism“ of Lestat slaughtering those priests, and kissed that man with their blood still on his mouth. Cuz he saw the ways that vampirism could benefit men like him rather than relying on the goodwill of racist white men to give him a foot through the door--the same way it could benefit Claudia, by healing her rather than relying on a hospital to treat her severe burns. That’s the whole point of Faustian deals with the Devil: sacrificing your soul for power. It’s not about pimp!Louis seeing women as commodities; it’s about the selfish opportunism & ego that allows capitalists AND vampires (male or female) to exploit ANYONE for their own personal benefit.

Despite the fact that Lestat & Claudia DIDN’T ask/want to be vampires, they still were willing to pass their curse of eternal damnation onto others, just cuz they didn’t want to suffer from vampire loneliness. They KNOW it wasn’t a gift for them, but they try to make the most of their living hell by focusing on love & found family. And Louis knew this, too, desperate to find another Paul in Claudia (”my daughter, sister, throw pillow when HE wouldn’t look at me kindly.”).

The Great Laws: Hypocritical Vampiric Sentimentality & Humanity

“Is there something about being a vampire that blurs the lines of what it means to actually have sentimental attachment if you are seeing other people who you used to look at like food? At a certain point you dehumanize ALL of them! Why else would they have those rules? Why else would it be allowed to kill another vampire, if it wasn't for the fact that, to be an immoral immortal creature means that you don't value life!... You don't value life, but then you also want to have companionship, because you have that humanity in you. How do you balance all that kind of stuff out? That is the thing that is interesting," (33:04 - 33:39). “What does it say 35:08 about the human capacity to harm what you love?" (35:08)

FAAAAAACTS. She ATE (no pun intended) with that part. This is what I mean about those stupid Great Laws--it makes NO sense to believe the Trial script in the Ep4 revisit, as if Lestat GAF about the Great Laws & what Claudia would be like if she was Turned, when even BOOK Lestat DGAF about what would happen to her, and ESPECIALLY not about obeying anyone’s laws.

❗ DISAGREE ❗

Childlike Claudia

I started disagreeing heavy when Princess discussed Claudia, esp. in S2.

“....in Europe and France she tries to seek out their purpose. I will say there is some--in my opinion--lack of connective tissue between Claudia in season 1 and season 2...[in] how the character's motivations are written. Like, yes, Claudia is older mentally as we go through these seasons. But as my friend Maven/Lisa said in our longer interview on Nebula, that little girl trapped in a tiny body doesn't really come out in season 2 until she's forced to perform the show over and over again. We saw her in that first season chopping up bodies, really dealing with this kind of way of which the the dysmorphia of her body is never going to match up [with] how she sees herself. And while that does happen, I think it happens a little bit, focused towards the end,” (26:00 - 26:50).

Full disclosure: I can’t stand Maven of the Eventide’s takes on AMC IWTV. I lost total patience with her in S1, when it became clear that she’s a book purist who refused to see/understand what the show was doing. So I was already like Oh brother, here we go. 🙄😒

Claudia is not meant to be that little girl in S2--she disappears in all the way back 1x5.

“...in her own family her entire relationship with Louis is adultification, because in the end she has to become the parent in order to get him to leave a toxic relationship,” (25:30 - 25:42).

THIS is the most important part, but Princess immediately cuts away from it, when this is actually the crux of the matter: Claudia’s NOT a little girl anymore. Even after what happened with Bruce, she still came back home, and during the 1x5 fight we hear her screaming for her “Daddy Lou.” But in 1x6, after she’s forced to take on the motherly role when Lestat crippled Louis, and she had to be the one HE hid behind to answer the door & catch the goats & such, she was officially a woman who refused to be a child for EITHER of them anymore.

In 1x6 Claudia becomes the head of the household, and it pisses alpha patriarch Lestat OFFFFFFFFF (”the lambs herd the beauceron”). In 1x7 she takes charge of the Murder Plot, as a stone cold tactician who never cracks a smile--that bubbly giggling girl from 1x4 is GONE; she’s been simmering with rage ever since Lestat attacked her & Louis. And in 2x1 she takes charge of their entire European itinerary, cuz she’s ALWAYS been the smartest one in their family.

So yeah, it’s typical that Maven’s complaints about wanting to see child!Claudia are a holdovers from book purists who also chafe at AMC’s changes.

“that little girl trapped in a tiny body doesn't really come out in season 2 until she's forced to perform the show over and over again.“

Cuz yes: it’s “forced.” Claudia’s “childlike wonder” that Armand wanted to MONETARILY pimp & exploit--WHY does this fandom always focus on the low-hanging fruit of pimp!Louis exploiting Claudia, but NEVER maitre!Armand???--wasn’t childlike at all, it was her naive hope that she’d finally found kinship & community with the coven, which made her happy again--the smiling girl is back when she thinks Daciana will accept her, and it’s finally back ”for the first time in Paris” when she watches the Theatre. But it’s gone again once she realizes “Eff these vampires;“ she only starts smiling again with MADELEINE.

(On the subject of Madeleine, I DO agree with Princess that having a French White Nazi collaborator be Black!Claudia’s companion effing sucks. Like...no, that’s an L, AMC. I wish to God that Madz had been a Jew who was persecuted by the Parisians instead; cuz ain’t no way you finna have me LIKE this change.)

Vampiric Glitz & Glamor in S2

“I have seen some complaints that in this more grounded and racially realized story that we miss out on the glitz and glamour of the vampires traveling like in the books. And I do understand that this element of wish fulfillment would have been fun because we have normalized the idea of vampires being rich and therefore having all this economic distance on a personal level. I do really like seeing vampires having to navigate the realities of traveling while different, while not being privileged.... I do love seeing a story about vampires who had to deal with being immortal while also broke, and having been marginalized in their past, and that marginalization making them scrappy as a result. So I do understand that, but I do think it would have been nice for the show to have a better balance between them struggling through World War II and being able to have a more decadent lifestyle. I think it's possible to have both wish fulfillment and also discuss race,“ (27:11 - 28:14). “Are there elements of the tragedies of their race that I feel could have been changed? Absolutely! I would not be unhappy if they were able to just have ultimate glitz and glamour, and still have the same fate. I think that would have been better, honestly. I think that you can have them deal with racism & microaggression, and then have a bunch of money and be fabulous in Paris," (36:51 - 37:10).

I’m sorry, but no. I have a whole tirade specifically about Louis & Claudia’s financial situation in the book vs the show, that stresses the ways AMC BRILLIANTLY highlights how vampirism does NOT afford black!Claudia (& Louis) the same privileges that it does for their white counterparts. Carol Cutshall specifically talked about how they did NOT want Louis & Claudia living glamorously in Europe.

It’s intentional, grounding Black vampires in the reality of having to navigate the a post-war world as people with Black skin. 

I’ve seen this same bogus complaint from (white) people mad that AMC only showed war-torn Romania in 2x1, as if Louis & Claudia would’ve EVER been able to walk around Romanian palaces & mansions, when their BLACK arses weren’t even allowed to walk around the SLUMS without Nazis & Soviets throwing their papers in the effing mud, until Emilia vouched for them (a white woman, as Black people OFTEN needed to do during segregation. It’s also a callback to free Black people during slavery, who had walk through white spaces with their freedom papers, lest white people assumed they were runaway slaves & resold them. And Claudia OFTEN framed their escape from NOLA & Massa Lestat’s oppression as them being “slaves” she had freed.)

I’ve also spoken on how Delainey’s S2 Claudia is even more interesting wrt colorism, since she’s darker skinned than Bailey.

Cuz I’m very confused: we DO get the glitz and glamour of rich vampires...IN DUBAI. Loumand’s living in a multi-million dollar penthouse in one of the most insanely expensive cities on the planet, giving Daniel 7-course meals of “endangered species,” waited on hand & foot by a whole team of servants & listening to Classical music so loud Daniel tells them to shut it off. They’re selling modern art to the highest bidder, and their bedroom has a bunch of priceless Mughal-era antiquities. When Lou FINALLY leaves Dubai, he’s driven into NOLA in a Cadillac Escalade, flashing his Black Amex card at the Pontchartrain. 

These viewers just miss the Art Nouveau maximalism of NOLA, over the modern minimalism of Dubai (even though Louis’ FAR richer in Dubai than he was in NOLA). Meanwhile forgetting that Louis only has access to massive wealth in NOLA specifically BECAUSE of his access to Lestat (the white man who funded the Azalea), whose generational wealth from Magnus juxtaposes the dwindling LDPL fortune that pushed Louis to become a pimp in the first place???? As for being glitzy & glamorous, this is post-war Paris 1945-49--WHAT glitz? WHAT glam?!

The rich people in 1940s Paris were corrupt AF black marketers who were hoarding all the food & resources after the war--as foreign BLACK outsiders who BARELY spoke French and had ZERO politico-economic pull, how the heck would Louis & Claudia have manged to rub shoulders with any of them????  And why would humanist!Louis have wanted to, when he was busy trying to connect with regular people’s struggles through his photography? (Granted: the ONE place I could see glitzy glamorous Paris is if AMC had been able to add the scenes Jacob wanted at R:26, so we could see Josephine Baker perform, and see the artistic circles.) Carol Cutshall said Lou wants to mimic the COMMON MAN, not the elite.

Like, what do y'all REALLY want? To see a period drama reflect people’s experiences realistically, or do you just want the fantasy of Netflix treatments of white characters acted by Black people, who’re allowed to walk through the world of the white elite with no consideration of historical accuracy, a la Bridgerton? 🙄😒

Princess points out something important here:

“When it comes to race bending I feel like the disappointments I've had for most shows is that it feels as if when the character becomes non-white, tenderness is lost, care is lost, sensitivity is lost. I remember reading the Sookie Stackhouse books and being like: not only is Tara white, but Tara is happy! And in the show, Tara is the antithesis of joy! She's always suffering, always unhappy, always miserable, always being abused. Why was her becoming Black synonymous with her having a miserable existence?" (35:14 - 35:44).

The difference with AMC!Claudia and HBO!Tara is that Tara, despite also living in Louisiana, does NOT live during Jim Crow. AMC was making a point about the ways that Black people were disenfranchized during an openly racist period in 19teens-1940s history--“our life is sh!t, it’s been sh!t, it’s gon’ be sh!t again”--from Claudia growing up poor in Storyville (the seediest part of NOLA where most Black folk were poor), to becoming a vampire who’s now doubly an outcast cuz she’s undead, then triply suffers cuz she’s a kid with this weak-willed Black father whose head is constantly up their white Maker’s arse. It’s about holding on to that (naive) hope that the damned can “make the most of it“ in their cursed lives as the undead, and that found family & companionship can make immortality bearable (“you and me”), when Vampire Loneliness gets so bad that they “want to curl up and die“ and “taste the fire.” Claudia’s life is MEANT to be tragic, white or Black; but AMC’s whole point was that during Jim Crow, Black vampires didn’t have it as easy as white ones. And in post-war Europe, the brightest spot they find is the Theatre where they find vampires even WORSE than everyone in America--ironically, Lestat was right.

HBO!Tara on the other hand, doesn’t suffer for any logical in-lore purpose or larger message about Southern racism--other than the obvious. HBO was even gonna kill off Lafayette in S1--but the fans protested cuz he’s iconic. So instead they killed off Miss Jeanette (the Black voodoo priestess/snake oil saleswoman).

Bruce & non-canon brutalization

“Of all the choices that they've made in the show in terms of adaptation, the two that I'm still kind of wrestling with is Bruce and the domestic violence. I really don't feel like Claudia being tortured and assaulted is necessary for her character. I remember rewatching that episode, and I still don't think it's necessary. I don't think it's necessary for Bruce to exist. I think that storyline for Claudia is very weird; I don't think it adds anything. I don't really think Rape As Backstory makes any sense, and I think that it takes away from the ultimate issue of her just wanting to leave Lestat. I don't think that she needs to be in a situation where she is brutalized and broken, and then comes back. And then because it's also the fight happening and Lestat and Louis--Louis being bruised and broken. I feel like I don't want the fact that it's a Gothic drama--the fact that they are, you know, vampires--for it to be an excuse to see them be unnecessarily brutalized, when it's not something that happens to the source material,“ (30:52 - 31:50).

I also heavy disagree with this stance, specifically because Bruce is a deliberate parallel with none other than Lestat. I’ve argued this over & over (x x x x), how Bruce (aka Killer) and Matador!Lestat are two antagonists who show you precisely how teenaged girl Claudia & adult man Louis are put on the same level; our two Black vampires given similar treatment at the hands of white vampires they thought they could trust.

I want either Akasha or Lestat to kill Bruce in S3. Cuz either it’ll be Akasha making a point (to Les) about what happens to rapists & misogynists; or it’ll be Lestat guiltily/belatedly tryna “do right” by Claudia long after she’s dead, only for her ghost haunting him to laugh in his face, too little too late.

And as for the point about characters being brutalized, I’ve also spoken on this before wrt race, cuz this whole show’s about how our 2 Black characters are brutalized with no justice and no peace.

“I feel like nothing in the show can really shock me, since we open the series with Lestat fisting a priest...in a non-sexy way."

I don’t get when people say this, cuz on one hand Omg vampires are monsters, Lestat punched a hole in a priest’s head in a church. But on the other hand it’s Omg how could AMC not put trigger warnings on Ep5 cuz DV/SA is triggering, (even though they didn’t even show ANY of the SA on screen, or even show us Claudia’s broken leg); but the gratuitous murder & violence & torture we see in S1 AND S2 wasn’t TW’d either--e.g.: Armand dishragging human!Daniel in 2x5, which HE never does in the books, either. But they’ll ship the absolute HELL out of DM, when the show hasn’t even indicated they’ll make DM romantic!?

So wrt to Lestat’s depiction in this show, IMO people really take umbrage with anything that makes shipping Loustat less fun and makes this white man look like a monstrous a-hole. They hide behind book canon, inconsistent AF. Cuz AMC!Lestat often acts totally opposite his book counterpart--who cries when he kills people & staunchly only wants to hunt Evil Doers cuz he wanted to be a priest & falls in love with EVERY human he meets, regardless of if they’re musicians or not. AMC!Lestat calls humans “The Meat” constantly, and he & Claudia call human blood “Kill Juice” and treat hunting like a sadistic game (”you must be most ferocious”). Lestat is a monster who has ZERO regard for ALL human life, yet (racist) antis love to point the finger at pimp!Louis & lie about him having no regard for women?? Like??? Even in the S3 promo we see Lestat having killed frikkin crew members in the documentary--are THEY Evil Doers? 

(But you best believe AMC’s gonna glamorize every single second of his Rockstar Era, even while he’s sitting in a puddle of blood tears crying about how hard his human life was and how the IWTV book slandered him--just feeding the fires of Black people’s voices being seen as less credible than white people’s--even though Louis & ESPECIALLY Claudia never knew a effing thing about Lestat cuz HE chose to never divulge details about his personal life. And NO, I don’t mean the stuff about TWMBK Marius told him to STFU about. He didn’t tell them anything about Gabrielle, they barely knew anything about Nicki, and knew nothing about Armand.)

So yeah, I largely agree with Princess Weekes that overall AMC did a great job by writing color conscious Black characters. Our takes just diverge when it comes to considering the historical reality of Black experiences during Jim Crow, that WEREN’T glitzy & glamorous, but that AMC isn’t necessarily giving trauma porn to torture Black characters for no reason, either. 

I think a bigger issue with the racebending is its reception; about how AMC’s mishandled race in the press and fandom: wrt silencing interviews with the actors about race; and platforming the most problematic AF non-Black fans, while not speaking out against the racist AF takes in the fandom about the Bipoc main characters.

[hyakinthou-naos]

Can I ask how blood and s3x are miasmic, yet there were sacrifices and orgies to the Theoi in ancient Greece? Is it just miasmic if it isn’t made in their honor or formally in a temple?

Khaire Anon,

Thank you for your question! I would like to start by saying that, while we know a fair bit about the worship practices of Hellenic Greece (primarily Athenian worship practices), scholars do not have solid answers to every question. Additionally, as practitioners attempt to revitalize and reconstruct Hellenic Polytheism, there is going to be natural variation and disagreement when it comes to beliefs and practices.

With that being said, it's important to first define what miasma is (and what it isn't) - I prefer to utilize the following definition:

"Miasma is considered to be the result of any diversion or disruption of the natural life-flow in living beings. [...] Infection, disease, death, sacrilege, acts of violence, human blood, murder and crime in general are classic examples [...] Impure acts have a strong influence not only on the body but also on the soul [...] Miasma in Hellenic tradition is treated through Purification" - Pg 74, Hellenic Polytheism: Household Worship (LABRYS)

With this in mind, sex is not miasmic; sex is a natural part of life, and so long as you are not harming anyone sex does not produce miasma. I am aware that there are other sources that say otherwise, and I am not going to say they are "wrong" per se - I will just say that I do not agree with their definition of what is and isn't miasmic.

It would be prudent to not approach The Gods after having sex if you have not cleaned up, but that has less to do with miasma and more to do with respect. I wouldn't show up to a friend's house after having sex if I was still sweaty and unkempt, and the same is true for The Gods.

Cleansing is a traditional part of Hellenic Polytheism, but there are different degrees of cleansing. As mentioned above, you should approach The Gods in a respectful manner - the same as you would if you were visiting or hosting a loved one. But in these cases, you are not cleaning yourself of miasma, you are just doing a standard pre-ritual cleansing.

Cleansing miasma is a longer, more involved process that can be carried out in a variety of ways - depending on the miasma in question.

Additionally, the idea of human blood being miasmic is a concept that requires some nuance when examining. There may have been a belief in the past that if someone was on their period and actively bleeding, that they were somehow "unclean" and polluted by miasma. I would venture to say that this idea is centered in sexist beliefs that should be left in the past. It is similar to if you get a papercut or a scraped knee, there's nothing "unnatural" about your own blood - and I would venture to say that such situations do not produce miasma.

However, if you were to come into contact with human blood that isn't yours - I would say that, in that case, the human blood is creating miasma and a cleansing should occur. It is not normal or natural for us to have another's blood on us (save for medical situations) and thus the rules and beliefs around miasma apply.

Again, there is variation in these beliefs from practitioner to practitioner - but if you are asking for what we teach at The Temple and what I believe as a practitioner - the above would be my answer.

If you have any additional or follow-up questions please don't hesitate to reach out!

Eirene - peace and farewell,

- Aön

[klm-zoflorr]

Incorrect quotes..... Parthogenesis

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Eren: This revenge shit is very unrewarding it turns out. I have lost all my friends and am devoid of the sweet sweet burn of anger now that I've accomplished my goal. Everybody hates me. I'm not allowed less than 50 meters from a government building. Help.

Armin: I TOLD YOU SO!

Eren: Well, good for you!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Commander Magath: *driving down the road*

Hange, driving up the same road: *yelling out the window as she passes him* PIG!

Commander Magath: *yelling back at Hange* BITCH!

Commander Magath: *rounding next curb, he crashes into a hug pig in the middle of the road and dies*

Ymir Fritz, watching on: Ah, if men would just listen

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sasha: "sex" literally isn't real. "ohhh i just had sex" you "had" sex? where did it go? did it grow legs and run away?? idiot

Marcoco: Stop saying sex when what you mean is gender!!

Connie: I had gender with your mom

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mikasa: Are you sure this is legal?

Annie: Why, are you taping this?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hange: God I do not like a single thing about you

Zeke: Tell me more

Hange: This isn't sexting

Zeke: It's better than sexting tbh

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*Mikasa getting ready for her date with Eren*

Levi: Tell him if he breaks your heart, I'll nail gun his.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Eren: Your future self is talking shit about you right now.

Annie: Joke's on her. I'll ruin her fucking life.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Jean: Connie, Sasha! How could you possibly have gotten into this much trouble in one day?!

Connie: It... It didn't take us the whole day...

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hange: The bad news is you've lost a lot of blood

Sasha: What's the good news?

Hange: Well we've found most of it!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Grisha: *Calling the doctor* My wife is going into labor what do I do I have forgotten all of my medical training

Doctor on the other end of the call: Is this her first child?

Grisha: No this is her husband

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Kuchel: You are so incredibly full of issues, you should do something about it! Go see a shrink, I don't know!

Kenny Ackerman: Oh yes!

Kenny: I've always been a big fan of head shrinking!

Kuchel: That's not-... That's not what it means...

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Falco: Why is "dark" spelled with a K and not a C?

Zofia: Why not?

Falco: Because you can't "C" in the dark...

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Kenny, at the therapist: Well, that is disappointing

Therapist: What is?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Levi, at Mikasa's funeral: I need a moment with her... Alone. Please.

Everyone: Of course. *They leave*

Levi, leaning over Mikasa′s coffin: Okay, listen here you little shit. I'm not fooled by your cadaver palor and unnatural stillness. I know you’re not dead.

Mikasa: Yeah, no shit.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Connie: Me and Annie, we get along fine in my beat up honda civic. We just don't have room to disagree.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sasha: It's been hard not having Ymir around. I never thought I'd miss being waterboarded so much.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*Annie and Porco on their first day as coast guards*

Boss: 7 people died on your watch today

Annie, looking off into the distance: Yes but the coast is fine

Porco:

Boss:

Porco: They were all very mean and refused to tip. So, we just threw them back in the water.

Annie: Also you only found seven. We killed a lot more.

Porco: Yeah, but you didn't have to mention that tho

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Therapist: Kenny, you have a problem verbalising your emotions

Kenny: Can't say I'm surprised

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hange: Love the train so much.... ...... I sit... ..... It goes........ ........ We arrive!!!!!

Connie: I understand that, but it still doesn't explain why we get to carry all the rails in 40 degree* weather while you sit in the shade and drink a monster energy on the rocks

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Carla: Can I have a private talk with you?

Grisha: Sure, as long as it’s not about tampons, because I just don’t understand them.

Hannes, wearing tampons as earplugs: How? It's so obvious what they're used for!

Carla: I asked for a PRIVATE talk with him!

Grisha: Oh, you just can't separate me and Hannes. We're a package deal!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Eren: Don't you think you're being a little dramatic about me letting your cactus die?

Floch: Dramatic? Perhaps a little.

Floch: Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to look out the window with a grimly satisfied expression.

Floch: I paid this skywriter a lot of money to write “Eren likes pineapple on pizza” in the clouds.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Levi: The sexual tension between me and self-destruction

Kenny: Nothing has sexual tension with you, kid

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Eren: You can diffuse any situation by saying, "are we about to kiss, right now?"

Historia: Eren, not only is that completely false and a ridiculous concept, but it's also not appropriate at all, we are at your trial for global genocide for fuck's sake-

Eren, leaning towards her: Are we about to kiss, right now?

Historia:

Historia, beet red: Nevermind.

Gabi: Can we PLEASE find another judge for this?!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Jean: I've got a joke for you. What's "Ereh" short for?

Armin: What for?

Jean: He's got little legs

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Annie: Im a lesbiab

Annie: Lesbiam

Annie: Less bien

Mikasa: Its okay take ur time

Annie: Girls

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mikasa: Annie and me buried the hatchet, figured you could try doing the same?

Ymir: I don't bury hatchets

Ymir: I sharpen them.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Eren: I don't like being an adult

Carla: Yup I told you

Eren: You remember how you told me you put me in this world and you can take me out?

Eren: Take me out.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mikasa: So, you want to be the Sun in my life?

Jean: Yes.

Mikasa: Good, then stay 92,935,700 miles away from me

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mikasa: Eren, stop! This isn't you, you've gone mad with power!

Eren: Well of course I have.

Eren: Have you ever tried going mad without power?

Eren: It's boring.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Ymir: Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves. One for your foe, one for yourself.

Zeke: What a stupid fucking quote. I'm killing way more than two people idiot

Eren: Don't even bury them. Let them rot.

Zeke: Plus it's not like I'm gonna bury myself anyways? Why would I provide free cleaning labor like that

Eren: Maybe you're supposed to die in the grave?

Zeke: I'm not gonna dig myself a grave so someone can push me in and I can die as the biggest idiot that ever walked this Earth

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Udo, watching Gabi: If you were religious, that would be straight-to-hell behavior...

Gabi, putting scorpions in Zeke's dresser after he called her a shitty little kid: I don't believe in heaven or hell, but I do believe in Revenge

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Armin, about Eren: If karma doesn't hit you real quick, I fucking will.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Falco: You know how in greek myths the people that die tragically sometimes get placed among the stars by the gods?

Colt: Yeah?

Falco: Call that a constellation prize.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sasha, taking care of Reiner after he got injured: It's okay Braus, stay calm, stay calm

Reiner: My name isn't Braus, it's Braun

Sasha: I know, I'm talking to myself.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*Pieck sliding $5 to the zookeeper*

Pieck: Maybe one of those penguins ends up in my car?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Historia: Fun fact: Blueberries are the only fruit named after a color

Armin: Starfruit

Historia: So close! That's a shape <33

Mikasa: Orange

Historia: Try again! <3 The color orange is named after the fruit.

Connie: Grape! "Gra" for gray! 🍇🤲😊

Historia:

Jean: You also forgot blackberries

Sasha: You idiot, black isn't a color.

Gabi: What about raspberries

Ymir: Green beans?

Falco: Lemons!! ♥️🥰☺️

Reiner: Wait aren't berries not fruit?

Historia: You all are so fucking stupid.

Zeke: What about dragon fruit

Historia: I am going to stone you

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mikasa: Are oranges named orange because oranges are orange or is orange called orange because oranges are orange?

Connie: Which came first, the orange or the orange?

Historia: Orange was first used to refer to the fruit 1280 years ago but was not used as a color until around 1000 years ago.

Eren: What was the color called before then?

Sasha: There was no color, duh! Everything was black and white!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hitch: "I'm kind of in a weird mental place right now" I say, as if there are times when I am not in a weird mental place

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Erwin, bleary eyed at 7am: Why are you opening all the windows?

Levi: We have to let air in

Erwin: But it's raining!

Levi: You're not made out of sugar, are you?!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*Eren getting into Mikasa's car*

Eren: Let's go

Mikasa: Uh... Uh... Hi? Nice to see you too?

*Armin getting into the backseat*

Armin: Wait, she's our Uber driver?

Mikasa: Uber driver? I thought we were going on a date, Eren!

Armin: I thought this was a guy's night out!

Eren: There's been a change of plans.

Mikasa: You could have just asked?? You didn't have to trick us?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Porco: I'm not a 🚩 i'm more like a ⚠️ cause I do warn you, you just don't be listening

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Pieck: I'm not a 🚩 I'm a 🏁 cause you winnin' over there

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hange: I don’t know the first thing about fashion. Pretty much all I can do is look at something and tell you if it’s clothes or not. This titan? Not clothes.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*Thru the phone*

Erwin: Hey, I need your help, can you come back?

Hange: Uh, I can't, I'm buying clothes.

Erwin: Alright, well hurry up and come back to base.

Hange: I can't find them.

Erwin: What do you mean you can't find them?

Hange: I can't find them, there's only soup.

Erwin: What do you mean there's only soup?

Hange: It means there's only soup!

Erwin: Well then get out of the soup aisle!

Hange: Alright you don't have to shout at me!

*Silence*

Hange: There's more soup!

Erwin: What do you mean there's more soup?

Hange: There's just more soup!

Erwin: Go into the next aisle!

Hange: There's still soup!

Erwin: Where are you right now?

Hange: I'm at soup!

Erwin: What do you mean you're "at soup?"

Hange: I mean I'm at soup!

Erwin: What store are you in?

Hange: I'm at the soup store!

Erwin: Why are you buying clothes at the soup store?!

Hange: Fuck you!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Zeke: And then we'll be transported to the Paths dimension, and we'll meet Ymir Fritz, that's our long-dead ancestor...

Eren: I can barely tolerate the living, why would I want to commute with the dead?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Armin: Does necromancy only work on animals? What do you do if you accidentally necromancy a fence and then it starts growing branches?

Armin: WHAT DO YOU DO IF YOU NECROMANCY A BOTTLE OF SHAMPOO AND IT TURNS INTO AN ENTIRE PILE OF LIMES?

Armin: What if I accidentally necromancy a vaccine and then someone gets an armful of very live pathogen?

Armin: WHAT'S THE LIMIT ON DEADNESS? HOW RECENTLY DOES SOMETHING HAVE TO BE DEAD? COULD I NECROMANCY A DINOSAUR FOSSIL? WHAT IF I NECROMANCIED THE GROUND AND THEN DINOSAURS STARTED APPEARING?

Armin: WHAT IF I NECROMANCIED A LIMESTONE WALL AND IT JUST TURNED INTO A PILE OF MOLLUSCS? WHAT IF I MOLLUSCED A BUILDING? A MOUNTAIN?

Annie: Armin.

Annie: are u ok

Armin: NO

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Colt's contributions to meetings: What about the impact on civilian populations? Do we have enough ammunition, provisions in storage to not rely on outside help?

Falco's contributions to meetings: Do you think stars have feelings?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Grisha: It's been ten year since my beloved son Zeke died...

Zeke: I was never your beloved son! And quit telling people I'm dead!

Grisha: Sometimes it feels like I can still hear his voice...

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Historia: *wearing a shirt reading "cunt era"*

Eren: *wearing a shirt reading "I'm high as fuck and have a gun in my backpack"*

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Grisha: The bad news is that you have a really rare disease

Rod Reiss: Oh, no. What's the good news?

Grisha: Well, you get to name it!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Eren: What's a good starter vice for someone who wants to get into ruining their life?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Gabi: Smarties

Yelena: Heroin and mass murder

Levi: You're both at very different ends of the spectrum yet I don't think either of you understood the question

Levi: The real answer is Erwin Smith

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Zeke, getting up in the middle of a meeting: Pieck and I are not longer dating

Pieck: Zeke, that's a horrible way to tell people that we got married

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Zeke: My mother and I spent some quality time together. Got our hands dirty.

Pieck: Gardening?

Zeke: Grave-digging.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Historia: Food trucks but instead of food, it's therapy and they're called automofeels

Rod Reiss: I know you're my last living descendant but with that kind of suggestions, I feel like I'd be better off picking a manged rat off the street

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Floch: If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're impressed.

Yelena: But you do know better.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Eren: I wanna be a reverse tooth fairy where I rob people and then scatter human teeth on their bed

Sasha: a dentist

Eren: I don't know what your dentist is doing to you but I think you need to go to the police

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*Pieck is coming back with McDonalds*

Zeke, reaching for his happy meal: Sorry, but there's no "we" in "fries"

Pieck: But there is an "I" *she steals all of his fries*

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Jean: Well, if you're not at least a little bit gay for your friends, then what kind of friend are you?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mikasa: The feminine urge to be ominous & terrifying...

Hange: Mood

Mikasa: You are like if a moth was wearing clown shoes.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Eren: A fun fact about me is i have never forgiven anyone for anything

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Bertholt: Have you ever been told you can be a bit intimidating?

Annie: Yes, every day of my life since kindergarten.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sasha: Being alive is great because there are so many different great vegetables you can sauté. But then there are also The Horrors

Falco: So true

Falco: Actually no. This is weird.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Uri Reiss: What is a sex drive where is the sex going does it even have a licence

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Levi, to Erwin: You're gay because you like men

Levi: I'm gay because I hate women just a tiny bit more than I hate men. We are not the same.

Hange: Yaoi vs shounen

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Annie: What’s it like being tall?

Historia: Is it nice?

Armin: Can you reach comfortably for the cupboards?

Reiner: I live in constant fear of the short people, who, in my experience, will climb four chairs, two boxes, a small coffee table, and six oddly placed stools to get what they want.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Eren: I don't know whether to bail you out, Mikasa, you've been in jail three times.

Zeke: Dad, Eren is cheating.

Grisha: Calm down, son.

Zeke: You are supporting him just because he bought you a hotel on Park Place

Eren: Someone has to take care of him in his old age? Who is going to do it but me? You?

Mikasa: *slyly knocks the Monopoly board off the table😼*

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Reiner: Hey girl ive been yearning for you the normal amount

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Grisha: Great. Here comes the woke mob to cancel me for killing and eating several people.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The 104th, Hange, Erwin, Levi, Grisha, Carla, Hannes wearing party hats, popping confetti cannons and cheering: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Eren: Uh. Thanks I guess?

Historia: You don't like being celebrated?

Eren: I prefer to be villified, my name invoking fear over a great cloud of darkness...

Carla: Muffins, Overlord?

Eren: Thamk you

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Connie: I like you lets go to hell together

Sasha: Hell? More like HELL P!! Ahah

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Rod Reiss: We need back-up with the military police!! Are you free?

Kenny: No actually, I am very expensive.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Connie: Since when are drapes flammable?

Historia: Since always, Connie! Drapes have ALWAYS BEEN FLAMMABLE!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mikasa: I have yet to encounter a problem where a sword didn't factor into the solution at least in some way.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Parental figure: Don't go into the forest, it's full of lemon-stealing whores!

Teenage Hange: Ooh, spooky!

Teenhange: What specific parts of the woods are they in, so I can avoid them extra hard?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Reiner, in front of Sasha's grave: Rip i was always into you

Sasha, popping out from behind a tree: ? Worst confession ever

Reiner: You're not dead??

Reiner: I lied

Reiner: You are nothing to me

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*Gabi and Falco looking over the bones of Rod Reiss*

Falco: What happened to him?

Historia: Ah well, he tried to outpizza the Hut

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Falco: I heard it's supposed to rain

Colt: Oh, yeah? But look at this sun!

Zeke:

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Pieck: Brr, getting a bit cold, uh?

Gabi: Yeah, it's supposed to rain later

Zeke:

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*Zeke passing through next to Magath adressing the kids*

Commander Magath: We're not gonna do the lesson outside today, it's supposed to rain

Zeke:

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Annie: Galliard, mind helping me set up the tables outside for my mind reading scam?

Porco: Don't start this now, it's supposed to rain this afternoon!

Zeke: I heard it's never going to rain again.

Porco: What is the fucking matter with you

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Pieck: I decided I'm actually not gonna break up with you over your corny jokes, Porco convinced me otherwise.

Zeke: What a re-LEAF. I should get you flowers. I know it STEMS from a place of love, now our relationship can BURGEON out of bounds.

Pieck: I changed my mind.

Zeke: Ok, but Porco avocated for me?? Really?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Annie: Zeke? What was that message you sent me?

*Shows him the phone, with a garbled texting mess on it that reads as follows: pleusr bereing qi 2 auffce chabi goht pik 🏹. shi went hair glleiteur pin. kiuk houry aim worrded*

Zeke: "Please bring the key to the office back, Gabi is threatening Pieck at gunpoint, she wants her glitter pen back and I seem to be the only one worried about it."

Annie: I read serial killer diaries with better punctuation than this

Zeke: But do you have the keys?

Annie: No.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Annie: What about the bow emoji?

Zeke: They censored the gun on my phone

Annie: No, look there's the little water gun...

Zeke: It doesn't convey the urgency of the situation

Annie: Nothing in your message conveys the urgency of the situation since you need a degree in foreign languages to understand it

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Commander Magath: Do you have any children?

Dina Fritz: Yes, I have one that's just under two.

Commander Magath: I know how many one is

Commander Magath: Is he big enough to man a cannon yet

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Yelena: Blackmail is such an ugly word. I prefer extortion. The X makes it sound cool.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Reiner: Be myself?? The person who got me into this mess???

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Ymir: Will I find a purpose?

Annie, posing as a fortune teller: No.

Ymir: u didn't do the thing with the cards

Annie: *flips one card, maintaining eye contact* No.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Pieck: *unbuttoning shirt* Oh my god, it's hot as hell in here.

Yelena: Yes, but why are you unbuttoning my shirt?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Connie: You into cars?

Ymir: Yes, it truly was a masterpiece of a film

Connie: No i mean are you a cars person

Ymir: I'm a human.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Connie: I tried making my own Red Bull with crushed up caffeine pills, twenty-one shots of expresso, carbonated licorice water and gummy vitamins. The doctor said I'm lucky to be alive.

Connie, 24 hours before: I can perceive twenty-three spatial dimensions and am fighting my own soul. I'm winning by the way.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Levi: i am at a loss for words to describe how absolutely stupid this plan was!

Sasha, narrating: Despite being at a loss for words, the Captain yelled at us for the next thirty minutes.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*Hange getting ready to go on an expedition in the titan forest*

Hange: If you hear me screaming bloody murder, there's a good chance I'm enjoying myself.

Levi: ...figured that one out

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mikasa, when Eren leaves for Zeke's side: You're leaving me? I'm coming with you.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Gabi: What's the difference between Reiner and a magnet?

Gabi: A magnet has a positive side!

Reiner: Ah-Ah. Very funny.

Falco: A magnet would have laughed at this quality joke!

Reiner: I wish I were an household item

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hange: You know, you look pretty fit yourself. What do you play?

Erwin: Anybody that gets close enough.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mr. Xaver: I'm sorry Zeke, your dad was pronounced dead

Zeke: *tearing up*

Zeke: I've been pronouncing it wrong this whole time??!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Historia: I tried your "salad" thing today, and Ew. I only ate one of those red and white nasty apple things, and I couldn't handle it after.

Pieck: Radishes, Historia

Historia: Mini dirt apples

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Kenny the Boomer, looking at his dead phone: How do we bring this thing back to life? Magic? Live sacrifice? I know a guy in town-

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Floch, lovingly, to Eren: You inspire me to be so much worse

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Floch, interviewing people: What do you want for Christmas?

Annie: Uhhh... for me to be alive

Levi: You know those microfibers cloths they have at big stores?

Historia: I just want Captain Levi to have a great time. Cause, he's been really really sad and angry lately. And you know, that's all I really need, more happiness in the world.

Connie: I'll say I want a big booty hoe, sitting on my face right now. Blrrr!

Sasha: Free weed!

Eren: Uhhhh.... World peace

Mikasa: Dick

Hange: *Pouring everyone a big glass of her special cocktail* Mental stabilityyyy baby!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Jean: I'd roast you, but my mom says you can't burn trash.

Jean: *moon-walks out of the room*

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Annie: I'm not sure whose twisted idea it was to put hundreds of adolescents in underfunded dilapidated training camps, taught by people whose dreams were crushed years ago, but I admire the sadism.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Yelena: I've tried some eyeliner, thoughts?

Floch: Sorry but someone already has swag in this enimity and it's ME

Yelena: You? Cool? You are like if a moth was wearing clown shoes.

Floch: Where did you even hear that expression

Yelena: Idk

Floch: Well you look like you could stab someone with these anyways

Yelena: The clown shoes?

Floch: The eyeliner.

Yelena: That's the goal

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Zeke organising a play about his life: Porco, I think you should play the role of my father.

Porco: I don't want to be your father??

Zeke: That's perfect, you already know your lines!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Marcel: I don’t know why I do the things I do. Never did. I’m a damn mystery to myself. It makes my existence... Exciting, you know. You never know what's gonna happen. Am I going to jail, am I getting a medal for bravery? Am I driving on the highway at three in the morning to ruin my life and everybody in this town's again??

Ymir: Are you gonna get caught, cooked and eaten by a random girl in the woods?? Who the hell knows.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*Porco, in his jock attire, yelling at the tv*

Bertholt: You're yelling like the players are actually gonna listen to you

Porco: You're in love with a girl who doesn't even know you exist

Bertholt:

Bertholt: Never talk to me again

*Bertholt goes to his room to try and glue back the shattered remains of his ego*

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Historia: I think my dad never loved me.

Zeke: HA! Loser. I always KNEW my dad never loved me.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sasha, leaving the Training Corps in s2 to go save her family: There I go side questing again!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Flight attendant: Is there a doctor on the plane?

Armin: Yes, but I'm not that kind of...

Flight attendant: The pilots are debating the merits of the terminologies of "the dark ages" vs. "late antiquity" vs. "the early middle ages".

Armin: Okay. I'm here.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Bertholt: Annie... I need to tell you something.

Annie: Alright?

Bertholt: You're hot then you're cold, you're yes then you're no, you're in and you're out, you're up then you're down, you're right when it's wrong, you... I guess what I want to say is you're incredible and I care about you. You're so good... At everything. I deeply admire you. I could get lost in the blue of your eyes, I feel like I'm flying when I look at you. Your hair is a golden crown, which you deserve because you are a queen. Your laugh is rare and dry like an oasis in the desert, it's the only thing in the world that can quench my thirst. What I'm trying to say is... I love you.

Annie: Alright.

Bertholt:

Annie: Thanks. You... Uh... You always fill a room with your presence... Like a stately sequoia tree.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sasha: *sees a ghost* omg are you dead

Ghost Gabi: Of corpse

Ghost Gabi: The other ghosts said they'll beat my ass because of this joke. Grave mistake.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Levi: Oh yes, my uncle is out of town, said something about tying up loose ends?

Uri Reiss:

Kenny: *tying up the ends of a black bag filled with a dead body*

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Falco: Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Gabi:

Gabi: I don't think you know what this sentence means

Gabi: But yes, it's a gun.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Connie: Are you alright?

Historia: I'm fine.

Connie: No, but really?

Historia: I mean yeah i carry around an immense sadness that destroys my will to live more and more everyday but like im fine

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Erwin: I rarely find cocaine jokes funny.

Erwin: But occasionally, an one-liner makes me snort.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Annie: We have an issue. Most of your bleeding is internal.

Marcel: Well, isn't that good news?! That's where the blood is supposed to be anyways!

Pieck: I don't think it's in the benefit of humanity as a whole to try to save him...

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mikasa: I act as if I don't care if people dislike me. But deep down? I secretly enjoy it.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Yes, do believe good cop/bad cop is the essence of the MikAnnie dynamic

Yes, I know titans aren't supposed to leave bones behind. I'm gonna need you to get allll the way off my back about this!

Yes, I did watch the Wednesday series recently. It's a good show, innit? Full of punchy one-liners!

Yes, this end note is getting entirely too repetitive.

Yes, there's more?

*: 104° F for you eagle people

[subsequentibis]

2, 7, 9 and 10 for laz, sal and john?

wooo let's put this one under a cut!

2. Why does your oc look the way they do? What are your reasons for their appearance?

sal is pretty heavily inspired by most of the tall gangly awkward sweaty weirdo scientist/researcher characters i recall fondly from a lot of media i liked growing up, plus hair that's fun to draw and that mimics the fungus's tendril shapes. she started out looking fairly different as my vtm character, but then i fell a little in love with dev patel (and this was also when i was still drawing her as a man) so she ended up closer to his look in david copperfield. purple is a color that doesn't exist much in nature, or so i've heard, so it can have a mystical/spooky/unnatural feeling to it, especially i think a kind of paler ghostly purple, which is why i chose it for her sweater. similarly i gave her grey eyes because i feel like they give off a slightly unusual or unnatural vibe while also being very beautiful. she gets a turtleneck because i gave her my fear of/discomfort with having my neck touched to an extreme degree, she doesn't even like feeling the wind on it. the rest of her clothes are brown/dark tones to give her an earthy and grounded feel. i'm not very good at thinking of outfits so i made her like a cartoon character that only has one set of clothing but just gave her sensory issues so she has a whole wardrobe of nearly identical sweaters, pants, and jackets for comfort. originally i was going to have the fungus able to chameleon-esque shift color so it would be mimicking her hand and eye almost exactly except for almost imperceptible lines where the tendrils meet, but i ended up not liking that idea so much and gave her gloves & a glass eye to hide the bits that she loses over the course of the story. she's long and spindly because i tend to think of her hunched up and curling in on herself, like she's always felt just a little bit too big and is trying to compensate for it, and also because that's very fun to draw.

lazarus is pretty heavily inspired by john constantine, sam vimes, columbo, hellboy, any cigar/cigarette-chomping long coat-wearing detective or investigator with a dry sense of humor. he's gone through a couple versions actually, he was my character in several different ttrpgs until i settled on him as a detective npc for an urban shadows campaign i ran and that really nailed down a lot for him looks and attitude-wise. grey raincoat to help him blend in a little more with the city, i like to think he could lean against a concrete wall and almost disappear. big stompy boots or heeled shoes because he's short as hell and wants to look taller. red as an accent color for blood/fire/etc. actually i debated red eyes as well for a bit and finally settled on orange because, of all things, pilferingapples drew bahorel with these really lovely orangey whiskey colored eyes and that always struck me as gorgeous. i just cranked up the orange to make them obviously not natural and as a connection to lava. he's a bit of wish fulfillment for me as a trans man - short but with a broader build, fairly strong shoulders and hips but a bit of stomach to fill out between so he's not really hourglass-y at all. hairy all over, big obvious top surgery scars that will get an update to probably look like flames or claw marks soon, and covered in interesting scars. i always wanted to come up with a story behind all of them but i only ever figured out ones for two, one on his knee and the brand on his chest that ties him to his demonic patron. he had a shitty tiny ponytail for a long time because i love getting my hair just long enough to have a tiny shitty ponytail, but his hair started getting longer over time and now i like him with long hair. cringefail facial hair. he cannot grow a mustache to save his life but that's not gonna stop him.

ok so john. john was originally a hotel podcast oc, as in like i had this idea that the owner might have once been a human guy and got yoinked and twisted to fit the hotel's needs. so john was just my design for the owner but a little more saturated, like he goes semi-greyscale when he gets got. i ditched the turquoise bolo tie when i decided i wanted him in underbelly and i'm trying to fill his wardrobe out a little more with clothes that a divorced dad trying to find his feet again after a painful break up might pick for 'fun'. where laz was my wish fulfillment as a trans man back in college, when i was barely beginning to believe i could possibly be genderweird, john is my wish fulfillment as a trans man now. tall, beefy, hairy, big shaggy sideburns. he's got less thought put into him than the others because he's not been around as long, give him a few years to mature in the soup and i'm sure he'll develop.

7. Does your oc have any notable skills or good personality traits? Why did you give them those traits? Why do they exist in-universe?

see prev answer for sal!

lazarus is somewhat similar to sal in that he's quick to pick up on tiny details, but i would call him more street smart than book smart. i wanted the two of them to have a bit of a battle of the minds going on, not quite like death note levels but more like your average columbo episode. laz is in total control of himself at pretty much all times, as well - he is driven primarily by anger, but he's had enough time to figure out how to use anger instead of being used by it. sometimes he loses control but it's rare. he has a good relationship with a lot of people in the underbelly, he makes a point to help out where he can and engages in a lot of favor-swapping. i really want him to be a pillar of the community sort of guy, someone really intensely invested in the space they've helped to build because he's been aimless and wandering in the past and it's no way to live. he's a bit world weary and can come across as cynical, but deep down even if he doesn't believe in the inherent goodness of man, he thinks man can be dragged kicking and screaming towards some kind of goodness.

john is a good natured and good hearted kind of guy, despite his flaws he has a fairly strong sense of right and wrong and he's really fiercely loyal and protective of his loved ones. frankly see that one post that's like 'character that's submissive in the way a guard dog is submissive'. he's lost people and relationships in the past for various reasons so when he finds something that sticks he's desperate to keep them close and safe and intact.

9. In a group dynamic, what kind of role does the oc usually fill? Are they a worry wart? A troublemaker? The straight man?

sal is the worrier for sure and the one who goes home early because she's not having fun. laz is the one you think is the straight man until a third act subversion and then he's either covered in other people's blood or has challenged the biggest guy in the bar to a drinking contest that he will win and then make out with said guy. john is the designated driver.

10. What is your favorite trait regarding your oc?

i love sal's cowardice. it's really meaningful and special to me how little she wants to do with anything happening to her and how she figures out how to deal with it anyway and succeed while never really getting over how much she wants to just go home and get in bed.

my favorite lazarus trait is his anger, because i love a character who lets their rage bubble and boil under the surface while appearing completely calm until they just explode, but like a controlled demolition.

i love john's ability to adapt. when he ends up in the underbelly it's not long at all before he's got a stable job & a place to live & people who call him friend because he just goes with the flow and makes it work. yeah he's got goat eyes and horns and he sleeps on a pile of hay now bc he's too big for his bed most nights but hey, could be worse!

[levinea-yuuki]

Warning: Heartfelt Ramble.

Listen I know it's a dangerous place to live, but I desperately wish that if I was reborn I would end up in the One Piece universe.

No one ever tells you that you're too much by having an emotional bond with somebody. The super rich and powerful that are taking advantage of the innocent are wiped out by vigilantes. Mythical creatures and magical lands exist.

Freedom that this planet could never demonstrate, at least not anymore. Magic, sure in the shape of fruit that gives you powers but it's still magic, and even if you don't have a devil fruit in your system there's still the potential to get stronger with incredible plants, machines, creatures, techniques, plain old dedication... It's like that world doesn't have a restriction of the human body.

You know, what I honestly and desperately wish for (instead of the One Piece universe even though that's really great) is a place where people will take you seriously for the things you say but not judge you for misconceptions. Where it's okay to stand up for yourself instead of being called problematic. Where there's a chance to fight the higher power instead of the dread that we can't really do anything because they've already got the power....

I would also love to live in a place where I could decompress without being interrupted and to come out refreshed and ready to face any bullcrap thrown at me; a place where I can just lock the door and do my own thing for more than 15 minutes without being called upon to do the hard tasks that nobody else wants to do, and when I come out ready for it, appreciated for my effort. Because life right now is way too hard, and embarrassing, and restrictive, and exhausting.

I'm tired of being judged negatively for being asexual like it's their life, like it's their business, whether or not I am f****** somebody. I'm tired of being judged for having the genetic code that makes me more plump than the average supermodel because my Irish blood is trying to keep me from starving by packing on the backup weight. I work out, I do 16-hour shifts, I hardly eat, I have lost weight a little bit but it's still there. Why can't I just enjoy having my fluffy body without it being sexualized?

Why do we have to work so hard to have a place safe from the weather outside where we can eat more than scraps? Why do we have to rely on foods that have preservatives, which I honestly think are starting to preserve youth in humans to an unnatural degree, and the hormones that grow our livestock are making us have our periods earlier than we used to and grow taller faster, and technology stunting mental growth (iPad kids), and school systems that suppress critical thinking skills... Are they breeding super soldiers that follow orders with no question? Growing constituents that will vote based on rumor?

People are starting to deteriorate at a younger age because I'm 27 and I feel like I'm 50, because they only need you to be able-bodied and young long enough to stay in the work force at prime, peak production ability, and then once you lose your strength to profit them without faltering you lose all value. We hardly have a voice unless we are extremely useful, either in the workforce or sexually. Hardly anybody is just valued for being a person.

I just want the potential to be valued as a person. I want to be seen. I'm exhausted I'm so damn lonely.

I totally understand those folks who just want a cabin in the woods where they can grow their own vegetables and livestock and keep away from the rest of society and their judgmental attitudes, to avoid all the bull that people come up with and scuffle about, and fight, and guns, and drugs, and violence, and rumors, and politics, and all this bull crap I'm so fucking tired leave me alone--no come back and talk to me, let's have a conversation, a real conversation.

[mediaevalmusereads]

Razorblade Tears. By S.A. Cosby. Flatiron Books, 2021.

Rating: 2/5 stars

Genre: thriller/suspense

Series: N/A

Summary: Ike Randolph has been out of jail for fifteen years, with not so much as a speeding ticket in all that time. But a Black man with cops at the door knows to be afraid.

The last thing he expects to hear is that his son Isiah has been murdered, along with Isiah’s white husband, Derek. Ike had never fully accepted his son but is devastated by his loss.

Derek’s father Buddy Lee was almost as ashamed of Derek for being gay as Derek was ashamed his father was a criminal. Buddy Lee still has contacts in the underworld, though, and he wants to know who killed his boy.

Ike and Buddy Lee, two ex-cons with little else in common other than a criminal past and a love for their dead sons, band together in their desperate desire for revenge. In their quest to do better for their sons in death than they did in life, hardened men Ike and Buddy Lee will confront their own prejudices about their sons and each other, as they rain down vengeance upon those who hurt their boys.

***Full review below.***

CONTENT WARNINGS: homophobia, racism (including use of the n-word), misogyny, violence, blood/gore, kidnapping, child endangerment

OVERVIEW: I kept seeing this book on "best of" lists, so I figured I'd pick it up. I'm not normally a suspense/thriller reader, but the rave reviews and the premise were enough to pique my interest. Unfortunately, I seem to be in the minority: I didn't love this. I liked the idea of the story (who doesn't love a little revenge plot?), but in execution, it left a lot to be desired. The way the plot unfolded was just too clunky and showcased a lot of violence and homophobia. Moreover, the writing style just wasn't my jam; it was very heavy on the dialogue and privileged telling over showing, so it was difficult for me to read. Between the plot and the writing, I can only give this book 2 stars.

WRITING: I'm not sure in Cosby's writing style is typical of the suspese/thriller genre, but it just did not work for me. For one, it was extremely heavy on dialogue, to the point where a lot of info would be told to us through dialogue rather than shown. On top of that, characters seemed to offer up way too much information way too readily, which made the speech feel unnatural.

For two, even when we did get prose paragraphs, the sentences felt plain and didn't vary much in length or structure. I'm all for unadorned prose, but in this book, I didn't feel immersed in the world; instead, I felt like Cosby was trying to get through description as fast as possible in order to get to more dialogue.

For three, some scenes contained a lot of head hopping- so much so that at times, it was difficult to keep track of who was doing what (this was especially common in action scenes).

And lastly, the book as a whole felt overwritten. I didn't get the sense that Cosby trusted his reader enough to make connections, so a lot of the writing spelled things out to such a degree that there was no room for my brain to work. The effect of this is that I was frequently bored - I didn't have to engage with the story because the story doesn't leave room for it.

PLOT: The plot of this book follows two ex-cons - Ike and Buddy Lee - who bond over seeking revenge for the murders of their gay sons.

I'm aware that different readers will read this plot differently. Some might see it as a cathartic revenge fantasy and others might love the way our protagonists reflect on the ways they failed their sons. Personally, I felt as if I were reading a story about 2 gay men who are murdered so their homophobic fathers have an excuse to unleash their violent masculinity (think the women in refrigerators trope but instead of women, it's queer people). I absolutely understand the enjoyment of a revenge plot, but I did not get enjoyment out of this.

Also, the amount of casual racism and homophobia in this book is difficult to ignore. While I understand some of it is inserted to make a commentary on various social issues, there were times where I was just tired of it and it hampered my ability to enjoy the revenge plot.

Lastly, I didn't really think the revenge plot was all that suspenseful. While it occasionally relied on Ike and Buddy Lee using their criminal connections, nothing they did seemed particularly clever or like something a determined cop couldn't do with a laptop and some spare time. They tracked down their targets way too easily, and even their setbacks didn't seem to challenge them in ways that made them grow as characters.

CHARACTERS: This book has two main protagonists: Ike and Buddy Lee.

Ike is a Black ex-con who did 15 years in jail for various crimes including manslaughter. He has a gang tattoo and has connections to organized crime, and he uses those connections to get revenge.

Buddy Lee is also an ex-con who has been in and out of jail. He has connections to drug runners and gun dealers, and he also has an ex-wife who is married to a prominent Vurginia judge.

Personally, I wasn't satisfied by either of their character arcs. Most of their growth involved learning about how they failed their sons, which is nice, but not very nuanced. They pretty much just learned not to be homophobic, and while I think there is room for these stories, I'm not sure if I liked it here. I wish Ike and Buddy Lee had bonded in ways that felt more natural; as it stands, the two mainly become close by committing violence together and having dead sons. While they do talk to one another about being Black or being poor or what have you, these conversations felt forced and were delivered rather bluntly. As a result, their bond didn't feel genuine.

The antagonists were even less interesting than the protagonists, and I personally think that having chapters told from their point of view killed some of the suspense. They mainly just existed to be racist and homophobic, and while I don't think all antagonists need to be complex, it was odd to me that such flat antagonists got their own POV chapters.

TL;DR: Razorblade Tears attempts to be a revenge fantasy aimed at eliminating homophobes, but what it feels like is a story about queer people dying to give straight fathers a motivation for violence.

[inamindfarfaraway]

I love how cleverly Black Friday recontextualizes Christmas music and imagery to be menacing and sinister:

Green is Wiggly’s colour, commonly associated with the supernatural and extraterrestrial because in terms of lighting, it’s very unnatural. You only see green light naturally occur in seemingly mystical phenomena like the auroras. In terms of animals, Wiggly’s trademark bright green is pretty rare and primarily used to warn predators of toxicity or be more attractive to a potential mate. In human culture, it’s the colour of American paper money and frequently considered the colour of greed (wanting more money and material things) and envy (wanting what others have).

Red is the lighting colour of human evil and vice. It’s most prominent in scenes like Wiley’s deal with Linda and Sherman strangling Lex. This also makes sense: red is blood, danger, fire. But together the villainous colours for lighting are the colours of Christmas. Often when things are the worst, people being immoral and Wiggly exerting his power simultaneously like during the riot, the lighting is also paradoxically the most festive.

The Christmas tinsel on the upper level looks completely ordinary, until it’s used as the tentacles of Wiggly’s true face. Not only is this being so otherworldly and incomprehensible that he’s ‘played’ by parts of the set (same with the stage light eyes), but it visually shows that he’s to a degree been part of the story the whole time, looming over the characters’ heads. An element of his spirit has always been there and remains after he’s defeated, just like the unfair, exploitative socioeconomic structures he takes advantage of. He isn’t killed at the end, merely overcome and kept at bay for now, just like the flawed nature of humanity.

In his first scene Frank, the personification of capitalism, sings sections of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” with Wiggly replacing Jesus. This is entirely of his own free will, as the toy shipment hasn’t even been unboxed. But then paralleling Wiggly with Jesus (“open your heart up to his love”, “The father’s the son, the son’s the father”, “the birth of a god”, “[Christmas Day is] going to be my birthday”, “you have kept the shepherd from his flock”, “He will rise up with joyful noise”, etc.) and associating him with Christmas music (the tune of “Carol of the Bells” is one of his leitmotifs and sung to in “Wiggle”, he’s introduced in person to jingling bells in “Made in America”) become motifs throughout the show. This theme is both a dark, terrifying perversion of everything Christmas is meant to be about, right down to Wiggly amplifying selfishness and greed while Christmas promotes selflessness and generosity; and a sobering reminder that through the extreme commercialization of the holiday, we ourselves have already corrupted it.

Why “Carol of the Bells” specifically, though? That piece of music contains the “Dies Irae” leitmotif, a widespread musical shorthand for death. The Gregorian hymn that originated it, Latin title translating to “Day of Wrath”, refers to Judgement Day. In this event God will supposedly judge all human souls and select those who have been good and followed his ways and laws to receive eternal reward, while those who have been sinful and disobedient are condemned to suffer forever. Given the strong ‘Wiggly = the Christian God but evil’ theme… what judgement do you think Wiggly would cast upon humanity? Makes the corresponding lyric “When Wiggly comes” even more ominous, doesn’t it?

[mellowswriting]

oxytocin

pairing || kas!Eddie Munson x Reader

word count || 1,883

summary || Eddie thinks he might just be able to get used to this whole vampire thing if he’s got you by his side - or rather, in his bed. 

content || smut, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, p in v sex, monsterfucking technically bc vampire!Eddie, blood drinking (gotta keep our man well fed), soft and sweet Eddie being viciously in love, fluff

a/n || listened to Oxytocin by Billie Eilish once and this happened. all aboard the whore train bc I can’t stop with this man. so pretty. also we don’t know Eddie’s middle name so of course I decided on Wayne :’)

Edward Wayne Munson is not a scary person, you’ve always known that. Even before the fateful day that drew you into each other’s orbit, when all you knew about him were rumors of Satanism and cults, you could see through the thin veil that was ‘Eddie the Freak’. There has always been a particular kindness in his warm brown eyes, even when he’s bubbling with his usual chaotic energy. Hidden underneath that metal mullet and leather jacket is a sweetheart that can’t even bear to kill the spiders he finds hiding in his room. Despite everything he’s been through, before and after being accused of a horrific murder, Eddie is gentle and kind. 

Even now, as he stares down at you with a ring of red around his irises and unnaturally sharp canines peeking out between his parted lips, you can’t find it in you to be scared of him. 

None of you quite know how or why it happened, even Eddie. All you know is your boyfriend tumbled through your bedroom window after three grief-stricken days of thinking he was dead and you don’t plan on letting him go ever again. Sure, it has been an adjustment, to say the least, but he’s still Eddie. He’s still your Eddie, who still tears up if he thinks about the one time he got a little overzealous with his teeth sunk into your neck and you nearly passed out from how much blood he took from you. 

The two of you have learned a lot since then. Eddie knows better than to wait until his hunger is so intense that it feels like his mind is boiling. You have learned about the strange pain-relieving abilities of his saliva, how the sharp prick of his teeth is always followed by a hazy almost-pleasure that makes you feel drunk. There’s no real danger in going out into the sunlight beyond some discomfort, which was deduced after a long day of experimenting with a very nervous Eddie. The most interesting thing Eddie has discovered, though?

Your blood tastes so fucking good after he’s worked you through a few orgasms. 

Eddie watches you with those red-tinged eyes as you shudder through the aftershocks of the second orgasm he’s given you tonight. The intensity he radiates only makes you shiver more. You can feel the want - no, the pure need radiating off of him in waves. It isn’t just hunger for your blood that lurks in his dark gaze. You whimper as he eases his fingers out of your oversensitive cunt and Eddie gives you that mischievous little smile that tells you he's nowhere near finished with you. 

“Oh, my pretty girl…” Eddie hums, rubbing your thigh soothingly. “You did so good for me…”

The praise lights you up, deepening the pleasurable haze that already glows through your entire body. Eddie presses closer, one hand braced in the pillows next to your head and the other cupping your cheek, his body hovering close over yours. You’re just so warm. His body temperature lingers just a few degrees cooler than the average human and he’s more than happy to leech some of that heat from you. His cool lips press against your own, coaxing them open with a flick of his tongue. Eddie’s kisses have always been deep and hungry as if he fears every time could be the last. 

You used to tease him for it - but not anymore. Not since it became too real of a possibility.

“You’ve got another one in you, don’tcha sweetheart?” His tone drips with an indulgence that you can't refuse, not with the promise of more thrumming with every wild beat of your heart. You nod emphatically, too breathless to even whisper the pleas that cling to your tongue. Eddie gives you that pretty smile you love. “That's my girl.”

There isn’t a hint of hesitation as Eddie hitches your thighs further around his waist. You feel his cock twitching against your inner thigh and for a split second, you feel bad for how neglected he is. It’s been almost an hour of relentless pleasure for you - an hour he spent rutting into the mattress, surely adding to the already endless stains in the fabric. More precum smears across your inner thigh as his hips grind against you, mindlessly searching for any friction against your skin. 

Eddie slides into you in one fluid thrust, not stopping until his pelvis presses flush against yours. You’re already so relaxed from all that time he spent with his tongue and fingers between your thighs that there’s no stretch, no pinch of discomfort. Just that pleasant fullness that takes your breath away. It’s almost too much, the surge of new pleasure through your sensitive body. Every nerve ending sings with overstimulation - and then he moves. 

A whimper flutters from you but it can barely be heard over Eddie’s broken groan. He fucks you with deep, slow rolls of his hips that send you reeling. All you can do is cling to him, fingers buried in his hair and thighs dragging him impossibly deeper. It’s almost too much to take. His cock presses against that sensitive spot inside of you with every thrust and your eyes roll, a full-bodied tremble racking through you. Eddie barely manages to pull his face out of your neck, away from the tempting scent of your blood, but he can’t resist watching you when you’re like this. So close to the edge, tears in your pretty eyes, your jaw slack as you let him fuck you stupid. 

“Look at you…” Eddie grits out, gripping your jaw when your head lolls back into the pillows. His fingers force your lips into a little pout that he can’t help but kiss you, sharp and quick in his haste to watch you cry for him. The sight you make sends a rush of emotion roaring in his ears - lust, love, pure adoration. Hunger. The pace of his hips stutters and forces a little yelp from your throat. “You sound so pretty, too.” 

You sigh his name, breathy and barely able to form the syllable. He swears he could listen to you say his name forever and never grow tired of the sound - so he lets that ravenous instinct take hold if only to hear it one more time. He thrusts into you harshly and your hands fly to his shoulders, desperate to steady yourself. “Oh, fuck - Eddie!”

His grip on the back of your thighs tightens as he sets a rough and ragged pace, ruled by the animalistic need he has neglected for far too long. You find the strength to meet his rhythm, mindlessly circling and grinding your pelvis as that crest of pleasure builds in your belly once more. A trembling groan rumbles through his chest as your pussy flexes around him, your entire body tender from his constant fucking. That unbearable burst of pleasure threatens to consume you and leave you nothing more than his pretty, fucked out little mess. 

Your nails dig into his shoulder as a broken warning tumbles from your lips. It barely even counts as words but that doesn’t matter - because Eddie knows. He knows your body like he knows every crease in his well-loved Tolkien novels; every little detail read and re-read a million times until it’s burned into the back of his mind forever. His fingers blaze a familiar path between your bodies because Eddie is greedy for your pleasure, to be the source of such bliss. 

The press of his fingers against your clit sends your back arching. The instinct to pull away from the overstimulation wars with that overindulgent voice in the back of your head that delights at the promise of more. Eddie watches you with those feral eyes as he rubs your clit, those gentle touches from earlier long gone as he tries to rip one last orgasm out of you before he reaches his own - he is a gentleman after all. 

Your thighs tremble as that pleasure finally bursts, unfurls through your body like the bloom of flower petals in spring. It’s devastating, but not only for you. A string of curses falls from his lips at the desperate fluttering of your pussy as you cum around his cock. Every bit of you is overwhelming to his senses. The wet heat of your body drawing him in, the heady smell of your pleasure saturating the air, the promised taste of your blood on his waiting tongue. Everything is you and him, together. 

As it should be. 

Eddie fucks into you in sharp, short thrusts that jolt your entire body. You keep making those hot little whimpers and yelps that make his blood boil with pure lust. He may be the otherworldly creature in this room, the one that possesses an unnatural strength and power, but you… you are the one in control. You stare up at him with those eyes glittering with love and Eddie knows, he fucking knows you have him wrapped around your little finger. He kisses you hard, tactless as he buries himself to the hilt and cums inside of you. The weight of him collapsing on top of you makes you grunt but you’re too exhausted to really complain. 

It isn’t all that surprising when he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Just a taste, sweetheart, I promise. Just one… little… taste…” Eddie mutters before his tongue swipes against your pulse. Even as fucked out and hungry as he is, it isn’t until you give him a nod of approval that you feel the sharp prick of his teeth digging into your neck. The pain is distant in the echoes of the orgasm that still thrums heavy in your veins, now amplified by whatever strange qualities his bite has on you. 

You sigh beneath him, unable to do much else but bury your fingers in his hair and tip your head back, giving him all the access he could ever dream of. Your other arm simply drapes over his shoulders. It’s comfortable. Known. His tongue rolls, coaxing a slow trickle of blood from the small wound. Eddie practically purrs as the rich taste of your blood tinges his tongue. That raw instinct flares to life, a sharp demand to take and take until you go limp beneath him, but it doesn’t take hold. It never could, not with the fierce gleam of love outshining everything else. He’s careful not to take too much - just enough to sate the hunger singing in his veins.

“So sweet,” He whispers as he carefully cleans your neck in wet little kitten licks. It used to make you squirm away from him, the strangeness of it all too much, but you’ve grown used to the warmth of his tongue against your throat. The wounds never last long, especially under his thorough care. You take such good care of him. Eddie can’t imagine not doing the same for you. He kisses just beneath your jaw. “Thank you, sweetheart.” 

You can only hum a positive sound, your mind and body featherlight in the aftermath. Eddie catches your lips in a coppery kiss before slipping away, stumbling off to gather a towel and water and anything else his little human could ever desire.

[prismaticpichu]

Inspired by Zack & Seph week, Hair/Training! I love puppy-haired Zack! He’s such a bean. What if he had some kind of reason to keep it like that? <3

Zack stared in the mirror for a long, long time. He wasn't sure how long exactly, but he was vaguely aware of the clouds scudding across the window and towing sunset with them.

He ran a hand through this hair, tracing both sides of his bangs, the charcoal strands filtering through his fingertips; he held a pair of scissors in the other

He really should have asked Aerith to do this. She was a master at anything aesthetic, and so gentle too. He really would have asked her. It was just getting late, and she would be heading home. He also wasn’t particularly ready to be asked why he wanted to change his appearance.

A cold, deep swallow, and Zack finally lifted the scissors off the bathroom sink, hovering the twin blades over his flopping bangs. They almost looked like they were sagging, wilting… a pair of ears drooping at his sides.

“Always the puppy…” Angeal ruffled his hair, Zack’s cheeks flushing scarlet under his touch.

No!

Zack threw the memory aside, blue eyes straining, the cloying sweetness now drowned in salt and acid. He swallowed the memory and hoped he never spat it up again. The scissors were brought closer, taking a stretch of hair in its jaws.

Gaia… why were his hands quivering?

He did everything he could to steady them, everything in his power. Grappling with his own thoughts and denials and reasons in order to just… close the blades.

This wasn’t him anymore. He was not Zack the puppy, doe-eyed and wildly haired from Gongaga.

He’s been like this since he was four…

Angeal had died, by his own two hands. He was wading through blood, an entire ocean… Wutains, rebels, Genesis. Ash and snow falling from the sky.

He ran away from haircuts. He had always had,.. no one could change him.

He had changed himself. He was a monster…—

“Zack?”

The world snapped back into focus, all at once, his turmoil shattered by a sudden round of knocking. His eyes flickered to the mirror; the scissors were still waiting, floating, the wilting bangs pinioned under their grip but still uneaten. His cheeks were slick too, thin, glistening rivers spilling from Mako pools and mapping his face.

The front door creaked open, Gaia… Zack set down the pair of scissors and dried his tears, hoping the swollenness wasn’t too palpable.

“Zack? Are you here?”

He recognized the voice immediately, soft yet stern velvet. It did something in his chest… he just couldn’t discern in that second if it was annoyance or gratitude.

“Seph?” Zack slipped through the bathroom door, making his way through the narrow hallway and into the den.

Sephiroth was lingering by the couch, bristling slightly at the moniker, still alien to his ears, but the uneasiness soon bled out of him. He met his subordinate in the heart of the room.

“What’s up?” Zack tried to chirp, twitching the edges of his lips.

It must have been unnatural to some degree, because Sephiroth noticeably shifted, a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes. He stifled it though, and continued.

“We found this in the rec hall,” Sephiroth said quietly, reaching into his pockets and withdrawing a mound of aged, orange fur.

Zack’s eyes widened. “Muffin!” He regretted it as soon as it left it lips, but couldn’t control himself from eagerly swiping the dragon from Sephiroth’s hands, slamming it into his chest in fierce, apologetic protection. “I’m so sorry…!” he whispered into its crown, before lifting his gaze and locking with the warrior’s. His cheeks inflamed.

Oh Gaia, oh Gaia… he could just imagine it… someone finding Muffin under the table he had been sitting at, looking under his paw and finding his name stitched into it… No one knew Muffin existed—not one person. And now… oh Gaia… He almost groaned, if his throat wasn’t left so raw.

“You… you said ‘we?’” Zack’s cheeks refused to drain, hoping he could hide them in Muffin’s fur—which probably only made him look like more of a child. Emerald eyes were fixed on him, as veiled and cryptic as ever… judging him. Needled pupils sitting still in disdain.

Zack almost averted him gaze. Almost. He would have, if not for the fact that, miraculously, surreally, those icy green ponds thawed into something that Zack could only describe as a subtle embarrassment of their own.

“Actually… no,” Sephiroth admitted, “I found it, and saw your name was written.”

“…Oh.” Zack lowered Muffin below his nose, a gallon of tension filtering out of it. Maybe? So Sephiroth was the only one to know… but Sephiroth was the only the know.

“You… you didn’t get rid of him?”

The question seemed to catch the other off guard, enough for him to quirk an eyebrow. “It is not my place to do that. And… no. I didn’t.” His gaze drifted towards the plushie, ripping calmly, that same ghostly embarrassment bleeding back into his visage. “It… brought a smile to my face.”

Zack had to be dreaming. He had to. He would pinch himself awake and laugh at the idea of his covert toy making General Sephiroth smile.

“…For real?” was all he could bring himself to say, opting he might as well relish in the warmth of this warm, strange escape.

Then, Sephiroth’s frown twitched right in front of him. His lips slightly curving, cracking the numbness, a vague shadow of a smile gracing his features. “I was glad to see it.”

Glad…?

Zack was nonplussed, even if he was in no position to express it. He just held Muffin tighter, closer to his chest, staring into the same beady eyes he locked with when he was five years old. Still standing. Still soft. Still loved. Aged and tangled and threaded with a smile that had never faded away.

“…I’m glad you found him then.” Zack returned to his friend, smiling not feeling like such a strenuous thing anymore. “Thanks, Seph.”

There was a beat, Zack burying his chin back into his treasured toy… and lifted it again when he felt Sephiroth’s glove rustling through his hair. The movements were slow, awkward… but real. He let himself relax, sinking into solace for the first time in a long while.

“You won’t tell anyone about him… right, Seph?”

Sephiroth looked amused, withdrawing his hand. “Of course not.” He couldn’t help but notice the light still permeating from the bathroom, or how a trash can was placed just under the mirror.

“Did I interrupt something?” He did feel a pang of guilt at the idea; he had his own rituals regarding his appearance in the washroom, and admittedly was very bitter towards those who disturbed it.

Zack turned over his shoulder, nothing more than an idle glance. “Not at all,” he assured. “I just needed to clean that up.”

[yourdeepestfathoms]

No wait pls continue on that thought because I love werecreatures

okay okay so—

Vanessa becomes a wererabbit due to experimentation from Burntrap. probably injected her with something idk. she just IS a monster bunny now.

as a wererabbit she is a Very Big Girl, standing at a staggering nine feet. she’s also quite lanky, but she looks bigger because of all her fur, which is pure white, similar to the Vanny suit. do not be fooled, though—she is muscled as FUCK, to an unnatural degree, even. sometimes her body physically can’t take the strain of her muscles and the skin will literally split open. because of this, her fur is often matted with gross wound residue, whether it be blood or pus or discharge. and if you were to run your hands over her body, you could feel the scabbing beneath her pelt. also she’s got HUGE claws and even bigger teeth. and her beady red eyes are highkey terrifying.

she doesn’t have a full moon transformation or anything like that, but rather she will transform with the influence of Glitchtrap or if she’s too stressed out. she can also transform at will if she chooses, which she usually does not because she hates being this creature.

she also gets the traits of a rabbit! that means a heightened sense of smell, better hearing, and increased agility.

also sometimes her ears or tail will pop out and she has to frantically rush to hide them

[presidentbungus]

ok one last hc before I go to bed. medic has an alarmingly good nose for blood. not quite unnaturally so, but it's a close thing. if you come into his lab and you're not bleeding enough for him to smell it before he turns around you better at least have a broken bone. also he def licks the blood off his fingers when he's in the middle of an operation. half the time he doesn't even realize he's doing it until his patient goes doc what the fuck.

he has vampire Tendencies even if he isn’t one. I think part of why he enjoys invasive surgery so much is because he loves how the blood smells—he usually goes out of his way to do incisions even if they really aren’t required . also whenever he’s doing surgery he just gets the fucking blood EVERYWHERE. I dont think he’s particularly cleanly about it—ofc he goes over it with like a wet cloth or something after but I think basically everything in the infirmary at this point is stained some degree of red. Medic has to do his own laundry and is prohibited from mixing it with other people’s clothing because there’s so much fucking blood caked into it that it just comes off on everything else. and I think to some degree he likes the taste but he also just… isn’t paying attention. Thing on Fingers Get Thing Off Fingers and the sink’s across the room.

tenuouslt related but I think he’s sensitive about his what touches his hands overall—part of why he wears his gloves all the time. he likes the feeling of them squishing around inside people’s organs and stuff but like… surfaces that are a little too rough or a little too smooth or chalky or slightly damp or stringy or anything that sticks to his hands. I think that’s why he basically ONLY takes them off to do surgery

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Oh damn. Your drabble "Drowning" has given me IDEAS....

I can just see hero managing to stop villain from killing Supervillain, but Supervillain still being injured/ getting pneumonia from the water in his lungs... and how awkward it would be for hero to take care of someone who'd just tried to drown her.

This idea is fantastic! I hope that this was an ask to do it. If not, I apologize, but this was just such a great idea!

May get a little sad at the end (spoiler alert)

Drowning Part 2

Part 1

Warnings: concussion, CPR, death/killing mentions, descriptions of how someone was going to kill another (never acted upon), classic sick and delirious whumpee, sedatives mention, descriptions of medical setting and practices, mentions of loved ones death, pills (tylenol), hallucinations

~

Villain grabbed the knife, his fingers clutching the hilt until they glowed white. Supervillain was breathing heavily, yet he was still unconscious- lips parted and blue.

Hero also moved forward, her legs tensed and ready to pounce. The scene registered in her mind very quickly. The knife, the villain, and the heaving supervillain... blood and then the inevitable stop of breath.

It didn't have to be inevitable.

Hero rushed forward, grabbing a metal rod, and landed the blow directly to Villain's temple. He faltered, letting go of the knife and collapsing into Hero's awaiting arms.

"M Hhh," he breathed, bleeding head lolling in the crease of Hero's elbow. His eyes shifted from focused to unfocused in a matter of seconds, only to fluctuate back. Here flipped out her phone and called her medic.

"Hero! You alright?"

"Yeah I'm fine. Get to Supervillain's base. It's empty. Villain has a bad concussion, he's not entirely lucid right now..."

"Oh uh, um... I'm on my way." The line clicked.

Hero laid Villain against the wall, cupping his heavy head for a moment before tending to the unmoving supervillain. He wasn't breathing.

Hero quickly felt for a pulse and upon finding a soft thump-thump, she tilted his head to the side. Water immediately gushed out of his nose and mouth. He sputtered a little bit, but never woke.

Hero pressed her lips against Supervillain's after rolling his head back to the center. She breathed into his mouth four times, checked to see if he began to breathe. No.

She continued this. Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, check... breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, check... until the supervillain gasped for breath, choking and coughing out water and mucus.

Supervillain jerked himself forward, glancing at Hero to Villain and then back at Hero.

"H-" another coughing fit with more water. He started to gag, dry-heaving until tears spiked his eyes and nausea rose in his throat. When he was done, he scrambled to his feet and tumbled towards the open door to his base.

Hero returned to Villain's side and scooped her friend up. Medic wasn't there, so she decided to take him herself. Caressing his head, gently, she followed Supervillain outside and to her base.

The next day, Hero was walking along a sidewalk on her way home from visiting Villain in the hospital. It was a nice day, a great change from her near-death experience with Supervillain the day prior... Hero shuddered, trying not to think of the agonizingly cold water, the darkness lapping at her vision, knocking Villain out... the whole ordeal.

Knocking Villain out... Hero replayed the conversation she just had with her very ungrateful ex-frenenemy (apparently?). The half-dazed cusses and just plain rudeness from the bedridden patient were more than enough to make her feel annoyed. She saved Villain from committing an act that would have surely land him in jail- if not a mental facility. Especially the way the concussed villain talked about killing Supervillain. Apparently, Villain was going to slowly kill him with the knife, decorating major body parts with cuts and blood.

Hero sighed. That sadistic little turd that couldn't just walk away-

A groan.

Hero looked up to find herself walking in front of an alleyway. It was dark, if that's not a little too cliche, and eerily quite. Not even a stray cat knocked over a garbage can like in every classical alleyway scene.

Hero entered the alley stealthily, opening her holster and lying her hand over her gun. She looked behind every dumpster and every cardboard box. Finding nothing, she proceeded to leave, but two hands grabbed her mouth and throat.

Being yanked backwards sent a spark of adrenaline through Hero's veins. She turned and thrashed, but her attacker was unrelenting.

"Let me go!" Hero yelled when a large hand slipped away from her mouth. The other hand went away too. Pulling her gun out, Hero spun around, only to have a fist meet her face.

The impact startled her, but not as much as the body leaning heavily against her's.

The body heaved and gasped, heat radiating off its skin. Hero looked down and took in the features. She couldn't see a face, but it was obviously a guy. Hero dragged the man over to the only bare spot against the brick wall and leaned him aaginst it. She began to step away, only to realize that his head was resting against her shoulder.

"Hey," Hero mumured and grabbed the man's cheeks, holding him up, examining his face...

Hero nearly dropped the pale face.

It was Supervillain.

Also known as the man who tried to kill her.

Hero, for a brief second of primitive logic, contemplated leaving the feverish man to deal with himself. But guilt, and maybe a twinge of annoyance, drove her the complete opposite direction.

After all, she didn't just save him and give Villain a concussion only for him to die, right?

Yet as she scooped her attacker up, two portions of her brain- her sensible part and her empathetic part- played tug-of-war with each other. Drop him, bring him home, drop him, bring him home...

Of course the empathetic clump of cells won and she bridal-carried the shivering supervillain to her apartment.

She set Supervillain on her beige couch with a blanket strewn over his lap. He just had a cold right? She brought him some tylenol and a glass of water.

"Hey," she said softly, almost a whisper. Supervillain seemed so disconnected that she was afraid that she would startle him. His eyes were glassy and had an abnormal, faraway look.

Supervillain didn't reply, or look at Hero. His gaze was fixated on a corner of the living room.

Then, like a bomb suddenly going off, he started to cough.

He coughed until blood, water and mucus gushed from his mouth. He hacked it up like a waterfall. Hero stood up, linked her hands under his shoulders and hauled him into a better sitting position.

He coughed until he was sobbing, screaming. He fell back against the cushions, sputtering and crying, with tears streaming down his face. Each breath seemed to be a workout- shaky and shallow. He never made eye contact with Hero. Just stared ahead, coughing and crying.

"Are you okay?" Hero asked, loudly, but she still doubted the sick supervillain heard her. She placed a hand against his back, rubbing circles. It was just a cold- she was certain.

But he was so hot.

So unnaturally hot.

Hero frowned and went to grab a thermometer. She placed it against Supervillain's lips, but he didn't open them.

"Come on now," she coaxed gingerly and rubbed his flushed cheeks. She sighed. She didn't even need to know the temperature to know that the sick man infront of her had a fever.

Supervillain parted his mouth open and allowed the pointed metal edge to find a home under his tongue. He tried to move it around, but his resolve was too weak. Hero held it there until it beeped. 102.9

102.9 degrees fahrenheit. Nearly 103 degrees...

"Oh gosh," Hero exclaimed and dumped a couple tablets out of the tylenol bottle. She coaxed them onto Supervillain's bacteria-lidden tongue and pressed the glass of water against his bottom lip.

"Drink," she whispered. Supervillain obeyed and took a sip just big enough to force the pills down.

"Good job," she praised and lowered Supervillain down. Only for him to start coughing again.

"Take it easy, honey," she murmured. Honey? Where did that come from? Come on Hero, she scolded herself. The guy just tried to drown you the other day; you don't have to make this even more awkward or embarrassing.

Supervillain leaned into her. His firey body nearly made Hero begin to sweat. His eyelids drooped, breaths slowed, and soon he was alseep in her arms.

Hero knelt there by the armrest, alone with her intense thoughts. She rubbed his moist hair, allowing her nails to scratch at his scalp. Even alseep, she hoped it gave some comfort.

Not that he exactly deserved comfort. Villain was in a hospital bed, sleeping off sedatives and painkillers greedily and dealing with a major concussion. She thought of the grim night the doctors and her shared. Restraining a delirious villain, the MRI, all the tests... and then finally given the clear to inject a moderate sedative dose to help him sleep.

But Hero still gave the undeserved comfort. Maybe she was too empathetic, too caring and generous for her own good, but that matter could be taken care of another day.

Supervillain awoke a few hours later to Hero'd strawberry smelling hair resting against the top of his head. Her arms dangled across his chest as if she was giving him a hug from behind. She fell alseep mid-hug.

Of course, the supervillain did not register this interaction as that. He imagined it more as encompassing tendrils of ivy tying him down to a foreign object. He squirmed, trying to break free of Mother Nature's restraints, but he was too sick, too weak, and too helpless to do much more than move around.

Hero then woke up also, pulling her arms- the so-called vines- off the terrified supervillain's body.

"Good morning," she yawned and pressed a hand against her ward's forehead. Supervillain didn't seem to know what to do. He wavered between pushing forward into the hand- or the frustratingly threatening boulder to him- or pulling away. He chose the later, jerking away only to send a rush of mind reeling dizziness through his head.

He swayed, or he thought he did for he was still lying against the couch as if a magnetic force attached him to it. Reaching out weakly to grab Hero's hands, he closed his eyes.

"You are so sick," Hero cooed, her voice a mixture of both anxiety and tranquility. Supervillain gripped her tighter and tried to pull himself up to her.

"Shh, shh," Hero whispered. "Sleep."

Supervillain seemed like he nodded. Or was it due to him loosening up as he fell asleep again? Hero didn't know, nor cared.

She stood up and laid a blanket over Supervillain before heading into the kitchen to make a bland chicken soup and a small bowl of rice.

After the meal was done, about thirty minutes later, Hero returned to Supervillain on the couch with a portable plastic table and the food. She propped the still sleeping man into a sitting position before awakening him.

Supervillain blearily opened his eyes, blinked, and settled his gaze on Hero's eyes. He twitched his head upwards, but that was all. Hero didn't even think he noticed the steaming food on the table beside him.

"Want to eat?" She asked, more to herself than anyone. Supervillain looked at her with those wide, brown eyes like he did right before he attempted to drown her.

"Mnh," Supervillain groaned. "M chest hurts."

"Your chest hurts?"

"Mhm."

Hero tentatively lifted his shirt, but the feverish man didn't seem to care, or realize the possible intimate gesture.

"Let's take this off, shall we?"

Supervillain nodded, which made Hero nervous. Why was he being so compliant?

Nevertheless, she striped his shirt off and examined his ribcage. She had him take a couple deep breaths, but the movement seemed to exhaust him further. His ribs seemed a bit swollen, but nothing was broken.

Then a horrid realization dawned on her.

He had pneumonia. Most likely due to the water still festering in his lungs.

"Ooookay," Hero breathed. She would deal with that later, maybe call Medic- no, no one could know that she was housing the Man of Terrors- but first she had to get some food into Supervillain's stomach.

So she spooned, mouthful by mouthful into Supervillain's parched mouth slowly. She cleaned any broth dripping down his chin with a washcloth.

After he finished eating, Supervillain was so exhausted that he nearly fell alseep with his neck bent awkwardly. Hero readjusted him to a laying position, but elevated him slightly to ease his ragged breathing.

Pneumonia.

That would explain the harsh breathing and the daunting fever. Gosh, was he sick and so sudden too. Hero sat next to Supervillain, rubbing his hair back from his sweaty forehead like a caretaker.

Even though it was awkward, given the circumstances and past events, Hero stayed with him all night. Easing his pain, feeding him small bits of rice and soup, taking off blankets and putting them back on, wet washcloths and fans. Sometimes she would doze off on his chest, but never for long.

Whatever connection and trust built up between the two that night was unbelievable. Extraordinary, even. But still, nothing, not even with the newfound relationship, prepared Hero for the one simple and innocent yet insanely heartbreaking word that sickly Supervillain uttered.

"Mother?" He squeaked, looking up at Hero with eyes so full of love and relief that they looked about to burst. Hero felt her heart break, shattered to a million pieces as her guest extended his hand to her face.

"Am I in heaven?" He asked in such a childish manner. He looked around, but frowned at his surroundings. "Mother? You're dead right? Am I dead too?" The previous chirpy voice lowered to Supervillain's desolate montone.

Hero didn't know what to say, for Supervillain gazed at her with all the intent he could physically muster.

She could give into the hallucination and play along, but guilt would eat her alive. But, she thought it rude to just blatantly say, "No. You're mother is dead. It's me, Hero."

Supervillain whimpered, chin trembling as he began to cry. Hero winced, but then realized:

She said those words outloud and now she had a grieving, delirious, and sick supervillain to tend to. Great, just great.

[kissofthemuses]

Introducing: Moira

Name: Moira Cauldwyn

Age: 27

Species: Witch

Sexuality: Bisexual

Fandom: Fandomless

Bio & Verses:

Moira comes from an old family of witches. But, until she hadn’t known anything about that until she was 16. That was when she started to come into her magic, magic she had never known ran in her blood. Moira’s mother had left the craft, let the magic within her wither until it had all but died- she’d scoffed at the tales of the women in their family, the stories of spells and miracles. Moira’s mother was logical woman, who believed in science and what could be proven, not fairy stories and old wives’ tales.

But magic had a way of creeping into one’s life and, when Moira came in to her own, it was like the power her mother had wasted had coiled itself within Moira, making her stronger than any of her living relatives (that she’d never met). Despite the power she’d developed- the little rhyme-like spells that came to her unbidden, the dreams and small precognitions- Moira didn’t tell her mother.

She would forever wonder if she had told her mother, if she’d asked about these strange powers, would her mother still be alive?

It hadn’t even been a year after she’d turned 16 that her world was turned upside down. She’d been out at a party that night, and had come home well after curfew, just a little intoxicated. As she crept into the living room, she saw her mother’s shadowed form on the couch, Moira had assumed she was about to be grounded. But, when the woman didn’t move or speak, Moira flicked the light on, confused, only to see the ghastly sight of her mother’s murdered body.

Everything happened so fast after that. Moira found herself suddenly living with an aunt she’d never met. An aunt, it turned out, that hadn’t turned her back on her power. She’d filled Moira in on their power, their family history and, after much prodding, the truth behind her mother’s death: Moira’s power had been so strong that it was beacon for those that would do the witches harm.

Moira had thrown herself into the study of the craft after that, learning to wield her power to protect herself and to destroy her enemies. She had even dedicated much of her time looking for ways to communicate with her mother and, maybe even bring her back. It was over a year before she found any solid lead on actually bringing her mother back- it was labeled as a dark, unnatural magic that went against the very nature of the universe. But, Moira didn’t care. She had to try.

And try she did, calling her mother’s spirit back into the world of the living, to coax it into a new body. But it all went wrong. Whether it was the shell that was wrong or the ripping of the spirit from its resting place that did it, the mother that Moira had tried to bring back was gone, and in it’s place was something twisted and cruel. And it was only with the help of her aunt that Moira was able to defeat it.

When confronted about why she would even attempt such a dark and unnatural thing, Moira was unrepentant. She had to try. With Moira, apparently, unwilling to see such things as wrong, her aunt wouldn’t allow her to keep living under her roof.

So, Moira was on her own from that day onward. She continued to study the craft, dabbling in both sides of it, though, to her, magic was just magic and it could all be used for good or for ill. And if someone hurt her? Well, she wouldn’t mind hurting them right back.

After high school Moira perused degrees in parapsychology and folklore with the intent on teaching classes on parapsychology and the history of witchcraft, though very few believe in any of it, and even fewer still would ever believe that their teacher is an actual witch. She also makes money by giving spiritual and astrology readings.

Verses:

Harry Potter: Moira is a ravenclaw. She has an unending curiosity about all types of magic, even the darker topics. She believes that even "dark" magic can be used for good. She is definitely a person who loves pushing the limits of magic and seeing what it can do. And doesn't often stop to consider the ethics of it.

After leaving Hogwarts, Moira became an Unspeakable, working in Department of Mysteries section of the Ministry. She may or may not be secretly studying necromancy.

Grishaverse: Moira is a grisha heartrender who does what she can to survive in the Wandering Isle. She’s powerful and skilled at what she does, having learned how to both heal and break the body. She’s known by those around as the Witch of Fells, so name for the area she called home. She was content there, doing a good turn to those that did her one and ill to anyone who tried to do  her harm. That was, until the Ravkan 2nd army came knocking, trying to get her to join their ranks. At first, Moira turned them away, stating that she could handle herself just fine. And she could. But, as time past and more talk of this Grisha army reached her, Moira grew curious. She left her little cottage and began the journey to see this Little Palace and it’s Grisha army for herself.