#i know nothing about necromancy

[mtvcribbage]

mercymorn and cristabel. cristabel and mercymorn. much to think about hm.

[fingertipsmp3]

Lads I’m rereading GtN and I’m thinking too much about this line from Sister Glaurica

What does she know??!

[pbaintthetb]

was anybody going to tell me that the first section of my junior fic was already at 7k words, or was I supposed to find that out for myself?

[punkrockgrantaire]

Not to be like “wish this had more narrative weight” about the wish-it-had-more-narrative-weight game but imagine if Dorian being an actual necromancer was at all mentioned or explored

[ameriel]

au week 3 | kumo x the locked tomb au

alt/kumo og colours under the cut!!!

[windupaidoneus]

thinking back on when i finished shb & it took me like a whole week to be able to put into words how i felt abt emet & i wasnt able to think about literally anything else in that time. man. this shit is crazy. & then i wrote a long ass fucking essay on hildegarde's feelings throughout the expansion. man. ohhhh man. i need to replay it lest i become ungovernable

[fellsilver]

Honestly . . . my wild theory is that Laeral bearing Maura was an ill-fated attempt on My.st.ra's part to broker an alliance with Myr.kul as she did with Mielikki via Dove marrying Florin and bearing Azalar.

[twi-liight]

Hi! I suffer from Baldur's Gate brainrot. I just stumbled upon your blog and love your writing! Could you do some Astarion, Gale and Karlach headcanons for taking care of Tav after they're badly injured in battle?

Reckless Attack ❣

Grieve, weep, and agonize over a corpse - but know that death is never final in Faerun. The burden of injuries will instead always be present: pain is eternal, no matter how numb. ❥ Astarion/Tav, Gale/Tav, Karlach/Tav. ❥ TW: Descriptive mentions of injuries and gore. ❥ Act 2 spoilers. ❥ They/them pronouns for Tav. ❥ Tav is the nickname for the reader/oc insert. Their real name is up to you!

An Absolutist cult has gathered deep in the bowels of the forests of Rivington. Nothing out of the ordinary... Other than the sheer numbers they possess, creating a dense population of Absolute extremists gathered in stone ruins.

Adventuring parties that dare to end their machinations perished slowly and painfully. Their corpses - what is left of them - are displayed pierced from the gnarled branches of the trees, where they bleed out on the forest ground.

Tav, Astarion, Gale, and Karlach had a plan: throw a barrel full of smoke bombs into the middle of the ruins, firebolt, and profit. Except things didn’t go according to plan (they never do). That barrel was supposed to be at their rendezvous point, but the cultists found it before they did and thought it a gift from their Goddess.

Trapped in hiding, Tav decided to do what they do best: attack.

A potent necromancy curse was successfully cast on Tav, negating any healing spells thrown their way.

Well.

Fuck.

ASTARION

"As always, you refuse to listen to me. And now look at you: a mess. What did I say about running afool to the vanguard?" Astarion does not wait for their response. “Don't do it. It is smarter to be in the shadows in this instance. And what did you do? Ran alone into a quarry of cultists with no sense of self-preservation!”

Anger, pure anger, is present in his voice, sharpening his typical melodic lilt into daggers. If he cared about the present company - Shadowheart, Halsin, and Gale crowded into a tent, surrounding Tav upon their cot - it is nonexistent in his wine-red eyes. They could get lost in those bloody depths for hours. But not now. Not when seething rage roils off of his body like a cloud of darkness.

They look away.

"Nothing to say for yourself, darling?” he mocks. Astarion’s visage twists into a sneer, sharply turning his face away from them. He finds an unused rag, wets it, wrings it of excess water, and then moves past Shadowheart. “Allow me,” he murmurs to her, gentler.

Shadowheart’s inquisitive green eyes understand the depth of the situation immediately. She sighs, clearly annoyed he has taken over her job, but is dissuaded by Astarion’s next string of words: “I’ll clean them up. Magic and healing and all that wonderful nonsense are not necessarily my area of expertise. A firebolt here and there, surely, but I wouldn’t know where to begin with a curse that... Negates healing magic.”

“Sure,” Shadowheart replies, eyes flicking to Tav. Worry is evident over her features. Worry hangs heavy around everyone. Emerging out of battles victorious and grievously injured is commonplace; nothing a mass healing word couldn't fix along with a good night’s rest. Open wounds would be closed scars, ailments would be cured, and broken bones would be unbroken. Rinse and repeat.

This time, it is different.

They, and they alone, were cursed with a necromancy spell that makes all healing magic useless to their wounds.

Their wounds are appalling: Broken ribs evident with the pain swelling in their chest and labored breathing, purple and black blotchy bruises from the hammer blows they took to the shoulder, an open laceration across their chest, their ankle snapped in two, burns on their left leg crawling up their thigh. Blood all over their face from their own and from the enemies they felled.

“Hey, it’s fine,” they wheeze out. "Nothing I can't handle. The cultists are down and dead and buried - everything else can come after."

Hesitantly, Gale opens his mouth to reply, but is abruptly cut off by Astarion snapping out: "No."

"No," they echo. Their brows furrow.

"What a saint you are," Astarion snarls. His lips are down-turned, fangs bared as he speaks, but his ministrations upon their face are soothing. Gently, he rubs off the blood with a cool washcloth, eyes focusing on the task at hand as he cannot bear to look at them.

"Throwing yourself into the heat of battle like that, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Tell me, my dear, do you enjoy watching rational fly past you when you make your impulsive decisions?"

They flush with humiliation and hurt. Broken and battered, they dig their elbow into the cot to prop themselves up and face Astarion head-on, but Halsin presses a hand into their shoulder and pushes them down.

Fuck. Their head spins in circles.

"You're one to talk. Impulsivity is your middle name; you said yourself that planning is not your forte." Even raising their voice hurts but they do it anyway. Their eyes, threatening to slip into oblivion, flood with frustrated tears. "What the fuck is your problem, Astarion?"

"Must I really spell it out for you, sweetheart? You go around, telling everyone exactly what they need to hear. You tell them they aren't alone. That you will help them, that you will ensure they see the future that they want." The words are venom: petty and spiteful and yearning to be understood. "You," Astarion hisses out, "are so blind."

Tempers rising to fever pitch, Halsin tenses from his spot at the foot of the cot. From the corner of Tav's eye, they see Gale murmur something to him, something like, Let this play out. Astarion would never hurt them.

"I am the only one who will take the first step!" Tav cries. The words explode out of their broken chest faster than they realize, flying like an arrow straight toward Astarion's unbeating heart. "I risk my life - every day - for all of YOU! For all the people that need me! For all that I am because-"

"Because what?" He taunts. "Because it is the right thing to do? Look at yourself, Tav! You are on death's door if not for everyone in this room!"

"Because no one else will do it! Not anyone in this damn camp cares enough to- to help the people we could-" They cough violently, but they slam their elbows into the cot to prop themselves up. No one stops them this time as they meet Astarion's burning eyes. "No one cares but ME-"

"WE care about you!" Louder. Vicious. Astarion's voice splits in the air in two in one fell swoop, striking them down like lightning into silence.

He's breathing heavily, panting, as if exhausted. The adrenaline pumping in his veins is begging him to swoop Tav up and run away with them. Away from all of this bullshit and into hiding within the shadows. Maybe the Underdark. Maybe the Shadowcursed Lands. They can descend into madness together.

At least there, they will be safe.

"I care about you," Astarion chokes out before he can stop himself. "More than anything. Do you know that? I hope you know that."

Their mouth forms the words to reply, Of course I do, but it doesn't leave their throat. Instead, it stays stuck there like a fluttering butterfly, forced into silence. It hurts to speak. It hurts to talk. It hurts to see him like this.

He calls out their name so quietly it could have been a trick of the wind.

"Astarion," they plead.

He shakes his head, stubborn and unconvinced. "You don't owe these people anything. You certainly do not owe them your life for their burdens. I," he breathes out, voice as shaky as a leaf in the wind. He screws his eyes shut and clenches his fist around the rag, where their blood stains his palm.

"I almost lost the sun of my life today."

When Astarion opens his eyes, they are steeled with resilience and fury as they gaze into theirs. It is hypnotic. It is lonely. They yearn to comfort him.

"It will not happen again."

GALE

"Easy," Gale murmurs, a strong arm laying them down in his tent. Soft blankets and pillows meet their back, and the cushy grass beneath makes for a cool and comforting sleep. Their breath stutters, but Gale gazes at them so fondly as he pushes their hair from their face that the pain eases.

He does not miss their labored breathing. "Shhh shh shh. I've got you. Just focus on me."

His thumb lingers on the swell of their cheek. His eyes flutter close. A gentle glow of purple surrounds him, and eventually, that gentleness extends to Tav. The agonizing, piercing sensation in their chest numbs into a cool, muted nothingness. They gasp - then exhale in relief, slower than their panicky, short breaths from before.

"That's it," he encourages. "Well done, my love. How are you feeling?"

"So-so," they reply. Their voice aches and croaks, but for some reason, it makes Gale smile.

Oh no. He knows that look.

They study his handsome, tired face, looking for any signs of alarm. Is he hungry? Does he need to feed on another artefact? Was there an envoy telling them they missed another Absolutist hideout? Did they miss something? Did they do something wrong?

No. Nope. "Enough of that." He takes their hand, kisses their knuckles, then sighs. "You're the last person who should be worrying about someone. Such a pest, hm? Always buzzing around me like I'm seconds away from disappearing in front of your eyes..."

"You are," they say. Their brows furrow, and they pant out, "The-- your burden to carry, the--"

"The orb, I know. I know." His heart twists. It aches. He failed Mystra before and that was painful. But this is another subject entirely; it couldn't come close. Watching sheer heartbreak in their expression because of him? Oh, Goddess forgive him, he has failed them.

Gale can scarcely celebrate his victory, too. He undid the damned curse that affected Tav's ability to receive magic. The necromancy spell was so potent that Tav rejected any healing spells thrown at them. Late into the hours of experimentation, he, Halsin, and Shadowheart considered allowing the effects to wither and die rather than exterminating it outright. It was Jaheira who told them it would be inefficient, because how long would they have to wait in camp while Tav rode out the effects of the curse? Ideally? Hours. But days? Weeks? Months?

He spent the long night following and feeling out the curse with the Weave. It was a complicated hex - a tangled knot of magic that had to be unwoven carefully, thread by thread. Every connotation, every intent was traced back to the heart of the curse, and he followed it with abandon.

"I'm sorry for all the trouble, then," they whisper.

"You should be," he jests. "Nearly made my heart collapse, seeing you like that."

The image is still burned into his mind. He can't stop thinking about it. His mortality has always been a dreadful afterthought pushed into the further recesses of his tadpole-addled brain, but was he so taken with Tav that he never realized how mortal they were, too?

No. No. Gale tightens his grip on their hand, giving them a comforting squeeze as they breathe in and out, in and out. It's not that he never realized how susceptible they are to death and danger. He just never wanted to confront it.

"You are changing the very premise of my life," he says softly. An exasperated chuckle leaves him as he shakes his head, adding, "as always. I don't know what I would have done if I actually lost you, back there." What wouldn't I do? "No scrolls of revivifies, no Withers to bring you back. I wouldn't be able to accept it."

He understands Ketheric Thorm all too well, now.

"Come here," they whisper. Gale lets their hands press into the back of his head. He thinks, absently, that he would let them do much of anything. In their care, he is no grand wizard with a plethora of achievements under his belt. No. He is as humble as the Weave itself, and their hands compose music and art for him to simply bear witness to.

They rest his head upon their chest, where his ear can listen to the comforting sound of their beating heart.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud thud.

"Good night, my love," Gale says, when their breathing evens and they have finally fallen into peaceful slumber. He does not sleep at all.

KARLACH

"Oh gods. Oh gods!" Karlach clasps Tav's left hand between hers, holding tightly and vowing to never let go. Their blood stains her hand and chest and clothes. It's everywhere. Sickly sweet and sticky, drawing all of her attention from the room to the sensation of it dripping down her skin.

They've lost so much blood. It's nauseating, like an unsettling reality has just settled in her stomach.

"Tav!" She exclaims, helpless and pathetic. "Why did you do that, you big idiot? You seriously could have gotten killed out there, why-- why aren't you..."

Responding? Where are their quips, their sass, their brightness she fell so fast and hard for? Tav lays there upon the cot, broken and battered. Karlach has seen the remains of her enemies after she has slaughtered them and has barely flinched. She can barely stomach the sight of them bloodied, bones twisted in the wrong way, bruises so purple they're as black as a chasm.

All they can do is breathe. Their eyes focus distantly above them to the roof of the tent, but nothing else.

Panic seizes her faster than she can control it. "Are they breathing?! Are they going to survive this?! Fuck," she growls, running a frustrated hand through her dark hair, matted with blood. "I should have made those sons of bitches suffer."

"Karlach," Shadowheart says, firm but gentle, her hands bloody too as she applied pressure down on Tav's wounds, "it was important that you returned them to camp as fast as you did. Sometimes, we do not have the luxuries to let our enemies die in pain."

Right. Right. Karlach watched an Absolutist barbarian slam his warhammer into Tav's back. Once to knock them down. Twice to keep them plastered on the ground. Once more to keep them unconscious. She saw red, then: the rage she slipped into boiled her veins so hot, the howl she let out sent her surroundings enemies into a frightened frenzy. She hacked her great axe into the barbarian over and over and over until he was nothing but a bloodied pulp of a man, more gore than flesh.

She scooped Tav up from the ground. Karlach never let anyone else touch them. She snarled and snapped at the others who tried to come too close and dead sprinted as fast as she could back to camp.

She heard their choked sobs of pain in her arms. They choked out her name, and Karlach couldn't offer them much of anything other than an, "We're going home, bubs, just hang on. 'Kay? You just focus on me."

"Can I stay here?" She begs Shadowheart. "I won't get in the way. Just let me hold their hand, please."

Shadowheart exchanges a conflicted glance at Halsin. He nods, and she sighs. "Fine," she says. "But - I need you to stand to the side for now. You can hold their hand after we're done figuring out how to undo this curse."

"A fine specimen of a curse, really," Gale adds, his hand curled under his chin. "I'm almost impressed."

"I would be too," huffs Shadowheart, "if our reckless leader wasn't caught up in this mess. Really, what were you thinking?"

"Right?" Karlach shoves off into the corner of the tent, doing her best to keep herself as small and as out-of-the-way as possible. Tears flood her eyes, and she chokes out, "Of all the things to do, why did it have to be that? I thought you said you trusted me! To have your back! I have your back, don't I? Don't I?"

"Of course you do," Halsin croons. He hooks his finger into a bottle of salve, and spreads it on Tav's burns. Tav visibly winces and tenses, whimpering in pain.

"Stop whatever you're doing right now!" Karlach wails. "You're hurting them! I'll kill you, Halsin, I swear it!"

Gale exchanges a look with Shadowheart. He ponders deeply for a moment as Karlach sobs devastatingly behind them. He opens his mouth, then shuts it promptly.

"Just say it," Shadowheart urges impatiently.

"We should play a game," he suggests. "The quiet game."

"No way," Karlach hiccups. "I'm dogshit at that game. Anyway, focus on Tav or I'll gut you, seriously."

❥ Additional links: kofi | ao3

[catilinas]

lucan, pharsalia 6.719-25, 6.762-70, 6.820-7 trans. a.s. kline / hadestown obcr, way down hadestown (reprise) / tamsyn muir, gideon the ninth / richard siken, the language of birds / lucan, pharsalia 9.980-6 trans. a.s. kline

poetic immortality (this is a threat)

[louloulemons-posts]

heyyy. i saw your taking logan fics. do you think you can write a fic of logan and reader but she’s very girly and bimbo like? thank you 🩷

Claws and Frills

wolverine x fem!reader

(x-men wolverine, he’s a big boy)

summary : At first Logan didn’t know how to take you, but now your the first person he finds when he returns to the mansion.

word count : 0.8k

warnings : not proofread, fluffy, petnames (reader calls logan kitty and the famous bub), readers a necromancer, mentions of violence, blood and killing, readers not really described - only her outfit , hanks a bit of a dick, very very sweet, no established relationship.

~ / / / * \ \ \ ~

At first Logan didn’t know how to take you, you were unlike anyone he’d ever met. Cooing that Charles had adopted a pet ‘Kitty-cat’ when you first met one another.

It had taken him a few months to realise, you weren’t being condescending, you were truly that sweet and slightly ditzy. Saying that you had the gift of necromancy, controlling those who had passed, along with their powers if they were mutant.

Logan strolled outside of the mansion finding you, lay on your stomach reading a book, a soft lilac blanket beneath you.

A pink dress and short white cardigan hug your figure, as your pink converse lay discarded beside you, showing your white frilly socks.

“Hey Bub,” the man called out, walking over to you. With a grin you turned to him, “Kitty, come sit,” Scooting over to make room for his larger figure, the smile never left your lips.

With a soft groan he sat down next to you, laying back, hands behind his head. “How was your mission?” you asked, placing your book to the side to have your full focus on the man beside you.

With a shrug he spoke, “Went well, stopped the guys.”

“Any blood spilled?” You questioned, head cocked. “Less than last time.”

“And you?”

“Me?” Logan pulled his sunglasses down to rest on his nose, so he could meet your eyes with his own dark ones. “Did any of your blood get spilt?”

“Nothing I couldn’t heal from Bub.”

“Logan you promised-“

“Sometimes it can be helped,” he cut you off, “I did everything I could to be safe and come back to you in one piece, and look here I am.”

He motioned to his long body, dressed in a flannel, unsurprising, a pair of jeans a boots. “Well even if they killed you, you couldn’t be rid of me.”

He laughed, “You’re awful.” With a pout, you sat up on your knees, “What? I have to use my freaky-deaky powers at some point!”

“Freaky-deaky? Is that the technical term?” He smirked. With a groan you spoke, “Don’t, you sound like Hank.”

Logan’s face went serious, “What’s he said to you?” He was ready to shred that blue asshole to pieces for making you feel insecure.

“Nothing, he actually apologised. Charles told him he’d upset me. I mean I know I’m not the smartest sometimes,” Logan tried to cut you off, but you didn’t let him.

“But, I’m not stupid, we actually spent a lot of time talking about, neuroscience. Just because I’m not a total badass like Storm or Jean doesn’t mean I’m an awful hero, I just …” You sighed.

“What Bub?” Logan pushed himself up so you sat face to face. “I just don’t want to stop being myself, and my… gift already makes me feel like I have too.

“Maybe I was given the wrong one, would have been better if I could control plants or I don’t know, talk to animals.”

Logan smiled, pulling a cigar out of his pocket, which you snatched away without a second thought. If it was anyone else, his claws would be out, but it was you.

“Your power doesn’t define you, you know that right? You’re you. You’re sweet and kind, and anyone or anything you’ve controlled with your powers has been as respectful as you can make it.”

“But I’ve killed.”

“And you’ve saved.”

“But-“

“Bub, you’re good, and Hank isn’t a people person, he just talks sometimes. Nobody is a special or as badass as you, I promise.”

“Not even you?”

He titled his head, thinking for a moment, “I might be a close second.”

“Third, Erik’s more scary than you … and Jean oh and Scott-“ he put a hand over your mouth.

You couldn’t help but smile against it, causing his lips to twitch upwards. He pulled his palm away, “Thank you Kitty.”

“Never have to thank me, you know that.” Leaning forward you placed a soft kiss on his cheek, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You really are my favourite person, you know that?”

“You’re crazy,” he said making you laugh, arms coming round your waist, “But you’re my favourite too.”

Pulling away you stroked his face gently, “You’re a good man, you know that right?”

“You tell me most days. Now read to me,” he said, falling onto his back, hands going back behind his head.

Crossing your knees, you sat beside Logans figure, his eyes falling closed. One of his hands moving to stroke your leg softly. “What are we reading?”

With a smirk you spoke, “Pride and Prejudice.”

Logan groaned, “Again?!”

“Hush Kitty.”

And hush he did, listening to your soft voice hand never leaving your leg. Remaining on that soft blanket with you, until the sun began to set and the stars rise.

~ / / / * \ \ \ ~

Thank you so much for reading!

i honestly can’t believe i’ve never done a logan fic but deadpool 3 brought back my obsession big time.

I hope you enjoyed.

Please leave any requests 🫶🏻

[doufudanshi]

ON GHOSTS AND DEMONS: Wei Wuxian's "demonic" cultivation?

There are a few big misconceptions I have repeatedly seen in English-speaking fandom about things that are fundamental to the story of MDZS. One of them is this—

Wei Wuxian is not a demonic cultivator.

To prove this, let's take a deep dive into the original Chinese text of MDZS.

(Adapted from my original gdoc posted on Twitter on May 27, 2022. All translations my own unless otherwise stated.)

Demon vs. ghost

Let's start from the very basics. In addition to orthodox cultivation using spiritual energy and a golden core, there are two other forms of cultivation that are mentioned in the novel:

魔道 (mó dào), or “demon cultivation/path.”

鬼道 (guǐ dào), or “ghost cultivation/path.”

To be clear, 魔 mo "demons" and 鬼 gui "ghosts" (and thus their respective cultivation/paths) are not interchangeable because of the in-universe worldbuilding within MDZS. Using the characters in the term ��魔鬼怪 "monsters," MXTX created four distinct categories of beings, each of which has a strict definition in the novel. From chapter 4 (jjwxc ch 13):

妖者非人之活物所化; 魔者生人所化; 鬼者死者所化; 怪者非人之死物所化。 Yāo (妖) are transformed from non-human living beings; mó (魔) are transformed from living people; guǐ (鬼) are transformed from the deceased; guài (怪) are transformed from non-human dead beings.

And of course, WWX hoards all the ghost-type pokemon monsters at the Phoenix Mountain tournament, and he only exerts control over corpses, spirits, and the like (aka people who have already died). (As opposed to Xue Yang, who appears to have been actively trying to make 魔 "demons" out of living people with those "living corpses" of his, perhaps.) (And, ironically, in order to avoid showing necromancy / zombies on screen, CQL technically does show WWX practicing demon cultivation because everyone is "supposedly alive" even when they're corpses? Which is, funnily enough, far worse morally in the MDZS universe, lol.)

So, intuitively at least, we know that WWX must be practicing ghost cultivation—now let's look at some concrete examples from the book.

Running the numbers

1) 魔道 (mó dào) means “demon cultivation.” As such, it must use living humans.

魔道 appears one (1) time in the novel.

Yes, once. The only time it appears is in the term 魔道祖师 modao zushi, or the namesake of the novel, in chapter 2. This is a title the general public has given him through rumors:

魏无羡好歹也被人叫了这么多年无上邪尊啦、魔道祖师啦之类的称号，这种一看就知道不是什么好东西的阵法，他自然了如指掌。 Wei Wuxian wasn’t called titles like “The Evil Overlord,” “The Founder of Demon Cultivation,” and so on over the years by others for nothing—he knew these sorts of obviously shady formations like the back of his hand.

2) 鬼道 (guǐ dào) means “ghost cultivation.” As such, it must use dead humans. 

鬼道 appears 12 times in the novel.

Here is the first instance that 鬼道 appears, which I believe is the first time Wei Wuxian's method of cultivation is properly introduced. From chapter 3 (jjwxc ch 8):

蓝忘机 […] 对魏无羡修鬼道一事极不认可。 Lan Wangji […] had never approved of the fact that Wei Wuxian practiced ghost cultivation.

Here's another quote from chapter 15 (jjwxc ch 71) for funsies:

蓝忘机看着他，似乎一眼就看出他只是随口敷衍，吸了一口气，道：“魏婴。” Lan Wangji looked at him as if he saw through his half-hearted bluff. He took in a breath, then said, “Wei Ying.” 他执拗地道：“鬼道损身，损心性。” He stubbornly continued, “Ghost cultivation harms one’s body, and harms one’s nature.”

3) 邪魔歪道 (xiemowaidao) means heretical path/immoral methods/evil practices/underhanded means/etc—e.g., lying, cheating, stealing, bribery, and so on.

It appears ~24 times in the novel.

I mention this last term because it is often used to refer to Wei Wuxian's cultivation, but as a pejorative. Every instance of 邪魔歪道 is said by or to quote someone looking down upon Wei Wuxian’s cultivation (Jin Zixun, Jin Ling, etc.) and referring to it derogatorily, whereas every instance of 鬼道 guidao/ghost dao is said by someone discussing it neutrally and/or factually (Lan Jingyi, Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian himself, random cultivators at discussion conferences, the narration, etc.). Here is a pertinent example with Jin Ling (derogatory) and Lan Jingyi (neutral) in chapter 9 (jjwxc ch 43):

金凌怒道：“是在谈论薛洋，我说的不对吗？薛洋干了什么？他是个禽兽不如的人渣，魏婴比他更让人恶心！什么叫‘不能一概而论’？这种邪魔歪道留在世上就是祸害，就是该统统都杀光，死光，灭绝！” “We are discussing Xue Yang,” Jin Ling said angrily. “Am I wrong? What did Xue Yang do? He’s scum that’s lower than a beast, and Wei Ying is even more disgusting than him! What do you mean ‘don’t make sweeping generalizations?’ As long as those practicing this kind of demoniac, heretical path are alive, they’ll continue to bring disaster. We should slaughter all of them, kill all of them, annihilate them once and for all!” 温宁动了动，魏无羡摆手示意他静止。只听蓝景仪也加入了，嚷道：“你发这么大火干什么？思追又没说魏无羡不该杀，他只是说修鬼道的也不一定全都是薛洋这种人，你有必要乱摔东西吗？那个我还没吃呢……” Wen Ning shuffled around. Wei Wuxian gestured at him to stay still, only to hear Lan Jingyi also cut in loudly, “Why are you getting so riled up? It’s not like Sizhui said Wei Wuxian shouldn’t have been killed. All he said was that people who practice ghost cultivation aren’t necessarily all like Xue Yang. Do you have to go around breaking things? I didn’t even get to eat any of that yet…”

Tl;dr—Wei Wuxian does not 修魔道 practice demon cultivation. When Wei Wuxian’s craft is discussed in a neutral and factual manner, it is referred to as 鬼道 ghost dao. 

In fact, Wei Wuxian’s imitators are also referred to explicitly as 鬼道修士 ghost cultivators.

魏无羡早就听说过，这些年来江澄到处抓疑似夺舍重生的鬼道修士，把这些人通通押回莲花坞严刑拷打。 Wei Wuxian had heard a while back that over the past few years, Jiang Cheng had gone around snatching any ghost cultivator suspected of being possessed or reborn, detaining them in Lotus Pier to interrogate them using torture.

So why the confusion?

Of course, there is the matter of the novel's title, which I will get into in a second. But the real issue is a matter of translation.

The idea that WWX uses "demonic cultivation" is a misconception in English-speaking fandom due to issues with the translation of terminology. Of note, EXR actually did translate 鬼道 guidao as "ghostly path" most of the time, though there were at least 3 instances of "demonic" and 1 instance of "dark," especially regarding the first few.

However, this misconception was perpetuated (and arguably worsened) by 7S's official translation, which not only mistranslated additional terms as "demonic cultivation/path" (at least in book 1), but also consistently mistranslated every instance of 鬼道 as "demonic cultivation/path."

So why is this book called 魔道祖师, commonly translated as "Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation?"

One possibility is one posed in Chinese-language meta online, which often cites that WWX himself is a sort of 魔 demon. While this may be true—after all, he can hear the voices of the dead—it doesn't quite explain the fact that the title sets him up to be the 祖师 or "founder."

My take is that this novel is very much concerned with hearsay vs. truth. This is one of the many monikers WWX is given by the public, who collectively view him as evil. (Also of note is that the non-cultivator public is not aware of all the nuances that cultivators learn re: distinctions between the 妖魔鬼怪 monsters.) In the quote from earlier, note that the first title we're given is actually 无上邪尊 “The Evil Overlord,” then 魔道祖师 "The Founder of Demon Cultivation." Like, what can that be other than MXTX telling us, "please take both of these with a HUGE grain of salt, lol."

(And not only the title, but the very first line—"魏无羡死了。" / "Wei Wuxian is dead."—is a lie.)

I think the title is genius, honestly. It intentionally makes readers come into the novel with preconceived notions that Wei Wuxian practices 魔道 demon cultivation and evil techniques—just like the public in the novel. What better way to tell a story warning about the dangers of how easy it is to fall for misinformation and jump to incorrect conclusions?

(Though, in our case, perhaps it worked a little too well.)

[ohnoproblems]

CAPTAIN MISURN — "This is the one." The captain lapses into customary silence. Interrogations are *your* job, lieutenant.

CHILCHUCK — "Make it quick, yeah?" The half-foot is several drinks deep, an adventurer's preferred state. "I don't make a habit of talking to Canaries."

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — I'll have what he's having.

CHILCHUCK — He waits like a pin for your first raking pass.

- "What do you know about necromancy?"

- "I've heard you're organizing adventurers. You can't do that, it tarnishes the divine authority of Her Ethereal Majesty's glorious Elven nation!"

- "I've heard you're organizing adventurers. Do you not trust market forces to set a fair price for sneakthievery?"

- "I've heard you're organizing adventurers. It's a good start, but when do you behead the governor and let the streets run with the blood of shopkeeps and other petty-bourgeois pigs?"

- "I need to gather my party." [Leave.]

YOU — "What do you know about necromancy?"

CHILCHUCK — "Necromancy? You mean the forbidden arts? Dark magic? Officer, why in the hell would I know *anything* about that?"

DRAMA [Challenging: Success] — My liege. 'Tis not just spirits on his breath. Smell it: the savory scent of a *lie.*

EMPATHY [Legendary: Success] — There's a sorrow he's trying to hide.

- "Seems like a useful skill to pick up."

- "She's gone, isn't she?"

- "Let's talk about something else."

YOU — "She's gone, isn't she?"

CHILCHUCK — "What are you…?" His eyes widen - it's just a flicker. He shakes it away. "What are you saying, officer?"

EMPATHY — It's there. Deep in there.

- Wait, how do I know this?

- "I said she's *gone,* isn't she?"

- "Nothing. Never mind."

YOU — Wait, how do I know this?

INLAND EMPIRE — You ask from the bottom of a hole. You already know this.

EMPATHY — A pain you've borne for an age of men, alone. It's there, fresh, in the tiny mirrors of his eyes. He feels it, too.

- "I said she's *gone,* isn't she?"

- "She's gone… and she took the kids."

- "Nothing. Never mind."

YOU — "She's gone… and she took the kids."

CHILCHUCK — He scowls. "You know what? Officer, this interview is over. Any further questions will have to go through a guild representative."

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Medium: Success] — His hands shake around the stein. A liability for a locksmith.

AUTHORITY — Bingo.

New task: Call her.

[vivantesopvles]

‘What, then, would you say defines Dark magic?’ Professor Potter asks, not even bothering to look up from the homework he’s grading. 

It’s long past his office hours, but that has never stopped Tom from finding all sorts of excuses to knock on his door. Tom wouldn’t say the professor indulges him, per se; it’s just that their conversation often turns out so stimulating it’s impossible not to crave for more. 

‘Depends on who you are and how you approach the subject,’ Tom ventures carefully. ‘A Spellmaker, I imagine, would focus on the energy composition of a spell; the Dark ones require a high amount of magical output from the caster whilst also draining the subject. A Healer, on the other hand –’

‘That’s quite all right.’ Professor Potter lays down his quill, gives Tom a knowing look over his spectacles. ‘I am familiar enough with what Fawson has to say. I want to know what you think, Mr Riddle, after your – ah, shall I say intensive,’ a half-smile curves his lips, 'research on the subject.’

Tom feigns a look of innocence. His mind whirs. His eyes catalogue every outward sign the professor displays. Nothing. Tom can’t even tell if he’s angry or not.

‘I’m trying to get an internship at St Mungo’s,’ Tom fudges. ‘The research … it’s just for academic purposes.’

‘That’s not true, is it?’ Potter spins on his chair, and makes to stand up. His cane comes flying into his hand. Tom’s eyes widen when he feels magic, wild and forceful, gather around them like storm clouds. ‘Ten points from Slytherin,’ he smiles, ‘for lying. Now, Mr Riddle, can you tell what I’m doing?’

Out of thin air, where the turbulent rush of magic has been, water comes. And with a snap of his fingers, Potter traps them both in the centre of the vortex.

‘A hint,’ he says, ‘it’s not Dark, but definitely illegal.’

‘It’s the Forming,’ Tom says, awestruck by the great churning around them, loud as a waterfall. For it is no mere water; a single drop of it on Tom’s skin would be deadly. It’s Professor Potter’s magic in its purest, most concentrated form. 

‘So that brings us back to our question. What makes a spell Dark?’

Belatedly, Tom realises that he’s not to be punished for reading up on the Unforgivables, on Necromancy, on Horcruxes, or whatever it was Professor Potter saw him doing. This is a proper lesson – an introduction to the Dark Arts.

‘Complications,’ Tom breathes. He feels giddy all of a sudden, like he’s inhaled fairy dust. ‘When the practitioner suffers lasting complications to a spell or ritual, the process should be labelled as Dark.’

‘Very good,’ Potter says softly. ‘And that is why you will study under me from now on – not as a Hogwarts student, but my own apprentice. I do care about your well-being, Mr Riddle, even if you yourself might not.'

24052024 | @microficmay | elation

[t-tomuras]

✺ ─── • 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬

Pairing: Kitsune!Katsuki Bakugou x F!Neko!reader

Wordcount: 3.2k

Warnings: Kinda lore heavy, katsuki and reader are animal spirits with ears + tails, clawing, pinning, taunting, blood, biting, creampie.

Notes: Silly little rewrite I did since I've made some headway with my companion piece featuring Tomura. Fun little AU I share with @katsukikitten inspired by @m-ete0ra's amazing Kitsune Katsuki art!

You’d seen the fires before, nothing created by man ever licked into the night sky quite as high or burned as hot even from miles away. You could be on the other side of the mountain, far from the flames and still know its source by smell alone; you knew well what now scorched your lands was foxfire.

Able to do nothing but lounge in the perch of your tree as you watch the choking smoke plume and singeing cinders blot out your view of the full moon and glittering stars as if whatever vendetta the wrathful fox spirit currently held that resulted in the havoc he wrought took precedence. It makes you snarl, deadly elongated canines glinting in the lowlight as mighty trees that stood the test of time now cracks, splinters and tips from both the blaze and the spirit destructively flitting about the forest floor below.

Watching with a look of utter disdain over all the desolation the spirit, what the humans foolishly revered as gods, caused. Yet still the Mountain God himself favored them over your kind simply because the Nekomata refused to appease the humans that encroached on their lands like the kitsunes did. Using mortals as what they truly were and should’ve always remained: prey. 

Tails of pristine fur compared to the neko’s thinner variation, sharing the same feline gaze but somehow only Kitsunes were favorable while the yokai’s were deemed ominous and menacing. The fox spirits, favored only for the beguiling sense of wonder they evoked in the simple minded creatures, rescued the wretched species from a lower station on the food chain. Tales soon spun that painted them as saviors and holier beings and their praises sung while the nekomata’s reputation devolved into scary stories used to instill obedience in naughty children; your kind driven into the shadows and yet still you thrived. 

You, alongside a democratically elected King of the Yokai’s as well as a few other formidable Nekomata, held the power to disrupt the unbalanced ‘natural order’. The king and yourself personally harbor the capability of resurrection, the ability to restore a life as easily as you could take it if you saw it fit. 

And yet, still the world in which you inhabit find a way to demonize you, neither the insolent humans nor the Mountain God were ever satisfied with the feats in which your kind can accomplish. Proclaiming the act part of the dark arts and condemning the practice, only worsening the view and casting longer shadows for your people to stand in. 

Would it be so unspeakable if the Kitsune’s found themselves capable of that gift? Would it still be labeled necromancy unjustly and criminalized? You’re certain the answer would be yet another favorable outcome for your sister race.

Insufferable, infuriating. 

Your fury only grows as you continue to watch the destructive rampage, knowing well that there could be only one culprit with the strength to cause calamity of this magnitude so suddenly; understanding easily that only a ninetails could accomplish such a feat and only one hails from this region, Katsuki Bakugou. If you listen closely enough, you’re almost positive you could hear his maniacal laughter and guttural growls echoing through the night as he finds joy in his tirade that bleeds from his territory into yours. Keen eyes watching from your perch until the flames finally breach the imaginary line that separated his kind’s turf from your own before you pounce. 

Descending from the highest treetop with precision from branch to branch, sleek tail curling and tilting to aid in your venture. It’s easy to find him, even without the heady scent of burning caramel he always exuded, with a path of destruction that leads you right to Katsuki. 

He’s chasing some other poor yokai labeled as evil in nature and an enemy to humanity, a defenseless tengu, fortunately for Katsuki. You already weren’t feeling particularly hospitable with his invasion on your lands but your mood would’ve only stoked into a murderous rage instead of the current ruminating resentment if it were one of your own people. 

You land gracefully atop a sturdy branch as you stop just short of four hundred yards of Katsuki, finding a decent vantage point on a branch in a tree safe from his spreading fire to leisurely observe his actions with increasing contempt from the high ground. It’s funny, would the weak little humans still find spirits like Katsuki so ethereal if they saw the ferocity in which he pursued his prey and towered over the lifeless body before he let it be consumed by his foxfire, reducing it to ash as if to remove the possibility of evidence? 

“You must be bored,” you finally call in a mocking tone, bleeding into playful as you watch Katsuki glance around for the source, “all of this carnage for a lowly tengu? Or are ninetails actually just weak?” Your voice echoes around the open clearing, joining the cacophony of carnage as it dances around for the added effect of coming from all directions. Cat smiling spreading on plush lips before you laugh at the slight bristle to the fur of his tails and the way he hunches into an offensive position despite not knowing your location. 

Yet. 

Katsuki’s ears flick wildly but his back remains to you, cautious not to give away that he’s trying to pinpoint your location but you’re smart. You know better than to taunt your targets from a stationary point when you intended to attack. 

Smile on your lips tugging further into a full cheshire grin to twist pretty features as you gracefully circled Katsuki from the high ground. Quietly darting from branch to branch in the surrounding trees, burning or otherwise.  

“Found it along my way,” haughtiness bleeding into the rumbling grown of his voice as his spine straightens in feigned nonchalance, “recognized its nasty scent as the one that stole from my kin.” 

Dazzling bromine attempts to track your practiced erratic movements, watching for any leaf that flutters hastily to the ground and listening for the slightest groan of tree bark that’s even moderately a pitch different to the others that burn under his fire.

“But you smell like something else I’ve been lookin for.” 

Katsuki crouches low on his haunches, shoulders creeping high as his tails of a beautiful gradient of off white and toasted gold fur swirl and sway like the flames that rage in the underbrush around you. The hair on your nape stands on end as bromine hues begin to glow brighter and you recognize the beginnings of a casting, your own feline-like pupils constricting with intent and from the dazzling blaze before you finally pounce. Sharp claws gouging flesh from his sculpted back first, finding purchase in his shoulder blades as you toppled Katsuki to the ground from the force. Your teeth sink deep into the toned flesh of his trapezium muscle next, bidding deep mauve to weep from the wound and down your chin as you bite harder, guttural growl rumbling in Katsuki’s chest. 

“Funny,” your taunt slightly muffled around his flesh, “I thought you gods only bled gold?”

He snarls at that, the vibrations of his pain and rage reverberate against your own sternum as you release your hold a moment later to go for his jugular; but, Katsuki’s quick to recover, staggering to all fours then propelling back to slam your back into the rough bark of a tree behind you. Your hold releases from the force, gasping in a desperate bid to fill your lungs with air in a steady rhythm once more but that moment is all Katsuki needs in order to seize the upper hands. Gives Katsuki enough time to grab at the pretty kimono you wear, certainly stolen from a poor human that strayed too far into the wrong woods of the mountain. 

He fists the delicate material so harshly you can hear it rip as you’re wrenched over his shoulder, back slammed flat into contrastingly frigid solid earth. The base of your skull colliding first and so suddenly you’re unable to guard before the impact, disoriented easily as Katsuki climbs on top of you and pins you down by your hips and shoulders with all of his weight. 

Snarling victoriously and gnashing his teeth tauntingly as he crowds your space, making you thrash even more wildly than you would by simply being pinned with the unwelcome proximity. Writhing just enough for your knee to come up and connect with the sensitive tissue dangling unprotected between meaty thighs that makes Katsuki growl again.

Though he doesn’t buckle the way most others do, you should’ve expected enough of him and his infamous nature. Grunting as he pushes your head into the ground with his palm and impresses more of his weight to secure you properly. Bakugou palms your face then, tilting it upwards to give him clear access to your throat with the intention of ripping out your windpipe in one fell swoop. 

Panic threatens to seize your lungs, your claws desperately dig into Katsuki’s skin but he pays the pain no mind, going for the kill only to stall with his dripping maw almost enveloping your throat. Glowing bromine widening and burning brighter as he retracts just enough to press his nose against your pulse point, earning a surprised yelp from you that makes saliva gather on his tongue. Worsening to the point it drips from the corners of his lips with the scent that clouds Katsuki’s senses. 

Usually overpowering notes of ash and poison that naturally comes with dabbling in the dark arts are successful in masking the individual scent of each demon but that doesn’t seem to be the case with you.

The ominous scent is greatly overshadowed by the overwhelmingly pleasant notes of orchids and berries that linger on your skin even despite the smell of burning wood that chokes the atmosphere. An intoxicatingly sweet mix that has Katsuki inhaling deeply again, finding your wrists to grasp with a bruising strength in one hot palm in a subtle threat of foxfire as he pins them to the ground above you. Splaying you out beneath him as he shifts, pressing his thicker shins into your own to effectively immobilize you despite your thrashing before placing his free hand at your ribs. Pads of his fingers digging into your flesh with a bruising strength as the points of his sharp nails just graze puncturing the delicate meat in warning to keep still.

He chastises himself even as he drinks in the smell of you, reminding himself that you’re a demon and he has a duty to put you down and yet he can’t. Drunk on everything happening in this moment, ignoring how you hiss at him threateningly but not how you buck your hips into him. You hope to cast him away, even with the difference of strength, it’s your center of gravity, you should have the advantage but he uses his weight and build to his own, snarling long and low until you reluctantly settle.

Katsuki takes it as a submission, and with each deep inhale of you, his nose glued to the column of your throat that begs for him to run the flat of his tongue up the expanse of it, he feels slightly deluded into thinking it’s also a reciprocation of interest.

The more rational side of his brain, quieter now as he loses himself to lust, reasons this has to be some cheap spell he’s never encountered before but he can’t bring himself to care. Doesn’t really feel the need to break himself of its hold, at least not before he satiates the carnal desire bubbling in his gut, roaring in his veins and threatening to consume him the way his foxfire engulfs the forest around them. 

He shakes the distracting line of thought away, fully devoting himself to this moment and his desire as he tightens his hold on your wrists so the other can slide from your ribs, down your waist and push your pelvis into the ground. Thick and calloused thumb digging into the fat of your hip as he does and he succeeds in pulling a pretty whine from you that makes his cock stir against your mound. He releases a shaky breath, lips parted for the humid puff to dampen the skin of your throat and send a pleasant tremble down your spine. Lips resting at the curve of your shoulder before his tongue laps up your throat, forcing you to tilt your chin upwards with the movement and give him more access, crimson hues threatening to roll at the slightly salty taste of your flesh on his tongue. 

Katsuki has to swallow thickly, hum rumbling in his throat as he adjusts his body so his hips slot between plush and powerful thighs to grind his cock against your barely covered cunt. Your legs almost instinctively spread further to feel the delicious friction at your burning core even though your mind screams to fight back, that now is the perfect opportunity to free yourself. That he’s still a fox, a wretched spirit that believes themselves a god, a man who’s heart you should steal and bring back to the king as a spoil of war while Katsuki’s distracted but you don’t. 

You can’t.

Almost purring along with him as his hot palm paws at the fullness of your chest, thick digits a ghosting tease over pebbled nipples, torso nearly exposed from the way he’d manhandled you earlier and he forces your back into a slight arch from his nosing alone. 

Another deep breath from him, inhaling you once more as your own lips part around a silent moan as Katsuki’s face presses against your jugular but you don’t feel threatened in the slightest, “yer not who I’m lookin for.” 

You weren’t sure what you were expecting but it wasn’t Katsuki’s sudden and altogether withdrawal from you. Soothing weight against your body is gone all at once, already on his feet and palming at his hard cock as he leaves it neglected while you sit up on your forearms, working to regain your senses quickly before Katsuki is able to leave.

And you react violently the moment you do, as you should. Ears flattened against your skull and teeth bared at the ninetails as he swipes at the drying blood you’d drawn from him earlier, already thinking of how he’ll explain to the village healer just how exactly he’d gotten such deep wounds for her to mend. 

But there’s a smirk on his face as he crouches low enough to grab at you from your underarms, gravely voice settling deep into your bones and (regretfully, for you) straight to your throbbing clit, “but you might be now.”

Your eyes widen as he lifts you, pressing you to his body as your back connects with the tree trunk he’d slammed you against earlier. Katsuki paws roughly, fingers digging harshly into the meat of your under thighs just below the curve of your ass, urging them to hook over his hips. Lips melding with yours in a bruising kiss before you can spit venom at him, prefer a less verbal sort of tongue lashing from you while he fumbles at the obi of his Yukata, pushing the material back enough to free his aching cock without leaving him fully bare.

Pushing at the already open neck of your kimono to finally expose your chest before he shoves at the intricately layered obi to peel away the layers that hides away your weeping slit, slotting his length between your folds with a throaty groan at the feel when he’s revealed a satisfying amount of your body to him. Tongue swiping over yours, rutting into you slowly to coat himself in your slick while the fat tip kisses your clit with each drag that has you mewling sweetly for him. Rewarding Katsuki with wanton moans to swallow greedily, repeating the action almost cruelly slow, just enough to draw more pretty sounds from you but not enough to deliver you sweet rapture until he catches at your fluttering entrance. 

He pushes in slowly when he does, the gradual stretch so delicious your eyes roll and you reach between your body’s to grasp at the girthy base as if you want to push him in quicker. It makes Katsuki chuckle against your lips, ducking to your throat to hear your mewls uninhibited as he marks you with a gentler touch as he sees fit. 

As gentle as a man like him can be, anyway. Sharp canines scraping against this skin, raising the flesh in his wake before leaving deep punctures to lap at the blood he draws with a low hum.

You’ll regret allowing this later, you know, sure to sneer at your reflection but for now you moan unabashedly as you both find a satisfying rhythm. Eager to reach euphoria even if it was with a creature you were predisposed to loathe. 

But those were the best kinds of highs, the things you shouldn’t partake in nor enjoy. Sinking your claws into his shoulders when Katsuki nudges at that spongy patch within you just right while you keen. He’s quick to take cues, especially with the way your cunt squeezes him tightly, groaning in turn, claws digging into the tree bark with a ferocious grip as he fleetingly tries to subdue his climax while yours washes over you in pleasant waves.

Teeth grit as he feels the coil tighten in his abdomen, driving into you with precision until you’re careening over the edge so soon after your first one with a cry of his name. Head lolled back for him to freely nip at your throat, sucking another mark right at your pulse point. Drinking in the inebriating mixture of your natural scent, burning pine and the sheen of sweat that clings to both of your bodies as you cream around him. 

Thrusting into you with a renewed vigor when you slacken against him, desperate for his own euphoria after relishing your own. Running his tongue along his canines, gripping tightly at your hips while you can only helplessly take what he has to offer. His jaw hangs agape the closer he teeters on the edge, sac tightening when you clutch at Katsuki’s shoulders, sharp nails of your own carving out your pleasure in his flesh as you whine in such a sweet way, begging “please suki, please.” 

As if your only need is for him to fill you so full his seed will leak around his spent cock.

Grunting in a near animalistic way as he hurtles towards his demise, sinking his teeth into your shoulder when he reaches his peak, groaning long and low against your skin like he was more than relieved. Painting velvet walls pearly white in thick spurts, hips twitching into yours until he feels the threatening sting of overstimulation. 

Allowing both of you to bask in the afterglow of your coupling as felled trees crackle soothingly in your surroundings. If you closed your eyes, if you were delusional enough anyway, you could imagine a plush mattress top caressing the skin of your back instead of biting bark and the crackling of woof sounds from a warm heart. That maybe your lover was just that and not a mortal enemy that precedes your own bloodline.

He pulls his softening cock from you, shushing your pitiful whine playfully as he tucks himself away before lowering you until you’re settled on the ground and certain you stand on mostly steady feet. 

Practicing a tenderness you didn't know the kitsunes to have as Katsuki takes the time to fix your clothing, smirk only widening as you hum in the afterglow of your orgasm tipping your chin for your hazy gaze to meet his. 

Regarding you as if he had something to say before his lips press to yours again and you melt into the contact, indulging in him for just a moment longer before Katsuki is sure to stoke another flame in you. One that will burn with the fuel of determination to have his heart in your hand before long, muttering a sultry taunt into your skin as he expects to partake in you again.  “Mountain God’s wrong, you yokai’s are good for somethin after all.”

[trainsinanime]

I'm not sure I have anything interesting to say about it, but I am very intrigued by the way The Locked Tomb portrays cavaliers, necromancers and lyctorhood as relationships.

First of all, Necromancer+Cavalier is a metaphor for marriage, that's obvious table stakes. It's explicitly non-romantic (or should be, anyway, in the way the society there has constructed it), but it is intense, highly devoted, starts with a vow, goes "til death do us part" ("one flesh, one end").

In the series Cavalier and Necromancer are a form of gender roles, and they map incredibly well onto the most stereotypical gender roles we have in our society. The Cavalier has stereotypical masculine traits: The fighter, the protector, up on the front lines, physically active. The Necromancer has stereotypical feminine traits: Weak, frail, but whatever the necromantic equivalent of nurturing is, with power over death and life. In the mythology and "gender roles" of the nine houses, necromancy is sort of not quite but still a bit equivalent to "the mystical power of women to bring forth life". And yes, this is all very conservative and cishet-normative and so on.

Of course the books then immediately, from moment one, subvert this on at least three different layers.

The first layer is that the feminine-coded Necromancer is the head of the deadly family in the society, and the masculine-coded Cavalier is the support, the disposable one.

The other layer is that the book distributes the roles of Necromancer and Cavalier basically randomly across the actual genders of the characters. There are male necromancers, female cavaliers, plenty of same-sex pairings and so on.

But the biggest and most important inversion is that when we first meet the nine houses, ten thousand years after a cow-murdering Twitch streamer destroyed the world, nobody actually follows that role assignment to the letter. All the different houses have very different ideas of how Necromancer and Cavalier works in practice.

For example, Abigail Pent and Magnus Quinn are just straight-up married. Their work relationship is romantic, and while that's considered a bit weird by their society, it makes it clear that it can go on like this.

We are actually told that there was something going on in the second house, too, where Judith fell in love with Marta, but there she was gently rebuked and they were just friends instead.

Over in the sixth, Camilla and Palamedes have the inversion of boy necromancer and girl cavalier, but most importantly they have their own very QPR style of relationship that is unique to them and does not fit into either our society's traditional idea of romantic relationship, nor their society's traditional idea of what Necromancer and Cavalier should be like.

The seventh house leans into the frail necromancer/strong protector idea the most, except for [spoilers for the final third of Gideon].

The eighth house leans fully into the idea that the relationship is one-sided, that the cavalier is disposable, and jumps straight off the deep end by making the cavalier genetically bred to be nothing more than a power source.

The third house I've left out so far because, dear god, what even is going on there?

And finally, of course, the ninth, who are technically, strictly speaking, if we're following the metaphor to its logical end, doing a "fake married to lovers" plot.

So with that out of the way, let's look at Lyctorhood. Lyctorhood is fundamentally the final test, the final form of the Necromancer/Cavalier relationship as embedded in that society: The Cavalier has completely dissolved in the marriage, making their "spouse" all-powerful, but ending their own existence. That's the standard of the society as presented to the characters when they discover it, and all of them very quickly have their own ideas about it..

Most characters we know from Canaan House don't actually get that far (and to be fair, I think many of them would not have anything that interesting to say about it), but the ones who do are interesting:

Ianthe is physically repulsed by the idea of healthy relationships, so she has no problem eating Babs for power.

Gideon and Harrow are deeply in love, deeply devoted to each other, and deeply dysfunctional in their own ways, and Harrow manages to find a way to continue a dysfunctional horrible situationship with massive communication issues into Lyctorhood.

Cam and Pal find a different thing entirely, still recognisable as a take on Lyctorhood but also not at all. Instead of one absorbing the other, they fuse into a single new person together, but also in some ways dying in the process.

And it turns out even the older lyctors may not have worked quite as originally designed, with Pyrrha Dve still hanging around in Gideon the First and then finding her own way in Nona the Ninth. Throughout Nona it becomes obvious what was hinted at throughout most of Harrow: Lyctorhood is really just one of many ways for two people to become one. It is not the purest and best form of "one flesh, one end", just the best Johnny Boy could think of. Left to their own devices, we see people left and right figure out new ways to be together as one regardless of what society and God thinks of them.

This is really a key question of the book series: What does it mean for two people to become one? Well, it's up to them, and listening to what God has to say about it is probably not the best way to go. It'll make you end up like Ianthe. Do you want to be Ianthe? Actually don't answer that.

[casually-eat-my-soul]

I am completely normal about the hale family.

I’m totally not obsessing over any of the characters

Like Laura hale who haunts the narrative. Hell she’s was the creation of the narrative, her death is the reason that Scott and stiles were in the woods that night. She was a means to an end. She was an older sister. The girl who stays with her brother even after her death. We know nothing about her, and everything we do know is forever tainted by the biases of the characters that remained. The Aphla Heir, the first victim of the show. A body in the woods, a girl in a grave

Or Peter hale, who is a walking contradiction and Manipulator. He cares for his family but he sacrificed Laura and Derek (Paige) for power. He kills his niece, then later on he wants to save her (Cora). Peter who died in the house fire, all Derek was doing was putting down a corpse. Peter who died engulfed in flames in the house haunted by death and fire. Peter who knew how to bring himself back, who knew about necromancy and banshees. How young was he when he created a plan to bring himself back to life?

How about Cora?? A girl who lived in the shadow of her families death for years. Believing that she was the only one who lived. A girl who only knows how to run, who keeps her bags packed always ready to leave. It’s how she grew up. Cora who returned to her burnt out shell of a home at the mere mention of a hale alpha. Who leaves beacon hills once again but this time with her brother at her back. (Laura and Derek leaving after the fire parallel)

And last but not least, Derek fucking Hale. The man who blamed himself for the death of his entire family. Who lost everything, and despite that, got up every single day. Who never got to bury his family members, but never wanted to bury Laura. Who killed his uncle and buried him in the grave of their house, so he could rest among the rest of forgotten Hales. What’s one more grave to dig, One more family member to bury. Who helped people even when they didn’t want him to. Derek who was used and abused over and over again. Who was nothing more than a body. Someone with one foot in the grave and one on a train. He just wanted a pack again and had that taken from him as well. He leaves beacon hills, and comes back to once again help those in need. Who dies and comes back. Who drags himself with bloody fingers to a happy ending, with a son. Who takes care of a car for fifteen years as an act of repentance and love. And who still dies in a fire like the Hales that came before him.

What about Eli, whose legacy is pain, fire and death.

The hales who are tied so fucking tightly to beacon hills and to each other. They can never leave this place but they can’t stay. Nothing will ever be the same again. The fire is gone but the wood is still charred. There’s still an open grave