#muzzy haunts me to this day

[pin-k-ink]

BENEATH HUMAN SKIN ⋆✦⋆ ulquiorra schiffer

synopsis ➸ after ulquiorra is resurrected by orihime, you’re tasked with taking him in—a bitter twist of fate given the memories of your time as his prisoner. stripped of his power and bound to a fragile human body, he’s now completely dependent on you for survival. at first, you’re repulsed by the idea of caring for the very man who once held you captive, but as days pass, you find yourself drawn to the complexities of his new existence. with each lesson in humanity you’re forced to teach him, the lines between resentment and compassion begin to blur in ways you never expected.

chapter three — a taste of humanity

pairing ➸ ulquiorra schiffer x reader

word count ➸ 2.1k

masterlist

"Woman...hey, woman!"

The insistent murmur of Ulquiorra's graveled tones finally wormed its way beneath the weighted layers of your exhausted slumber. You groaned in muzzy protest, fighting against the hands bracketing your shoulders and giving you a firm shake.

"Wake up, you insufferable creature," the former Espada grumbled, voice still husky with the dregs of sleep. "You're drooling all over me again and it's absolutely revolting."

Cracking open one bleary eye, you found yourself mere inches from Ulquiorra's aristocratic features – his lips pulled into a borderline sneer of distaste as he regarded the glistening trail of spittle you'd evidently left along the exposed column of his throat. Heat flooded your cheeks as the lingering vestiges of the previous night's harrowing encounter with primordial horror came filtering back in disjointed flashes.

"Well excuse me if getting traumatized by megalomaniac filmmakers leaves me a little...lubricated," you croaked out, throat clogged with sleep's residual phlegm.

The teasing self-deprecation fell a bit flat as your eyes traced over the taut lines of Ulquiorra's face, irrationally searching for any remnants of the former hollow's psychic disintegration and haunted vulnerability from hours before. But his eerie emerald gaze remained as impenetrable and inflectionless as you remembered, giving away none of the uncertainties that had temporarily splintered his composure.

"Ugh, never mind," you grunted after an extended beat of scrutinizing silence, summoning the energy to heave yourself upright and put a few inches of safe distance between your bodies. "Thanks for the wake-up call, I guess."

Ulquiorra watched you from beneath lowered lids and hooded eyes as you ran your hands through the limp disarray of your bedhead, spine arching in a languid stretch. There was something innately feline about his studied indolence, unhurried movements hinting at a natural predatory grace sheathed just below the surface as he too rose from the sagging cushions.

"Do try to extricate yourself from this indolent display with some modicum of haste," the former Espada suggested, though the terse words carried no real bite. "I will endeavor to assemble a basic morning meal in the meantime."

With that, Ulquiorra turned and retreated towards the kitchen area, leaving you to mentally recalibrate amidst the hushed, thickening silence of the new dawn.

You shot him a withering side-glance, noting how his bare feet whispered over the scuffed floorboards without seeming to make a sound. "First you wake me in the rudest way possible, and now you're dismissing me with demands for breakfast service?" you couldn't resist grumbling even as you felt the first stirrings of bemused warmth kindling in your core. "Nice to see those honeymoon jitters are already kicking in."

Whether Ulquiorra heard your mumbled dig or not, he gave no outward acknowledgment – simply continuing about the motions of gathering ingredients and cooking implements with that same unhurried yet undeniably capable choreography. You rolled your eyes but found yourself smiling faintly despite yourself as you rose to pad towards the bathroom and perform your own morning ablutions.

The steady rhythm of pots and pans clinking and utensils scraping provided a soothing backdrop as you drifted through the familiar routine of brushing your teeth, splashing cold water on your face, and finger-combing your hair back into some semblance of presentable order. At one point you paused before your reflection, expression pensive as you wondered if last night's unraveling would irrevocably alter things between you and your former captor turned...what exactly?

Shaking off the niggling sense of uncertainty, you squared your shoulders and crossed back into the living area - only to pull up short at the rich, earthy scents wafting in from the kitchen. Ulquiorra had his back to you, broad shoulders flexing infinitesimally beneath the plain white cotton of his undershirt as he worked something over on the stovetop.

Rather than make your presence immediately known, you lingered on the fringes for several drawn moments – watching in unabashed fascination as the former hollow sampled and taste-tested whatever he was orchestrating with a solemnity you'd never have associated with menial culinary tasks before now.

It should have been absurd, really – utterly incongruous to witness such an basic, incarnate force of violence and destruction puttering about measuring spices and seasonings like some human approximation of domesticity. Yet Ulquiorra moved through the paces with characteristic meticulousness, clearly unwilling or unable to devote less than his full, unhurried focus on even these seemingly pedestrian undertakings.

"Just get it over with and tell me how badly I've failed this time, woman," came Ulquiorra's toneless baritone, somehow startling you despite its lack of inflection. He didn't turn from the simmering pans and scattered dishware, movements remaining steady and controlled. "I'm well aware you've been lingering and silently criticizing my efforts for the past several moments."

You scowled half-heartedly, stepping fully into the cramped kitchenette with a toss of your head. "Ugh, quit acting like you've never cooked before. It's not that exotic of an undertaking."

Without waiting for an invitation, you scooted up behind Ulquiorra's lean frame and nudged him aside with your hip so you could get a good look at his morning labors. The sight that met your assessing perusal pulled you up short despite your feigned disdain.

A hearty skillet of scrambled eggs with colorful sprinklings of vegetable medleys and diced meats steamed before you in a riot of appetizing smells and textures. Beside it, Ulquiorra had whipped up a stack of fluffy golden pancakes glistening with melted butter that made your mouth water instinctively.

Clearing your throat against the sudden surge of inexplicable emotion clogging your chest, you risked a quick side-glance up at the former Espada's severe profile.

"This...actually looks incredible," you admitted carefully, resisting the urge to reach out and poke at the tempting spread just to verify its reality. "When did you suddenly become such a pro in the kitchen anyway?"

Ulquiorra merely grunted a wordless syllable of vague acknowledgment, going through the unhurried motions of plating and portioning the meal out onto two ceramic dishes. You watched his elegant hands perform the mundane task with the same intense focus you recognized from your countless battles and existential collisions, unable to repress a tiny prickle of wonder at his utter commitment to whatever occupied his attention.

"Don't get too carried away congratulating me just yet," the former hollow rasped without inflection as he pushed one of the steaming plates across the countertop towards you. “I have not yet taken into account the satisfaction that human tastes find in mere indulgence.”

You very nearly missed the subtle sideways glance Ulquiorra shot your way then, unguarded weight laden behind those striking green eyes. It took you a suspended heartbeat to parse his actual meaning before rolling your own eyes dramatically on an exaggerated exhale.

"God forbid you whip up some world-class cuisine without the perfect accompaniment of ice cream to round things out," you drawled with an exaggerated roll of your eyes, snatching up the proffered plate with a playful wink. "I'll manage somehow, your majesty."

Your teasing lilt and casual dismissal hit their intended marks as Ulquiorra visibly stiffened, those eerie emerald eyes flashing beneath insomniac lids. You prepared yourself for his usual stoic rebuttal or brusque change of subject.

Which was why his next words, delivered in that same toneless baritone now edged with steel, caught you completely off guard.

"Is nothing I do ever enough to satisfy you?" The former Espada's question sliced through the lingering atmosphere of lighthearted banter with surgical precision.

"I meticulously follow every human culinary instruction, devote the utmost care to crafting sustenance worthy of your discriminating palate...and yet there you stand sneering and implying it's still not up to your standards."

A muscle ticked in Ulquiorra's chiseled jaw as he glared at you over the countertop separating you, nostrils flaring minutely. For a beat, he simply held your startled gaze in obvious challenge before continuing in a lower, more gravel-edged rasp.

“Tell me, woman… what more must I do for my efforts to stop being a source of mockery and ingratitude in your eyes? Or is that what you truly want—to turn whatever goodwill and basic decency we have left into empty trivialities?”

Your mouth worked silently for a suspended moment as you struggled to rally a suitable retort. Part of you instinctively bridled at the hollow's harsh accusations, pride rearing up in staunch defense against any perceived slights or insinuations of being ungrateful.

You opened your mouth, ready to unleash a scathing volley that would see Ulquiorra's apparent hubris put firmly back in its place. But then you caught the unwavering intensity behind those striking emerald irises – not condemnation or irritation as you'd first interpreted, but something softer and infinitely more fragile lurking beneath the stoicism.

And just like that, the fight went out of you on a quiet, resigned exhale. Dropping the sarcastic edge of postured disdain, you simply watched the former Espada from across the small distance separating you in heavy, pregnant silence.

"Ulquiorra..." You finally broke the impasse with his name, spoken quietly and devoid of challenging inflection. "I was just teasing, okay? The breakfast looks incredible - amazing, even. I would never try to demean something you clearly put so much effort into."

The words felt strange on your tongue, possessing an unwitting tenderness that you instinctively wanted to shy away from. Yet Ulquiorra remained frozen across from you, hard lines of his body carved in exquisite tension as if soaking in the weight of your reassurances against myriad ingrained instincts or compulsions.

"I just..." You pressed on, unsure what was driving you to explain or justify yourself so doggedly. "I have a bad habit of masking appreciation behind sarcasm sometimes. That's all. I shouldn't have made assumptions about your ability to accept a silly compliment or critique without jumping to conclusions. That's on me."

Ulquiorra didn't outwardly react to your stumbling soliloquy of accountability. He simply held your stare with those vivid eyes of his, seeming to measure each flutter of sincerity against the backdrop of his own weighty contemplations. Then, at last, the former hollow exhaled a nearly inaudible sigh and bobbed his chin in a minute dip of acknowledgment.

"I...have much to recalibrate when it comes to interpreting such human mannerisms and traditions," he rasped with characteristic frankness, the syllables carrying a strange, raw note of vulnerability despite his rigid poise. “I often struggle to understand your context, even when I grasp the interactions themselves.”

You regarded Ulquiorra steadily, heart rabbiting against your ribcage despite the muted, conversational dynamic you'd somehow managed to establish between your disparate beings. There was something quietly revelatory about peeling back another gossamer layer from the former Espada's tightly guarded internal world.

"Well for starters," you replied in a tone tempered by warmth rather than mockery this time, "I'll try working on being less of a sarcastic brat when I'm impressed by your deceptively domestic talents. Pinky promise."

Without awaiting his reply, you snagged a forkful of the steaming eggs and took an exploratory bite - only to groan in open delight at the blend of spices and delicate textures playing over your tastebuds. Through the blissful daze of culinary rapture, you caught Ulquiorra studying you from across the small space - not with vague disinterest or the weight of somber destiny this time, but something closer to...curiosity.

Then a thought crashed over you, one insistent enough to momentarily shatter the soothing reverie of the morning routine. You pinned Ulquiorra with a contemplative look, fork hovering halfway to your parted lips as you scrutinized his faintly bewildered expression.

"Hey...you've never actually ventured out and experienced anything in the human world since you've been bound in that gigai, have you?" You kept your tone conversational, careful not to reignite whatever hairline fissure had spawned Ulquiorra's earlier outburst.

The former hollow blinked once, twice, then seemed to resettle his dispassionate mask almost instinctively - though not before you glimpsed the briefest flicker of wariness flickering behind those ever-unreadable irises of his.

"Such mortal trivialities are hardly worthy of my attention or consideration," he rejoined with familiar aridity. But you didn't miss the subtle tells - the way his spine straightened incrementally from its already razor-stiff alignment, the tightening of his knuckles where they gripped his plate.

"We'll see about that," you murmured, utterly unable to repress the tiny, mischievous smile curving your lips as a plan began taking irresistible root. You jabbed your fork pointedly at Ulquiorra, ignoring his subtle flinch at the perceived threat.

"Finish up your grub, lover boy. Then go get cleaned up because after breakfast, you and me are going on a field trip of sorts beyond these four walls. And I'm gonna show you first-hand why 'mortal trivialities' like ice cream are worth getting a little obsessive over."

[clandestinegardenias]

My new year’s resolution was to work on fic for at least 15 minutes a day and I haven’t missed a day yet and this damn COVID fever ain’t gonna stop me.

But also all I felt like I could write was a snippet of sick!fic, so here you go. May or may not poke at it again tomorrow—describing James’ suffering did something to ease my own, if only marginally.

Not Alone

The scariest part is how metallic his mouth tastes. It calls to mind lead contamination.

No, wait, the scariest part is the way the fever is blurring his mind, making it feel muzzy and strange, bending reality into dream.

It could also be the way his old bullet wounds ache like fire, or the way his head throbs relentlessly as it did in those last fateful days.

Just a cold, James reminds himself. It is just a cold.

It does not feel like just a cold, to his addled mind.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He feels the scratch of the cotton-covered goose down pillow under his cheek, grounds himself in the feel of his sheets, the comforter wrapped close and fluffy around him. His hair itches, his mouth tastes like he went on a massive bender and woke up in the late afternoon with cotton balls stuffed between his tonsils.

There is a banging in his head. James groans, pulls the covers over his ears.

The banging continues, this time accompanied by a voice, muffled through the thick wood of the door.

“James? Is all well? It is late afternoon and cook said you had not come to breakfast.”

The words penetrate his skull slowly, treacly and crawling like molasses.

“Hhhhhrrrrggggg,” he says. It was supposed to be a ‘yes,’ though upon further reflection perhaps he should say ‘no’. It is a cold, he is fine, he will be fine, but the ghost of past illnesses haunts the chills up and down his spine.

He should not like to worry Francis.

Surely he will feel better soon. He can ring the bell for someone to bring him a clear broth, some water, a cool cloth. Someone to empty the bed pan and push back his sweaty hair, get him into a fresh nightshirt.

He does not want someone, one of the hired help.

He wants Francis.

Francis had tended him so well, so tenderly, back when he was dying. He had spoken sweetly, called James by affectionate names. James had felt a sort of peace and comfort he had thought beyond his grasp—worth death, he had thought, in the moment.

He is so very, very glad he did not die.

The banging comes again.

“James? James.”

Christ. He will have to let Francis in just so the man does not have a conniption and call a locksmith. It would also have the advantage of making that dreadful banging cease.

“Cmm ‘n,” he calls as best he can. He is too ill to even wince and how nasally it sounds.

The creak of the door opening shoots a sharp spike of relief down his back.

Not alone.

[wirewitchviolet]

Absolute Shameless Lying Edutainment Commercials from the ‘80s

I don’t know why it suddenly got into my head to talk about this, but I just randomly remembered these two commercials I saw when I was very young and what serious BS both of them are. First we’ve got The Sweet Pickles Bus.

So the actual product here is what I’m pretty sure was an honestly shamelessly overpriced plastic box containing like, half a dozen flash cards with letters of the alphabet. Pretty sure you didn’t even get the whole alphabet. Which is such a huge waste of money. No child wants a plastic box of flash cards, no parent wants to buy that. Wasn’t really a reasonable price either. But that is absolutely NOT what this commercial was selling. What we CLEARLY SEE here is a promise that your box of crappy flash cards is going to be HAND DELIVERED BY SOME KIND OF MUPPET DUCK DRIVING A GIANT PICKLE BUS WHO WILL PERSONALLY PLACE IT IN THE HANDS OF YOU, A SMALL CHILD, AND YOU WILL HAVE A LITTLE INTERACTION. That is something I could, and in fact did, beg my mother to pay for like the snot-nosed little toddler I was until she caved.

And guess what? There was no bus. There was no duck. They just shipped this box of garbage through the regular mail. I think my mother made the really bad call of trying to keep up kayfabe and insisted that the duck was in a hurry and I missed him because I was asleep which gave me a haunting regret for years. And the thing is, it honestly wasn’t that plausible that this was legit. It’s not like, a cartoon duck here. You can customize a van, you can get a mascot costume. This might have been a weird local thing because local ads were a thing back then. Kind of a birthday clown business model, you know? This is why a few years later commercials for toys and board games started really covering their asses with stuff like “game cards do not actually talk.”

Like yeah, free floating living cartoons are not going to burst out of this cheap game, even a small child should get that, but they absolutely could have had a guy in a duck suit drive a delivery van around. That’s straight up misleading.

The other one popping into my mind today though is freaking Muzzy. Does anyone remember Muzzy? This is Muzzy.

So like... that really is not, in fact, French those AMERICANS are speaking. That’s not even proper French Muzzy is speaking. This is butchered French gibberish I have to assume was the result of people looking up one word at a time in an English to French dictionary. Transcribing it, we’ve got:

“Je suis, le grand Muzzy.”

“Je suis la jeune fille!”

Literally, one word at a time, that’s:

“I am, the big Muzzy.”

“I am the young girl!”

Even in English that’s super weird and awkward but like... this is not at all how French is structured. This isn’t even something you need to be a native speaker to know, this is like, literal day one high school French knowledge.

First off, I would never, ever say, in French, “Je suis Violet.” I would say “Je m’appelle Violette.” Literally that’s “I call myself Violet,” with the explicitly femme version of the name. “I am” is reserved for like, a type of thing/person you are. Also, adjectives always come after the nouns they describe, and even in the right order, “la fille jeune” kinda suggests that she’s the ONLY young girl. In English you’d say “a young girl” here and that does translate across, so that should be “une fille jeune.” Which is also still just a weird thing to exclaim but at least it’s proper French and not gibberish. I’m not even totally sure what they were trying to have Muzzy convey. Was it a nickname? Was there some sort of small Muzzy he needed to distinguish himself from? Is this some kind of Bigger Luke thing? Regardless it seems pretty clear these tapes were thrown together by someone with just no actual qualifications at all, and they drilled it into a whole generation.

I don’t have any sort of larger point here, just, wow screw these hucksters who plastered ads all over like, Nickelodeon 40 years ago. This is awful.

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die, Chapter 9

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 9)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Logan tries to find another memory, and comes back with something bigger. Virgil opens up to Remus. More facts about the night of Logan's arrest come to light.

And Janus is definitely out to kill the necromancer--but Roman learns something unexpected when he discovers this plan.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), Moceit (Patton/Janus) and future Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: ...so I felt bad about the cliffhanger. >.> XD

Also, I forgot to mention in the last chapter that the words 'pari' and 'geni' were gender neutral terms I created for this world for Logan's parents. They're twisted up with Latin roots for 'parent' or 'creator' because his folks are nonbinary.

Extra apologies for this one because no beta and I just got eager and wrote this in one day. Send help. XD

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1033, A.A.

The first thing Logan noticed when he woke was the heat. Even with all the little luxuries he earned as a well behaved prisoner, he never woke up warm.

The memories were slow to trickle back to him through the haze of sleep, gentle rain splashing against the surface of his mind.

The assassination. The Green Man. The new quarters, his first private shower in ten years—soft spun cotton lounge clothes instead of the rough, drab, ill fitting uniform of the dungeon's prisoners.

Gentle fingers filled with strength laced securely through his. Strong arms, warm skin...

Logan opened his eyes, and found himself with his face tucked against the curve of a neck. Lifting his head with great reluctance, he found himself faced with a sleeping Roman.

The beauty of it nearly stopped his heart.

Loss had stripped some light from his features, worn them around the edges and haunted his eyes, but in repose his features were smooth and unburdened. He looked younger, surreal in his serene perfection. Something about the act of watching Roman sleep felt important...precious, even familiar...

Roman stirred then, and Logan acted without thinking, reaching out to smooth his fingers through Roman's hair. It was soft against his fingers, warm and silken and he repeated the gesture just for the pleasure of feeling it.

“...'lo?...”

“Hello, Roman.”

Roman hummed, and the arm Logan only just realized was wrapped around his shoulders tightened, pulling him closer against Roman's side.

“Lo.” he murmured, more confidently this time as he opened bright green eyes. “You're here.”

“It appears I fell asleep after our discussion. Apologies.” Logan replied, but could put no real conviction into the words. Something inside him...ached in a beautiful way he couldn't give words to. He didn't know what it meant...

For just a split second, his vision blurred, and Roman was younger, smaller, dark hair lightened by too much time in the sun...

...Logan's mind grew fuzzy again, but not with sleep. He recognized the feeling now, the haze of magic that let him reconnect to Virgil, to a fragment of his past...

The Loom of Memory. Roman spoke about it last night, telling his stories about them as friends—as kindred spirits.

“Logan?...”

Logan shifted to lay on his back, reaching for Roman's hand.

“Virgil restored one of my memories through a piece of personal magic I embedded in an object of power.” he explained, speech slurring just a little as his eyes grew heavier. “If...you took part in a ritual to give me...my power...”

“The Warping.” Roman murmured, rolling on his side. Gripping Logan's fingers tight, he looked down into Logan's face. Something about it tugged at the back of Logan's chest, something that was pulling him back into darkness again.

He could fight the pull. He did not try.

Gripping Roman's hand tight, Logan let his eyes shut.

“Hold on...do not let go.”

As he sank, Logan distantly felt warm lips brush his forehead.

“I never have. I never will.”

********** ...threads. Everywhere, itching, brushing, bothersome. This time, he pulled away from them, just a little. He flexed his fingers, and the shuttle was there, secure in his grip.

He tried to concentrate on seeing it this time. Pulling back, stepping away.

…there.

The loom was massive, the warp glowing softly with a gentle radiance that begged to be touched. Running his fingers over it, Logan sighed with pleasure—warm and whisper soft beneath his fingers, spreading through his hand and up his arm to settle in the core of his being....but loose.

The warp was too loose. Just a little tension was needed for a neat, tight weave.

Logan reached out to try and tighten the warp, but...something was wrong.

“...Logan?”

Who's there?

“Logan, it's me.”

...oh. I...

“Do you need help?”

I—I think so. I don't understand what's happening.

“It's okay—to be honest, I didn't understand then and I still don't. Just take what you need.”

I'll be careful this time.

“Don't worry about it. Just...don't leave me.”

I promise. In fact...will you stay?

“Stay? I...is that all right?”

I do not know—but there's only one way to find out. Help me, if you can.

He tugged gently at the thread—this time, it came smooth and easy. It was hard to do still—simply because it was so distracting, the ecstasy of handling it, letting the warp slide through his fingers and tug sweetly as he secured it to the loom—

When he was done, when it was ready...Logan set to work.

********** 1023, A.A.

Logan was so warm and so comfortable, he never wanted to wake up...but he knew he had to, for some reason.

Opening his eyes with a yawn, he turned his head—then grinned when he realized that Roman stayed.

There was something about seeing him in Logan's bedroom that felt secret and special: Roman, his Roman, with his face half buried in Logan's pillow and mouth slightly open as he slept. It wasn't a pretty sight: he drooled just a little, and he was laying on Logan, one arm and one leg thrown across his body, something he usually hated...

But Logan could feel his weight, his warmth. He was messy and heavy and too much...and he was tucked into Logan's bed, his fingers meshed tight through Logan's to rest on Logan's chest. This handsome prince, this good and loving and dangerously earnest boy that wanted with a ferocity that scared and dazzled Logan, eluded palace guard and the king himself just to help him. Just to stay.

Roman was everything good and just and right in the world. However, Roman was also two years older than him, he was royalty—and Logan was Necromata.

Secret and special was all Logan was ever going to get.

Staring into Roman's sleeping face for a few more precious seconds, he tucked the memory away somewhere safe in his mind and his heart before he gently squeezed Roman's hand.

“Roman?”

“Nnnnngh.”

“Roman. It's morning.”

“Nnnngh—guh? What?”

Roman came awake abruptly, and Logan's heart trembled at the muzzy confusion in his face. It made him want confusing, unattainable things, so Logan settled for smiling.

“It's morning. Sunrise—are you still okay?”

Roman nodded with a jaw cracking yawn, further upsetting Logan's already fragile, confusing state of mind by tucking himself forward until their foreheads touched. “Yeah, 'm fine. Remus'll cover for me 'till at least after breakfast. You?”

Unable to stop himself, Logan tucked their joined hands against his chest for a second, sealing the feel of it as deep as he could into his memory as he nodded. “Grandpap won't be back until tomorrow, and Pari lets me skip my morning chores if I'm studying.”

“Which you are, technically.” Roman pointed out with a smile, staring into Logan's eyes.

“Falsehood. I'm laying about in bed.”

Roman seemingly had no answer for that, and didn't respond—but also didn't move.

Logan couldn't bring himself to urge him into action.

“Where did we leave off last night?”

“Hmm?”

“The geneaology. How far did we get?” Roman pressed gently, a laugh in his voice that made Logan's heart tremble again.

Taking a deep breath, Logan managed to pry himself from the sanctuary of his spot tucked into the curve of Roman's body. Sitting up, he reached for the last book they'd been reading through before they gave up their research for sleep.

“We got as far back as King Thomas Cameron IV—the one who married the first Lord and Lady Stewards.” Logan explained, flipping to the right page. “They reorganized the line of succession for same sex and polyfidelitous families within the royal house of Sanders.”

“Right, right...Lady Valerie was the great granddaughter of Sir Edward, fifth cousin of King Thomas Roman I.” Roman mumbled, sitting up to peer at the book in Logan's hands. “Least the stories say.”

Logan fought a swelling of frustration as he flipped ahead a few pages. “Most of these are stories. Stories, lore, and speculation. There's no proof here—and there are a lot of missing records, which I find strange for a royal lineage.”

“Well, Father had some records sealed for privacy.” Roman admitted. “That's how I knew about Sir Edward. He was a mage of some power, but his family withdrew from the monarchy generations ago. They're no longer part of the line of succession, so their presence exists only in the Tomes.”

Logan hesitated, shutting the book in his hands. “The mage's histories? The ones kept at the Royal Academy library?”

“Yep—well, most of them.”

Logan looked at Roman sharply. “What do you mean, most of them?”

Roman's eyes went wide as he froze. Logan's pulse quickened.

“Roman? What do you know?”

Roman looked, for a moment, like he wanted to bolt...but then took a deep breath, gathered Logan's hands in his, and began speaking.

********** 1033, A.A.

Logan's eyes snapped open as the Loom dropped abruptly away, leaving him with an ache in the marrow of his bones and a chill he couldn't quite dispel. As he sat up, warm arms immediately encircled him, tucking him against a wall of fire that eased the chill and soothed the hurt away.

“Logan? Say something—are you all right?”

For a second, Logan just leaned into him and shut his eyes. It wasn't complete, vague and nebulous and full of holes, but a new memory was hanging loose in his head, barely attached. He could almost picture the room, a few snatches of conversation...but the feeling was the only part he was sure of.

Secret and special...good and right...

I loved him.

“Logan, please. What happened?”

Logan pressed his forehead against Roman's collarbone for just one more second, the sweet pulse of longing rippling through his bones, igniting an energy that was alien to him.

I love him.

“I am satisfactory.” he assured Roman, slowly straightening. He reached up to rub his head. “I...slept here last night?”

Roman nodded, his hand settling on Logan's shoulder, warm and heavy. “You don't remember waking up?”

“I...maybe? I was...the Loom.”

“You entered that trance again—you asked for my help, and I gave it. Like I did during your Warping, but this time my hand was glowing—like the last time you were channeling. You wanted to reconstruct a memory, did you succeed?”

Logan nodded, then shook his head.

Books...Grandpap...sun bleached hair, a special and secret cocoon in his childhood bed.

Flinching, Logan fumbled for Roman's hand, ripping it off his shoulder and squeezing hard.

“Roman.”

“I'm here, Starlight—what do you remember?”

“I...don't know. Just—my brother.”

“Virgil's not here.”

“I have to find him. Now.”

********** Virgil was going on twenty four hours wide, staring awake, and wasn't enjoying it.

Well...much.

Reluctantly following the crown prince through the lower levels of the castle, he hated to admit that for all his crazy, Prince Remus was kind of a fascinating guy. He was smart, yeah, but—more than that.

He was brilliant, in a way that was frightening. He babbled with barely any coherence, went off on tangents, talked to himself, but there wasn't a single wasted word. He talked about his brother with perfect devotion, discussed violence with absolute reverence, and spoke about death like...

Like he was Necromata. In between the stories he shared during the night—stories about Roman's secrets, three years of carrying on an ilicit friendship with Logan—he went off about Virgil's people with a flawless understanding of who they were and what they were about.

All while revealing, with all his stolen knowledge, that he didn't know jack shit about them. Everything he ever learned was heresay and speculation, but...but through the stories he saw the foundation. Remus was a quintessential outsider, but the respect he showed for the Necromata made Virgil ache inside.

Fuck, Remus actually gave him a little hope for the future.

“This way—this is where I found Roman after it happened.”

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Virgil jogged to catch up with Remus. “We don't have a lot of time, Remus—Logan is supposed to try and resurrect your father this morning.”

“Yeah, yeah—we have an hour, I know.”

“Two.”

“What?”

“Two. The sun will be well above the horizon then—doesn't do anyone any favors to be too prompt when it comes to making sure the Barrier is closed, unless you want to end up with someone else in your father's body.”

Remus glanced at Virgil over his shoulder—then snickered.

“Could be funny.” he decided, ushering Virgil ahead of him. “Through this door—this is where I found Roman the night your brother was arrested.”

“Where was he? I never realized he was anywhere near us when we got caught.” Virgil huffed, shoving the filthy, heavy wooden door open to emerge into a dingy stone tunnel.

“Before this castle had lower levels beneath this one, this was meant to be a sewer.” Remus explained as Virgil took a few more steps into the tunnel. “It's on some early plans for the palace, but hardly anyone remembers it's here. I got nosy when I was six and found it—Roman and I have used this to get in and out of the palace undetected since we were little.”

“He must've told Logan.” Virgil muttered, peering up at the grate overhead. Above him, through the bars he could see scattered straw—the inside of an empty dungeon cell. “That's how he got us in here.”

“You were here that night?”

Virgil turned to face Remus, smiling a little without any humor in it. “He didn't tell you about that, huh?”

Remus shook his head in silence.

Virgil scoffed, turning his gaze upwards again.

“Not all that surprised. Hell, maybe he didn't know I was here, either. I wasn't supposed to be...truth be told, I was always certain that I was the reason Logan got arrested. It's why I tried to get him out.”

“What were you, four years old? What were you doing here, and how could you have been behind it?”

“I was nine.” Virgil replied quietly, unable to tear his gaze from the grate of the cell above him.

“And I was here because a Weaver needs his Spider.”

********** 1023, A.A. The tunnel was absolutely terrifying—dark and wide and squat. Grandpap would have to double over to walk through it, big as he was.

Virgil did not want to be here. He wanted to be home in bed with his blanket, listening to Grandpap's bedtime stories about the Before Times and the wicked king that was slain, plunging their tribe into eternal darkness.

Logan was here, though—and a Spider had to stand with his Weaver. Protecting Logan was his responsibility now, and he couldn't let his big brother down.

“...find the book in the office...”

Voices, up ahead. Echoes carried down towards him, making Virgil flinch hard enough that he stumbled and fell.

Silence. More voices, garbled and echoing...

A hand on his collar, dragging him to his feet.

“Virgil, what in the name of the Seven Hells are you doing here!”

When Virgil landed upright, he came face to face with the shadowed features of his big brother, blue eyes glimmering in the barely there light.

“What are you doing here, Logan?” Virgil shot back. “You snuck out without me! You're 'posed to bring me on important stuff, I'm your 'Pider!”

Logan spun around, as if he were about to address someone—but then froze. His shoulders hunched the way they always did when he forgot to thank the spirits of the ancestors at his altar every morning, nervous and unhappy.

Turning back to Virgil, Logan narrowed his eyes.

“This isn't Weaver stuff, Stormcloud, so you can't tell anyone. Especially not Grandpap.”

“I swear on the 'Pider's Thread, Loganberry.”

Taking a deep breath, Logan nodded. “Okay...okay, you can come. You'll actually be helpful to find...never mind. Just do as I say, and don't ask questions. I can't answer them?”

“Why?”

Logan raised a warning finger at him.

“Don't. Ask. Questions.”

Virgil slammed his mouth shut, but didn't argue as Logan took his hand and led him down the tunnel and into the palace of the king.

********** 1033, A.A.

“What part of the palace did you hit?” Remus asked.

Virgil shrugged. “Not sure. It was dark, I was nine and terrified...I've tried to track it since I enlisted, but haven't had much luck. All I know is it was somewhere in the lower levels 'cause that's how I found the tunnel and got away. Wasn't near the dungeons either, not really—when we got caught, Logan steered me towards a lit, open door. It was some kind of office, and I found an open grate that led me to it.”

Virgil faced Remus again, pointing upwards. “This is under the dungeons, but you said this was where you found Roman after Logan's arrest?”

“Yup.” Remus replied, popping the 'p' sound at the end. “Near the end of this particular tunnel, down here.”

Virgil glanced behind him, in the direction Remus pointed, Turning back to the prince, he jerked his chin in that direction.

“Let's go.”

The pair fell into step beside each other, easily matching pace. Remus was a little taller than Virgil, so he was slowing down to let him keep up. Virgil didn't appreciate it.

He didn't.

“You know, Roman didn't help you get in here. I did.”

Virgil turned sharply towards him. “You're fucking with me.”

“Identical twins? In a poorly lit room, you can't make out the streak and the 'stache, Sweet Cheeks.”

“But...why?”

“Because you were trying to help your brother, and mine couldn't. Help you, that is.”

“Why couldn't he? Why did he admit to doing it?” Virgil asked.

“Did he actually admit to anything last night?” Remus asked with a raised eyebrow.

Virgil opened his mouth...then closed it.

“Not outright, no.” he realized aloud. “But why couldn't he help?”

“Virgil!”

The sound of that voice, echoing off the walls of the tunnel, was a flashback in time. For an instant, Virgil was nine and terrified again, being led into Souls Knew What by his big brother...running for his life and trying not to choke on his sobs, knowing he'd left his big brother to die.

Spinning on his heel, Virgil found himself faced with the sight of the tunnel's end where he and Remus had been heading anyway. The door was open, and Logan stood side by side with the familiar figure of King Roman.

At least, until Logan bolted forward, barreling towards Virgil until he had a death grip on him.

“Unghf! Loganberry, you're...crushing me...”

“He panicked as soon as we got down here.” Roman explained, raising his voice to be heard as he jogged towards them. “He's been off since he woke up earlier. He tried to reconstruct a memory...”

Virgil sighed, wrapping his arms around Logan for a second to give him a comforting squeeze before he shifted to reach for Logan's hand.

“C'mere, Loganberry...lemme help you...”

The moment their fingers meshed, Virgil felt the pull on his consciousness—Logan drawing on his focus, pulling raw thought from his head that sent his awareness of his surroundings spiraling into a pinpoint.

Virgil's eyes slid shut, his head lolling back in familiar fashion—but this time, before the darkness took him, warmth flooded the base of his skull and softened his tumble into oblivion.

********** “Hey—hey! Wake up, Storm!”

“Remus.”

Roman watched his brother stand beside the silent cadet, one hand on his shoulder and the other cradling his head, supporting him as he half sagged where he stood. There was a look in his eyes Roman wasn't sure he'd ever seen before, something like panic...but not quite.

It was familiar...but fuzzy.

Moving to his brother's side, Roman touched his shoulder.

“He's all right, Remus.”

“How do you know?”

“Because this is what familiars do. I've...seen it before.”

Roman blinked, startled by the words that came out of his mouth—but once he said them, he knew it was true. He had seen it before...somewhere among Logan's people, but where?...

“What are you four doing down here?”

Roman looked back towards the direction Remus and Virgil had come from, flinching when he spotted Janus at the end of the tunnel with Patton at his side.

“Lord Janus? Pat—what are you doing here?” he asked, moving towards the pair.

“I came 'cause Janny asked me to.” Patton replied, staring past Roman to where Logan and Virgil stood, deep blue eyes filled with worry. “What's goin' on? Janny?...”

With a sigh, Janus discreetly slid a hand up Patton's spine, only just visible as yellow gloved fingertips appeared near his nape then vanished with a soft whisper of leather on fabric.

“Go, darling. See if you can help.” Janus urged.

Reaching behind him, Roman saw Patton catch the gloved hand and squeeze before he hurried down the tunnel towards the trio of Remus, Logan, and Virgil.

Facing Janus, Roman folded his arms. “You didn't answer my question.”

Janus glanced past Roman, seemingly unable to tear his gaze from Patton for a long moment before he finally managed to set his gaze on Roman.

“I'm an assassin. I'm not supposed to tell you why I do anything, Your Majesty.” Janus pointed out.

“So you're here to kill someone?”

Janus sneered, mouth setting into a thin, tight line.

“If you must know,” he growled quietly, “I came here to kill the necromancer.”

Roman's heart froze, blood running cold.

“No, you're not.”

“Majesty? Get your hands off me. Now.”

Roman blinked, not even realizing that he'd backed Janus up against the nearby wall, and to his shock had a hand wrapped around his scaled throat.

“Give me a reason why I should.” he asked flatly. “You'll have a harder time getting to the necromancer if you have to stop and kill me first.”

“Oh, for the love of—I'm here to kill the necromancer, not your pet prisoner!”

“I...what?”

“The necromancer that assassinated your father and is trying to assassinate you.” Janus spat, finally shaking Roman's grip so he could straighten his cloak.

“I...don't understand.”

Janus finally tugged the clasp of his cloak straight, and when he met Roman's gaze, his own mismatched eyes were filled with something far warmer than any man might expect to see in the eyes of a spy like him.

Janus was looking at him with sympathy.

“Your Majesty...Logan may be one of the Necromata, but he is not a necromancer.” he whispered.

“Of course he is! He--”

“--may have been a necromancer once upon a time, but he isn't any longer. The root of necromancy is memory—with no memory, he should have no magic. No mere necromancer can beat the Cleansing that way, it's impossible.”

“Then...?”

Roman turned away from Janus to stare down the tunnel. He watched Virgil and Logan both slowly come to their senses, Logan opening ice blue eyes as Virgil started to straighten, supported by both Remus and Patton.

Over Virgil's shoulder, Logan's gaze met Roman's, and for just a moment those gemstone eyes flickered with the soft, blue-white light of his magic.

Janus's voice spoke right next to his ear, shaking him to his core.

“Logan is not a necromancer, Your Majesty...he's a Lazari.”

[makerofrunevests]

Book Spotlight: The New Emperor’s Concerto by Hazel B. West

Synopsis:

The year is 2228 and the world is on the cusp of World War Four. London is rife with anarchists and secret plots. It looks like dark days are coming for the British Empire. Darker than any that have been seen for decades.

But luckily England has some help.

Sir Lysander is the King's Righteous Man-and all that entails. He's the king's right hand, and a red one at that, the man who stands in the shadows and does what needs to be done for the protection of his country. 

Eidolon is a phantom, the anarchist group Apophis's top retrieval expert. They need something, he gets it, no matter the consequence. Even though he'd secretly prefer to be in his flat with his cat and a good book.

They've been butting heads for a while, but in times like these loyalties are known to change and right now, any help is good help. They just didn't count on being the only thing standing between England and the start of the next world war.

The New Emperor’s Concerto on Goodreads

Author Links: Goodreads Author page Hazel’s Twitter Hazel’s Instagram Ko-fi (Anyone who donates or subscribes to Hazel’s ko-fi this month will be able to see an exclusive sneak peek of the next book in the Concerto universe, Requiem in Red.)

Purchase Links:

Amazon Kindle Paperback Smashwords

Purchase link for “The Butler’s Story,” a prequel story that is FREE during this blog tour

Author Bio:

Hailing from Purgatory (aka, Florida) Hazel is an indie author, book wyrm, and coffee connoisseur. She typically enjoys writing books with an unconventional flair, probably with a bit of folklore and mythology, most definitely with a lot of siblings or brothers-in-arms. When she’s not writing, she manages an Etsy shop, drinks a lot of coffee, listens to music, haunts conventions, or just holes up like an eldritch horror and binges her favorite shows—for inspiration. If you meet this rare creature on the street, she has been known to respond to the offer of coffee and old bookstores. But it’s probably best you try to contact her online first. 

Anyone who participates in the photo challenge will be entered to win a giveaway for a signed copy of the book or a Swag pack!

Giveaway Link

And, last but certainly not least, an excerpt from The Emperor’s New Concerto:

Lysander came to slowly, groggily. His training kept him from making a move, from tipping off his captor that he was conscious. Simply continuing to put on the façade of unconsciousness as he tried his best to make sense of his surroundings in his current state.

The first thing he noticed was the rustle of paper as if someone were turning the pages of a book and identified the familiar scent of English breakfast tea. The clink of china confirmed that fact. Was the knave really sitting there reading and drinking tea while he was lying there captive?

He tried to ease his eyes open, staring out through his lashes when he realized something else. Something moving against his side. He froze, his breathing hitching in surprise before the thing seemed to simply leap onto his chest, digging something sharp into him. Lysander tensed, almost not wanting to look.

“Unless you want to keep pretending, I know you’re awake, so you may as well get up and have a cup of tea. I’m sure it will help your head,” a familiar voice said.

Lysander opened his eyes and found himself staring face to face with his attacker: A black cat with green eyes, staring at him reproachfully, flipping its tail, claws digging through Lysander’s clothing and into his chest. He turned his head, confused, to see Eidolon. The other man was sitting comfortably in a chair to the right of the sofa Lysander was lying on, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, a cup of tea in one hand and a book in the other, balanced across his knee to hold his place.

“What is this?” was all Lysander could ask, still muzzy from the drug.

“My flat, which you broke into, in case you don’t remember,” came the rather defensive reply.

Lysander huffed indignantly, reaching up to feel the side of his neck, which smarted from the dart. “You drugged me.”

“You should have knocked like a civilized person,” Eidolon replied. “It’s quite rude to just go breaking into people’s residences willy-nilly, King’s Righteous Man or not.”

For more posts about The Emperor’s New Concerto, see the official link to the tour lineup.

[outroshooky]

Questions Tag!

Tagged by @tendershepherd (Danke Shep!)

Tagging: @a-heart-full-of-javert, @vankoya, @joonbird (If y’all’ve already been tagged or want to skip this, go for it)

1. Nicknames: Written, Seagull, Scuttle, Yun Mango Dango, Moon Yong (thanks @lolnxcole)

2. Gender: Female

3. Zodiac: Aries

4. Height: 5′5″

5. Age: 16

6. Time: 2:55pm (EST)

7. Favorite Bands/Solo Artists: Oh boy, there are a lot of these. Favorite bands would have to be Panic! At The Disco, Fall Out Boy, BTS, CHRVCHES, Imagine Dragons, Caravan Palace, Monstercat (technically a record company, but oh well), and twenty one pilots. Favorite solo artists would have to be blackbear, Agust D, Troye Sivan, Tristam, Muzzy, Dion Timmer, Conro, Grant, WRLD, San Holo, Karma Fields, Rameses B, KSHMR, TheFatRat, Alan Walker, Galantis, Avicii, Zedd, Loote... virtually anything electronic.

8. Song Stuck in my head: Where Did You Come From by BTS.

9. Last movie I saw: Pretty In Pink about a month ago... It wasn't a voluntary decision.

10. Last thing I googled: "BTS love and support memes" for love and support.

11. Other blogs: Nada.

12. Why I chose my username: I'm a very indecisive writer, and I erase and rewrite constantly before working out a final product. I originally selected the blog name "writtenthenerased", but mistyped it as "writtenthanerased" in a text to a friend. I didn't catch the typo until he asked me to clarify between two meanings, one of which was "Do you mean it as in 'I'd rather be written than erased'?" I thought it personally fit me rather well, and I selected writtenthanerased as my blog name.

13. Following: Twenty-eight blogs over a wide variety of topics: yourdaily, interior design, self-help, writing tips, best friends' blogs, art tips, and Bangtan writers.

14. Average amount of sleep: Either five hours, nine, or none at all. I'm a high school student, so I really don't have the concept of a sleep schedule.

15. Lucky Number: 7!

16. What am I wearing: An oversized high school band sweatshirt, a gray Monstercat Uncaged t-shirt and pajama pants.

17. Dream job: Airline pilot, professional procrastinator.

18. Dream trip: Since I've already gone on my dream Europe trip, I'm currently in the works with a friend about a Southeast Asia trip to Japan and South Korea. Owl cafés? Owl cafés.

19. Favorite Food: My grandmother's pasta, which is utterly heavenly, or strawberry bubble tea.

20. Play an instrument: Clarinet, handbells, piano.

21. Favorite song (right now): I can't pick just one, sadly: Airplane Part 2 and Fake Love by BTS, Your Side Of The Bed by Loote, Wanderlust by blackbear, Questions by Tristam, an Airplane Part 2/Havana mashup, and a Monster/Save Me mashup on YouTube.

22. Play(ed) any sport: I played softball for two years before being hit in the head and realizing that catching things wasn't my calling. I have, though, played tennis for nine or ten years and counting.

23. Hair color: Dirty blonde.

24. Eye color: Namely green, although it changes to a more bluish or brownish shade depending on the light.

25. Languages you speak/are learning: I speak English and some various German profanities. I'm currently in year two of four of my high school Latin education. Yeet cum fiducia! (Side note, I'm not responsible for whatever links come up when you input that phrase into Google)

26. Random fact: So this is going to sound really freaking weird, but I'm actually a student pilot! I've been flying since I was thirteen (yes, here in the United States, it is legal to fly a single-engine plane before you can drive a car. Lovely lawmaking, isn't it?) and have nearly enough hours to apply for my private pilot’s license (a minimum of forty). As I just turned sixteen two months ago, over the summer I will be going to a flight camp for three weeks, upon which I will take my first solo flight! I'm looking to pursue this in college and obtain a Bachelor's in Aeronautical Science; from there I'll hop into the airlines and hopefully start working my way up from there. I've always been passionate about aviation, and I'm an air show junkie who's been to shows and air tattoos in numerous states and countries. It's a weird hobby for a sixteen year old to have, but hey, I like a little diversity in my life.

27. Describe yourself: I’m an INFJ on the Meyers-Briggs scale, and a 1w2 on the Enneagram. 

To be honest, I’ve spent more time thinking about this question than was probably necessary, but I struggle to accurately sum myself up in a brief paragraph, perhaps because I’m not quite sure who I am yet. Bear with me, this might be a little long.

People tell me I’m intelligent, self-reliant, mature, and wise; apparently I’d make a good therapist, and I’d have to agree. I’ll listen to you even if you’re my worst enemy, because everyone deserves to be heard, no matter what our relationship status is. I’m a natural mediator, and it takes a lot to get me truly angry, but once I am, it’s not a pretty sight. I’m painfully selfless, maybe too selfless at times, and I’ve learned that I give people too many chances. I trust a little too quickly, but I’m also terrified of telling people my inner thoughts (what a weird conundrum, huh?). I’m hung up on the “what if”s, they’ll haunt me until the end of time. I’m anxious; I love to be alone, but I’m scared to be lonely. I hope for the best and assume the worst, and the end product is usually somewhere in the middle. 

I’m usually fairly quiet because if it’s a weekday, chances are I haven’t slept well. I rarely take the initiative in conversations, but god, get me on a topic I love? I’ll talk your ear off for hours about Overwatch and European History and the F-18. My friends say I’m sarcastically savage, but also have a heart of gold, and will do anything for the people I love. I love without abandon; I like to assume the best in people and find the good in every bad situation, seek out the little things that bring joy to a darker day. I create endlessly, through writing and drawing and architecture and dreaming. My mind is always thinking, always conceiving, and rarely does it ever stop, but I’m painfully perfectionist; I criticize constantly, from the ragged edges of my chewed-short fingernails to the sentence I just typed on a blank Google doc. I run from the past and look to the future, and it seems so far away, but I blink and I’m suddenly looking at junior year of high school and the world of college and student loans and sweet, sweet independence. It’s right here, I’m right on the verge, and just about when I think I can see who I actually am, the kaleidoscope turns a little to the right, and there’s a different design in the eyepiece.

It’s been turning a lot lately, it seems. I’ve lost a lot of people, been burned at the edges, discovered what it’s like to have everything fall out from underneath you. But you know what? I’m still here, and that kaleidoscope is still rotating, because each time another block has been pulled out, I see yet another side of myself I never knew existed, and even in just a few months, I’ve learned countless lessons about people and feelings and even my own self. Thus, I’ll keep looking through the eyepiece and watching the pieces turn, beautiful and bright in their design.

Because I can’t do much else other than hope and dream, push forward to the future, to the days when things will work themselves out, to the moment when I can work myself out.

And that day, I think, I’ll finally see the whole mosaic.