#it might not be true--and perhaps verifiably so!

[grotto-esque]

I think... people should cultivate a skeptical, questioning mentality towards news reporting, and perhaps especially if that reporting confirms your worldview.

[naffeclipse]

Charm Brought It Back

Reader x Witches!Sun, Moon, & Eclipse

Commission Info

I am so excited to present this Hocus Pocus inspired AU requested by the lovely @jackofallrabbits! The boys star as the witchy brothers who return once a fated reader lights the starry candle. They simply must show their gratitude! And what better day to post such a spooky and fun fic than on Friday the 13th?!

Content Warning: Suggestive themes, heavy kissing, and heavy touching.

———

You turn the key and cut the engine of your car. With a flick, you turn off the headlights. The beginning of a sunset swoops down onto your ill-adjusted vision. The horizon is drenched in purples and oranges as shadows begin to crawl off of trees and their yellowed leaves. It will take a minute or two for your sight to adapt, but you have tilted and revolved the structure waiting just at the edge of the forest within your mind’s eyes for days now. It’s beyond the dirt road you’ve pulled onto the shoulder of.

Blinking slowly, you find the house’s dark silhouette through the boughs of clustered trees, and you sigh at the beauty of its preserved history.

The building is an artifact dating back roughly to the 1630s. A post-medieval English-style home, it contains two stories with an overhanging jetty and stunning clapboard siding that has survived a little under four centuries of existence. Your eyes catch on the windows and your heart sings at the sight. Diamond-paned casement. And there, decorative pendants of celestial bodies, including iron-casted suns, moons, and overlapping symbols of the two. The steeply pitched roof is common for the era and is more renowned in its descendant the saltbox form, but this style boosts its spooky aura.

The Puritan colonists were the ones responsible for importing the style to America as they landed here on the eastern coast. 

It’s no stretch of the imagination to think of witches and execution trials while gazing over the beautiful home. You’re particularly intrigued by the history of the Salem witch trials, and as a historian, you couldn’t deny yourself the chance to enter the building and feed the gnawing need to stand within a piece of history.

Stepping out of your car, a gust of wind carrying the bitter edge of autumn cuts through your brown sweater. You shiver and shut the door as quietly as you can manage. This is hallowed ground. This will supply your ever inquisitive mind which is always looking to the past with a curiosity most insatiable.

You face the home. A footpath lightly serpentines between the trees. Hooligans with destructive tendencies and teenagers on dares will venture here for a spooky, fun time, but are usually caught by the police because the building sits on private property. You asked for permission from the owner of the hundreds of acres of forest land that includes the so-called “Witch House” if you might enter the premises. Given your credentials, you were certain the owner would trust you with exploring the home.

Much to your relief, the owner agreed. 

You look up, arms clutching your knitted sleeves to fight the chill of an October breeze, in awe and reverence. 

From your pocket, you slip out a wrought-iron key with the symbol of the moon overlapping the sun to form a black eclipse and marvel again at the intricacy of ancient beauty. Your fingertips grow chilled in the late hour. The sun shifts from orange to dark, bleeding red like blood from a heart spilled across the horizon. You walk towards the home. 

Perhaps you should have arrived sooner. You were caught in another historical journal depicting the specific timeframe of when this home would have been occupied by its original inhabitants. 

The rumors even now speak of curses and cursed artifacts within the building. Some of it is true—you have confirmed with your own scholarly sources. The original owners were a trio of brothers. They were accused of witchcraft and hanged for the crimes. That much is historically documented and verified. 

What is fantasy is the tale of the brothers casting a curse with their dying breaths, declaring they would one day return if a virgin lit a starry candle on the anniversary of their executions.

Superstition. Most likely, the fear of the townspeople transcended to their children, and their children, down and down until it became a tale to spin on Halloween night around these parts. 

The door is black as you approach it. A stray branch catches on your sweater, pulling on a thread, and you yank yourself free and silently mourn the roughen fabric before returning your attention to what really matters. You must be careful. This entire place is iconic and in need of preservation. 

You slip the key into the lock hole and turn it with a thick, heavy click before the black wood door groans and slides inwards as if inviting you into its sphere. You take a breath. Your boots cross the threshold and you enter the home. 

As is typical of some homes built in the early seventeenth century, an open hall greets you. In the far back is the fireplace with a cauldron still sitting upon an ashy bed. An original wood-carve table and chairs are set to one side as a staircase climbs up into the darkness of the second level. What little red light leaks inside is narrowed and cut up into diamonds by the panes. To one wall, shelves contain dusty and forgotten cooking utensils, once glimmery copper pots, and dinner dishes with designs considered much too gawky in the Puritan era but it causes you to softly gasp.

Your hand covers your mouth as you gaze around you, overwhelmed with the beautiful intricacies of metallic chandeliers holding half-burned tallow candles, and to the other wall lies a bookshelf covered in cobwebs as if the spiders refuse to let anyone examine such precious reads. Your fingers already itch to gently pry out one manuscript and gaze at the original script of whoever wrote it.

But the light—it’s far too dark now. The red has given way to blue and pale indigo. You squint. You reach into your other pocket for a lighter and flick it on. The tiny flame spouts a delicate light. Never would you dare admit this out loud to a living soul, but you so desperately wish to see the home in its authentic state, lit only by the technology the brothers had at the time: fire.

There are thick, yellowed candles lying on the table and clustered together on the narrow window sills. You have no hope of reaching the metal chandeliers but you do spy a candelabra positioned near the bookshelf on a small end table. You light it first with a careful touch of your lighter flame. The wick catches, even after all of these years. You smile softly, your heart warm within your chest as you bask in the essence of this beautiful place.

A few more candles should suffice. 

You slip to the table to light the thick and tall candles. The flames bloom and warm the space in rich light, casting thick shadows from support beams. You almost set your lighter away when you spy one last candle set upon a golden candle holder. The fashioned metal twists and twines with elaborate engravings of shooting stars and slices of sun rays were placed in the corner of the room almost out of sight. The curiosity within you urges you to take a step, then another, and another. You stand in front of the almost forgotten candle.

The tallow is black as midnight. Strange. How did they color this? Embedded within the darkness are speckles of white, splattering the candle like an array of stars. Your eyes stray in search of constellations before shaking your head.

It’s true. There is a starry candle. Perhaps the brothers did dabble in the occult, playing with cards and fortune telling, and being punished with death for their interest in unholy magic. 

The wick is dark and untouched as if it were never lit before. You bring the lighter flame closer. Superstition might worry another, but you concern yourself with logic and reason—explanations of humanity rather than inexplicable forces beyond comprehension. 

Something stirs from a nearby corner shelf. Two long ears twitch. You catch a glimpse of a rabbit with creamy white fur just before it leaps off of the shelf and directly onto your arm. You yelp. Nearly dropping the lighter, you scramble back as the rabbit hits the floor, collects itself, and sits on its haunches.

Green eyes glare up at you. The rabbit, small and bunny-like, stays firmly between you and the starry candle.

You stand with your chest heaving and your lungs scraping out air, almost burning your thumb on the lighter flame before turning around yourself. Where did the woodland creature come from? Did it crawl its way inside like a rat and become trapped within the colonial home? The shot of adrenaline still flowing through your veins leaves your hands shaking.

The rabbit is still watching you with uncanny eyes. Prey animals so rarely stare back at bigger, larger threats. Perhaps it’s a pet. A runaway pet that somehow ended up here, of all places.

You slowly offer out your hand, keeping the lighter away in your other, as you take a step towards it.

It thumps a foot once, as if in warning, then bounds away. You watch it disappear into the house, still reeling from the fright it gave you. 

If Michael was here, he would have laughed and told you to leave with him, now. He never wanted you to go here, especially alone, but you shake such ominous warnings away. He said curiosity killed the cat. You disagreed. This house is a part of history, not a curse. Witches are mere stories, conjured out of historical unrest and the longing to blame bad luck and tragedies upon an individual or three. 

There’s always an explanation for fear superstition or mistrust. It’s far more sad than it is spooky.

You shake your head, smooth out the creases in your sweater, and face the starry candle again. The lighter flame flickers softly as you draw near it.

It is the anniversary of the brothers’ executions. You remember now as the shadows from other candles drape over you like a veil. You are also a virgin.

You laugh to yourself, covering your mouth as you do so. Look at you! You’re getting so worked up because a rabbit jumped at you.

It’s only hocus-pocus.

You tilt the lighter until it engulfs the wick. The flame catches, and you at last snap the lighter shut and return it to your pocket. Your eyes squint slightly at the candle. The wick snaps and bursts into sparks. The flame is not yellow or orange or even blue—it’s pure white like a comet streaking across the sky.

A crack of thunder splits the night sky with a bellow so monstrous, you feel like a child again, fearing a storm. You drop low to the ground, shielding your head as if the very world was going to fall upon you. A spark cracks in the fireplace, conjured out of ash underneath the cauldron before it burns hot and bright. The cauldron immediately begins roiling and bubbling with water. Laughter, great and terrible, and filled with the most jester-like joy sweeps over the room.

The pulse in your ears drowns at any sense but the need to hide. You scramble into the corner, tucking yourself behind the stand of the starry candle and hunker down. Holding your breath, you grab a fistful of your sweater while clutching your chest, and watch the door to the almost 400-year-old house fly open.

Three figures stride inside, looking about the place with wide eyes and disk-like heads framed in jutting adornments not unlike sun rays or shrouded in a heavy, dark blue hood.

“Brothers! We’re home!” The first one, tall and dark with deep red hues to his form, accent in sharp orange sun rays and an eclipse upon his face, turns to face his brother with bright, cat-like yellow eyes. “Isn’t it glorious?”

Another figure steps forward, yellow and off-white. Pale eyes beam. His head is crowned in bright sun rays as well. His spindly fingers twindle together in exuberant energy while he glances about the room eagerly. “Oh, yes, yes! More than anything! It’s as if we weren’t gone for more than a day—though the dust and cobwebs beg to differ.”

He draws a claw—you suck in a sharp breath—along the table’s edge and rubs his taloned fingertips together in disappointment. 

“We must get to cleaning at once.”

“No,” the last figure fixes his hood with silvery digits. Golden jewels hang down the back of his unusual skull, the last and most prominent adornment a thick, golden star pendant. His eyes cast around the room, scarlet, and searching. “We must thank the little mouse who lit the candle.”

He flashes sharp teeth within his wide mouth, shaping it into a hungry grin. You gulp.

“Where are our manners?” The red and dark one twists back to the room with a flourish of his arms. His yellow gaze sweeps over the shelves and floors with a blade-like glint. “Of course, we must thank one so lovely.”

A dark cape drapes about his person. Underneath, a white flowing shirt hangs loosely to his lithe and slender figure, causing you to balk upon staring at such an exposed chest. The other two are no different, wearing similar shirts and dark trousers, but the hooded one bears a thick, longer cape while the sunny figure shares a cape similar to the first.

The yellow one lifts his wrists and frowns at the red ribbons tied around them. Golden bells jingle softly in an ominous chord. 

“How terrible a reminder of our current impermanence,” he growls low in his throat, all cheerfulness lost and causing you to squeeze your ribs in fear.

“Patience, Sun,” the red one speaks, though he too casts a narrowed glance to the black ribbons and golden bells adorning his wrists. “We will affix ourselves back to this world in due time.”

“Eclipse, what a delicious creature I smell.” The hooded figure steps deeper into the home. Blue claws scratch at equally blue ribbons knotted to his hand bones but his attention is terrifyingly fixed on the candle stand just above your hiding spot. 

You shrink further into the corner.

“Yes, Moon? And how lovely?” Eclipse, you assume, asks. His yellow eyes flash.

“As lovely as the stars,” Moon answers.

You watch claws curl around the wooden side of the candle stand, scratching deeply into the wood before a half-moon face emerges from behind, teeth set like a predator’s upon the sight of a wounded animal. Your heart flutters like a bird with a broken wing.

“Hello, little mouse. Won’t you come and play with us?” 

You scream as he leaps behind the candle stand, takes you by the arms, and pulls you to your feet. You struggle to free yourself, crying out as he grabs hold of your wrists and fixes you firmly in place. 

“My, how sweet,” he purrs in a dangerously low voice that rolls in the back of his throat. “You are the darling virgin who lit the candle, no?”

“Let me go!” You thrash but Moon grins in delight, as if you’re simply too precious. 

“You deserve proper thanks,” He lowers one hand, forcing you to submit with slightly bent knees. “Here is my gratitude, little mouse.”

You freeze as he brings your hand towards his mouth, and a hundred, horrifying visions of him biting your fingers off or sinking his teeth in your palm send your blood into a frozen sludge of fear.

The witch, however, presses a kiss to the center of your palm. The softness catches the gears in your mind and jerks them to a halt.

“Thank you for allowing us to return once more,” he rasps. His scarlet eyes find yours between the space of your thumb and forefinger, and a strange stirring takes hold of your middle.

“This isn’t real,” you breathe. Dizziness begins to take hold.

This must be a dream, a thought gone wild, or inhaled bacteria triggering hallucinations.

Moon’s grin widens. He lowers your hand, loosening his hold for one precious moment. You rip your hands free of his grasp. A low growl escapes him but you’ve already slipped away, your eyes upon the door and spilling with the need to rush out into the night, away from the impossibilities standing before you—

Arms snatch your waist and lift your feet from the ground. You gasp. 

Held in the air, you squirm before a hot breath dusts the shoulder of your sweater. You fall still, your throat bobbing as a mouth presses into the corner of your neck and lays a kiss on the sensitive spot. Gooseflesh prickles up and down your body.

“I assure you, I’m very real, little mouse,” Moon purrs. His hands squeeze your hips once. “And as nice as this… attire is, I would dress you in blues and silvers. You would look proper and powerful, like my brothers and I.”

A squeak escapes you. You shrink against him, caught in his embrace.

“Brothers?” The word rattles out of your throat. 

“This is our home,” Moon whispers. “And you are our most honored guest.”

You manage to pry off his hands from your waist. With a sinister chuckle, the blue and silver hands release you. Without looking back, you run, ignoring the twinge in your stomach that whispers it was too easy to get away.

You hardly get a few steps before the sunny one—Sun—steps into your path. He catches you in his arms and spins you in a waltz at breakneck speed, your feet never touching the ground, before stopping without warning as he dips you low. He looms above you, his smile filled with sharp teeth.

“Let me get an eyeful. Oh, yes, you look good enough to eat,” he simpers. His hand splays along the small of your back and you gawk up at him, still trying to regain your balance after the sickness-inducing whirl. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you.”

“I just want to leave,” you whimper. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? Sunshine,” he laughs, and it echoes with all of his heart—do once-hanged witches have a heart? There is no historical journey to give context to this very moment, you fear.

He lowers his sultry gaze to you. “I wish to only thank you. And I intend to.”

He pulls you back to your feet. You’re still clasped in his embrace like lovers on a ballroom floor. His hand hooks tight to your hip, and his other catches the side of your face. Heat spreads through the marrow of your bones.

On the tabletop beside you, something white moves across the plane of its surface, hunkering behind the thick stack of candles still burning.

His head lowers to your neck. You stiffen as he tilts your head away, opening you to his parting teeth. A tongue, dark and sinuous, flicks out of his maw. A gasp slips from your lips at the wet lick up the column of your throat. Eyelids fluttering, you start to sag as weakness fills your knees. He drags his tongue higher to taste your jawline and finishes at your cheek with a swipe for good measure. 

Your hands find him and clutch tightly to his slender arms. He presses his lips to your ear and with a misty warmth, whispers.

“Thank you for—Gah!”

The white rabbit leaps up from the table, squirming directly between you and his chest, breaking you apart. Instinctively, you jump away just as Sun snarls. The heart-wrenching sound shakes your entire frame as he snatches the rabbit by the scruff before it can scramble back from his wretched claws.

“I’ll boil you alive!” he thunders. He steps towards the cauldron, back where Moon leans against the wall, watching the spectacle with an amusing twitch of his grinning maw. Behind you, Eclipse stands at the door like a sentinel, his eyes still hungry and even furious as he follows his brother’s movement to the cauldron. 

Sun dangles the rabbit, now struggling and kicking but unable to find purchase against the witch’s hold, above the boiling water of the caldron.

“No!” you cry.

Sun’s eyes widen. He turns back to you just as you close the distance and scoop the rabbit in your arms. His claws, pale-boned and wickedly curved, clench around emptiness. Without thought, you turn and run again though there is little hope as you come to the door. Your boots stamp against the wooden floorboards.

The rabbit in your embrace turns its face up to you and mutters in a woman’s voice, “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

You gawk, stunned before hands catch you by the shoulders. You’re brought to a dead halt. The rabbit leaps from your arms, drops to the floor, and races away into a shadowy corner of the room with only one glimpse of its fluffy tail before you’re left alone.

You twist and face the eldest witch’s attention. Eclipse. His yellow eyes go up and down your body, and you watch in muted shock as two additional arms emerge from the shadows of his cap. He forces you backward, one step after the other until your back is pinned against a dusty wall.

You stare into his eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly. Your pulse pounds in your eardrums.

“I don’t believe this is happening,” you utter.

The witch tilts his head with a wicked grin.

“We’ll make you a believer yet.” He promises, and his deep cords vibrate through your form. “My dear, we simply must thank you for all that you’ve done for us.”

His claws slip over your collarbones. Your breath quickens, a stirring you cannot name unfolding deep within your middle. His extra set of hands fall to your hips and begin caressing the bones. Daintily, carefully, his warm fingertips slip just underneath the hem of your sweater, touching your bare flesh. A shiver runs down your entire body, leaving you to squirm.

“Be a good little comet,” he says softly, “Let me pour my gratitude all over you.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t know it was true,” you stare into his face, marked with a red crescent over a dark shadow, and his eyes pierce into the very nature of your being. “You’re back.”

“Because of you,” he rumbles softly in his chest. His grin pulls higher at the corners.

His claws slip over the nap of your neck and card gently into the small, sensitive hairs at the bottom of your skull. You breathe in. His eyes brighten in pleasure before he slips his sharp but controlled talons over the shells of your ears and follows the arch of your cheekbone. His gaze drops to your lips. Your heart thumps and thumps against your sternum so powerfully, you fear he may hear it.

His lips pull over his razor-sharp teeth and you stop breathing.

His other set of hands begins working up the sides of your torso. He rubs slowly and gently, but you squirm despite this. He touches you far too intimately when you have never experienced such affections before. A mewl escapes your lips. You wriggle as he refuses to relent. 

In answer, his upper hands lower and capture your hands together in one, and pin them above your head to hold you in place. He coos, chastising. A great roil starts in your stomach and expands upwards until your face becomes pink and flushed.

“Hold still, little comet,” he chuckles, and you whimper. “I’m not finished with showering you in all my adoration.”

“Eclipse,” your breath is harsh and hot.

“It is good to hear my name upon such lovely lips,” his voice lowers, husky and scorching. “I knew a virgin would light the candle. I swore it to my brothers as they set us on the gallows and draped nooses around our necks. You are our light, our savior. How could I ever thank you?”

In his words, his burning stare that singes with sincerity, it clicks into place. All at once, you believe what you are seeing with your own two eyes. 

It’s true. He’s back. He and his brothers have returned with magic.

“I have questions,” you say hesitantly in your demureness, “I want answers.”

“Of course,” Eclipse agrees easily. “But first…”

A dark claw brushes your hair back from your face. The flutter in your heart can’t seem to hold still. Eclipse’s grin widens and his eyes soften.

“You have freckles like constellations,” he murmurs in the manner of one gazing at the night sky or one studying an ornate painting.  

Before you can shape words to reply, to say anything that might free you from his grasp, his mouth is upon yours. A sound softly catches in the back of your throat. You fall still under his caressing hands still moving below your sweater. He traces the row of your ribs. You have just enough mind to wonder if he feels your skin prickle in your sensitivity. His other hand clasps your wrists tighter. You gasp against his teeth. 

He pulls gently, hungrily, taking you as if a bite of honeycomb. You become melted honey, easily malleable between his teeth and then molded by his mouth. His tongue invades you. You moan softly at the claim he lays upon you until you become weak in the knees and almost fall. His kiss seals your fate.

He releases you from his maw. You sink slightly, and his arms fall out from under your sweater to properly catch you. He lowers your wrists, returns your hands, and brushes your hair once more from your face.

A chuckle emits from his lips, and you burn.

“You’ll stay with us, won’t you?” he asks, but he waits for no answer as he scoops you into his arms. Feet dangling, you have no choice but to cling to his shoulders and endure his brothers’ attention as he twists around and faces them.

The rabbit’s right. You are in trouble. Michael warned you. He said curiosity killed the cat.

But charm brought it back.

[danmei-confessions]

I think we should talk about Wu Zetian, China’s only female emperor, who historically has been regarded as a horrible and brutal leader.

She was born a commoner, became a concubine to one emperor, married his son and then took the role of emperor for herself when he died. She was politically adept, highly ambitious and extraordinarily intelligent.

History has accused her of smothering her newly born daughter and blaming a rival for her death. She had that rivals hands and feet cut off and then had her thrown into a vat of wine in which she was left to drown. She gouged out another rivals eyes and had acid poured down her throat. She wiped out 12 entire branches of a clan. She poisoned her mother. Just how accurate these things are is up for debate, but while these things might not all be true, she certainly did have several family members killed. And she did deal with her rivals and her detractors ruthlessly. Yet none of these things would have attracted criticism if she had been a man. She was no more scandalous than any other ruler during that time period.

But! Her rule was peaceful and prosperous. She avoided wars and welcomed ambassadors from as far away as the Byzantine empire. She changed laws so common people could be chosen for roles in government for their abilities rather than their name or status. She acknowledged and acted on criticisms from her retainers. She built watchtowers along the Silk Road so merchants wouldn’t be harrowed by bandits. Her reign saw women given more freedom(the ability to divorce, hold government positions, travel, hunt and ride horses, to be recognized by scholars).

She supported Buddhism and helped the religion spread and grow through commissioning temples, monasteries, and even a statue of the Buddha said to be carved in her own likeness. In the eyes of the common people, she likely would have been an incredibly popular ruler.

She remains a controversial figure primarily because of stories about her personal actions against her rivals by male Confucian officials who were prejudiced against strong and ambitious women and while they undoubtedly exaggerated aspects of Wu’s life, there is still substantial verifiable evidence of her ruthlessness.

We should also be aware that although she allegedly held her power through murder and merciless, according to Confucian philosophy, ‘while an emperor should not be condemned for acts that would be crimes in a subject, he should be judged harshly for allowing the state to fall into anarchy’ and viewed under this lens, Wu did effectively fulfill her duties as a ruler.

So we have a leader of ancient china who had two faces, one who committed acts of vile cruelty against her family and rivals and one who gave her citizens peace and prosperity.

Through a modern lens she can be viewed as an evil woman who rose from humble beginnings and coldly and calculatingly murdered her way into arguably the most powerful position in the world. A rich woman who threw crumbs to her peasant people while she lived luxuriously. She is a deadly woman, a black widow, an evil stepmother, a kinslayer. But according to historians, “without Wu there would have been no long enduring Tang dynasty and perhaps no lasting unity of China.”

The comparison to a modern mr beast obviously doesn’t hold water, but we can certainly analyze jgy to a more comparable historical figure and argue more accurately in a historical context if jgy was a good leader as the de facto emperor as the cultivation worlds Xiāndū.

It’s easy to see the comparisons between Wu and jgy, both were undesirable and deemed unfit by society. But both were politically adept, highly ambitious and extraordinarily intelligent. Both had family members murdered, perhaps sharing between them filicide. Both had a clans murdered to a man. Both are thought to have had their faces carved on religious relics for their narcissistic pleasure. Both had watchtowers built as a defense for their people. And both were torn down by the men following after them, vilified and distorted. Both forever destined to be speculated upon and misunderstood. Both of their legacy’s destroyed by rumor and falsification. It would not surprise me in the slightest if mxtx didn’t draw on Wu at least a little bit in the creation of jgy. Both Wu and jgy are culpable for some pretty heinous stuff, that can’t be denied. But like Wu, jgy also has a second face.

Moral bias and character motivation aside, his efforts to build watchtowers, his patronage of religion in the building of Guanyin temple, his fight against political corruption, his years long peaceful reign, his charity, all these things lead to the conclusion that under the rule of Confucian, he more than aptly fulfilled his role as a leader for his citizens.

And if you really want to look at Jgys leadership through a modern lens, we really don’t have to look much further than Ingersoll. “If you want to find out what a man is to the bottom, give him power.”

And really that’s part of the tragedy of his character. Because of his background he excelled when he was in a role of leadership. He was good at it.

Whether or not jgy as a literary character is a good person, is subjective and should not be used to measure his role as an effective leader.

All of that being said, jgy is my bestfriend and I love him and would I die for him.

.

[nightghoul381]

Victor ~ Mistress Contract - Chapter 2

This a fan translation so it is definitely not 100% accurate. I do not own anything related to Ikemen Villains. Support Cybird by buying their amazing stories!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Premium End | Epilogue

Kate: “I’m looking forward working a mission with you too, Victor.”

Victor: “Ah, then let’s enjoy this jet-black world together.”

With my fingertips in his outstretched hand, I walked through the club as Victor’s mistress

Before he’d even made it around the main hall, one man caught Victor’s eye.

Victor: “…I got it. It looks like the information was true.”

The reason we infiltrated the mistress club tonight was—

Verifying the truth of information that a Privy Councilor who was an enemy of Crown was keeping a mistress.

Victor: “…He makes that face when he’s with his mistress too.”

Victor: “Even though we are enemies, when I think that they love people and are loved by them, just like us…”

Victor: “…I find myself thinking about whether it’s right or wrong to fight.”

Kate: “Victor…”

Victor: “But… this is necessary to protect my beloved Crown. I will expose his weaknesses as best I can.”

Kate: “…Yes.”

As we were walking up and down the hall, keeping an eye on the Privy Councilor from the shadows… another man caught my eye.

Kate: “Victor, I think that’s a member of the Protectionist Party over there.”

Victor: “Yes that’s definitely him… huh? There’s one from the Liberal party.”

Kate: “Oh, I’ve seen him giving a speech before. He’s famous for being a devoted husband.”

Victor: “That’s certainly true.”

Victor: “I’ve encountered him at the palace many times and even gave him a birthday present.”

Victor: “I’m surprised he has a mistress.”

Kate: “…Looks like he’s coming over here!”

Kate: “If he happens to recognize you, it’ll be a big problem right!?”

Victor: “Let’s hide somewhere, Kate, over here! No, wait, let’s go over there instead!!”

Every time the Liberal Councilman turned, Victor turned his back to the right, then to the left.

(There’s nowhere to hide nearby…)

Victor: “Kate.”

Strangely, his voice sounded close by.

Before I could reply, my body was enveloped in Victor’s warmth…

Victor: “Until he’s gone, I’m sorry, but I’ll have to stay like this.”

Victor explained his intention, pulled me close, and hid his face in my neck.

Kate: “I-I’m fine, so don’t apologize.”

Victor: “Thank you…. Has he gone yet?”

Kate: “Still there. He’s talking to someone.”

Victor: “That might take a while…”

Kate: “Yeah…”

(Does being close like this make me look more like a mistress?)

I couldn’t stay upright and be held in his arms, so I pulled Victor’s head closer.

Victor: “Kate, you don’t have to push yourself.”

Kate: “I’m not, I can’t be embarrassed about my mission.”

Victor: “…Perhaps it was me who was not prepared.”

Kate: “Huh…?”

Victor: “No, it’s nothing… Fufu, your determination has really made my heart beat faster.”

Victor: “I must also do my best as your lover, with all my heart and soul.”

His fingertips move gently.

(…Victor’s touch is different from before.)

Not only was it gentle, but the sweetness of his fingertips traced the lines of my body…

I suddenly found myself letting out a voice that wasn’t due to acting.

Victor: “Looks like he left.”

When I looked back, the Liberal party councilman was gone.

Victor: “Thanks to you, I was saved from danger.”

(It helped in many ways…)

After calming down so that Victor wouldn’t notice,

We observed the target’s infidelity in detail and completed the mission successfully.

But even though we had completed the mission, I still felt unsatisfied.

(So many people have secret lovers…)

Kate: “I’m happy that the mission was a success, but… I feel so unsettled.”

Victor: “Unsettled?”

Kate: “Is cheating like this a normal thing?”

A mistress club that only men and women in a secret affair could enter.

That meant that everyone here had a wife or husband and was cheating on them.

Kate: “Is loving only one person for the rest of your life just an ideal…?”

I muttered this with a sigh, and then—

Male customer at the mistress club: “You!”

Female customer at the mistress club: “It’s you!”

The uneasy voices of a man and a woman disrupted the atmosphere.

The man and woman arguing were each with their partners…

Victor: “Apparently, a couple with their respective lovers have run into each other.”

Kate: “What!”

(A pandemonium!?)

Befitting the name, the man and woman were seen insulting each other with devilish expressions on their faces.

(The exchange of verbal abuse is escalating.)

(If they hurt each other any further, their relationship as a couple will be over…)

Kate: “Um, that’s enough.”

Victor: “……”

Victor grabbed my arm and pulled me back as I tried to intervene and stop them.

Victor: “Just watch a moment longer.”

Kate: “Huh?”

Female customer at the mistress club: “I missed you looking at me!”

Male customer at the mistress club: “What?...You’re not the kind of woman who would show such weakness.”

Female customer at the mistress club: “I was just being tough!”

(Hmmm… Something is different from before.)

Male customer at the mistress club: “Has your interest in me waned…?”

Female customer at the mistress club: “I really hate how insensitive you are… but I’m also stupid for not being able to hate you from the bottom of my heart.”

Male customer at the mistress club: “Oh my goodness, I misunderstood you.”

Male customer at the mistress club: “Let’s talk. I want to face you.”

Female customer at the mistress club: “You…”

The husband and wife looked only at each other, their eyes no longer on their lovers.

Eventually, they left the mistress club and their respective partners soon lost patience and disappeared from the scene.

Victor: “Love is a very interesting thing.”

Victor: “Is cheating normal? Is loving only one person for life just an ideal?”

Victor: “That’s what you asked, but I think this.”

Victor: “Humans are creatures that pursue love.”

Victor: “I seek the person who loves me the most. The person I’m willing to give up everything for.”

Victor: “Every human being wants the best kind of love.”

Victor: “I’m not defending cheating in any way.”

Victor’s words spread like ripples through my heart.

(So, all these people came here in search of love?)

(What does that feel like?)

As I thought about the people who gathered at the mistress club…

Victor: “Kate, we’ve finished the mission, so I think we should go home now.”

Kate: “Huh? Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought.”

Victor: “It seems the people here have interested you.”

Kate: “Yes… I was thinking about what you said about love, Victor.”

(I don’t want to come home yet…)

Was it curiosity about an unknown world, or was it being drawn to something that stimulated one’s instincts…?

Victor: “Well then, why don’t we enjoy this immoral world a little more?”

Victor: “I’m with you today, so I don’t think anything dangerous will happen.”

The mischievous whisper in my ear lured me into an even more unknown world--…

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Premium End | Epilogue

[fairuzfan]

shalom sister. i love your blog and your writing. reading your posts always fills me with fire, i can tell you have a good heart. donating to your campaign makes me feel so good because i trust you and truly you are doing gds work. anyway i wanted to ask you a question!

when i hear new things from gaza, stories of hamas doing X and IOF doing Y, i ask around and i’m not sure what parts of that story is true, if any. anyway idk what to believe all i know is that israel is committing acts of genocide and while the rest of the world is allowing this greatest evil, israel pretends that to be jewish is to be a colonizer. anyway some of my family are zionists, but i cannot sway them because they only know farsi persian and hebrew, aka only trust extremely biased sources.

anyway i am fluent in english farsi and hebrew but my arabic is trash ): so i feel like i can’t get the full picture from palestinians. all i can read are bonkers iranian papers and the disgusting zionist articles, it’s horrible because i know they’re both lying, just about different things. a palestinian opinion is the only opinion i care about right now! anyway it got me thinking. i just wanted to know if you have tips for verifying online research? or go-to non arabic websites? or even a translation app haha. i just want my family to see the truth!

shalom<3

shalom! thank you so much for reaching out, i really appreciate it.

personally, i use different sources for different material. i use middle east eye (specifically maha hussaini) and also mahmoud abusalama for videos of what it's like in the north. i use the electronic intifada interview podcasts to learn about specific things happening (i just finished watching this one about the collapse of healthcare in gaza). i would check out @northgazaupdates on here too. there's euromedmonitor as well.

and really, there are a lot of diaspora palestinians who are relaying what their family tells them, and they post on twitter a lot. someone i know does this is samah fadil. there's also @el-shab-hussein who translates things from Mona. here's mohammad smiry who is in gaza and tweets primarily in english. dr. mustafa elmasri also tweets in english too.

i would use al-jazeera, i have a fact checking guide here about any news source really. i don't use it as much but there's also the palestine chronicle. sometimes i use quds news network.

i really don't know much about hebrew media so i can't really tell you about sources i recommend there. i don't know if @bringmemyrocks or @rodeodeparis can perhaps provide some input?

i will say, if you're looking for hebrew palestinian media, i dont think there's too much because there's a ridiculous amount of censorship in '48 right now (honestly it's been going on for years atp) but what a lot of palestinians are doing is relying on internal networks. if you want, there are some israeli historians like Ilan Pappe and Avi Shlaim but I'm not sure if they write in hebrew. but they for sure write in english and provide a historical perspective from within israeli society itself.

this is what comes to mind rn honestly, but i haven't even touched on instagram because i haven't been on it in a while. i might add on later if i remember any really vital ones that i recommend.

[windvexer]

When you first started practicing, did you ever have trouble letting go or forgetting a spell after you did it? I know that obsession can be a spell killer but sometimes I can’t help when my mind wanders and I think of the spell or potential outcomes

When I first started practicing this was one of the first notions I was disabused of. So while I think I recall pondering the concept, especially while I was developing my understanding of manifestation, it's not something I currently believe in.

"Random thoughts that pass through my mind can ruin my magic or cause bad things to happen" is not a magical rule. It's not a law of magical physics under which all magic operates. It's a personal belief that some people choose to adopt.

And in my opinion it's one of the poorer beliefs to adopt, because if we spend like two minutes pondering it, I think we can agree that it's not only a shitty way to treat your own practice, but it also just does not make sense at all.

As far as I can recall, the justification for this belief is that if you think about your own spells, they are "pulled back" towards you, preventing them from being able to go to their destination and carry out the work. In addition to that, perhaps you are "tainting" your spellwork by dragging it down with emotional baggage.

However, all of this is immediately solved if you don't operate on a paradigm that your spells are defenseless blobs power created out of the pure thought and belief.

But even if we do operate on a paradigm that spells are blobs of thought power:

I don't believe there is any reason to think that casual thoughts create real metaphysical connections or "cords" with anything.

I think that believing that any random passing thought you have creates real metaphysical tethers is a harmful brainworm.

Not only do I think it encourages you to treat your own mind as an unsafe space where random thoughts can literally hurt you in a real metaphysical sense, or at least harm your willful efforts towards progress and change,

But I just don't believe it to be true at all, because we don't see the results of it when we apply it to anything verifiable.

For example, we might say that spells are a special circumstance where thinking about them always creates an energetic tether or energetic baggage. Perhaps spells are a special case for the following reasons:

The spell was personally created by you, so there is a special link or connection there which wouldn't exist for other things.

Spells exist in nonphysical state, which is more susceptible to being warped by random thoughts being "attached" to them.

If these things are true, then I believe the following would also have to be true:

Literally everything you've ever created has a special link to you that will be pulled towards you every time you randomly think about it, which means if you've ever knit something and then lost it, simply thinking about it will automatically draw the object towards you, such objects perhaps even returning into your life years or decades later because you created them and sometimes thought about them.

Other things you've created which only exist in nonphysical states, like original characters, are susceptible to being warped and losing their true form if you randomly think about them in ways that don't correspond to canon. In other words, you will not be able to control the canon of that character because random thoughts automatically change what you've intentionally worked towards. Which... we know isn't true. You can choose the canon for your characters and it stays that way no matter what little AUs you randomly think of them being in.

And this isn't even to mention that even if an energetic cord does exist, there is no particular reason to think the cord has a drawing or magnetic effect.

And, this also doesn't address the idea that spells aren't necessarily like sponges. There is no reason, in my point of view, to assume that a random spell will automatically absorb any energy sent to it at all.

In fact, I believe that spells often tend to have quite reactive and self-protective natures.

Go on a thought experiment with me here, Anon:

We cast a distance protection spell for our friend. It's our intent to send our friend very warm, cozy, guardianship energies. The spell is created out of our intent and willpower, and perhaps some raised energy, and we send it on it's way.

Then randomly the next day we accidentally start thinking about the spell, and how good it will be to help our friend get out of that "cold," unsafe situation they're in.

So, working on this paradigm, we would assume that thinking about someone we care about automatically hurts our efforts to help them, which again I can't point out enough how weird I think that is, but also,

We would have to assume that our warm protection spell is somehow easily susceptible to feelings of doubt and danger, when it's literal purpose is to melt away and transform those feelings and realities.

So we'd have to believe that our spell is so weak that a few random thoughts that it is designed to overcome can "kill" it.

Which leads us to the next point, would we assume that our random thoughts would have the power to affect a well-cast spell?

I mean, not at you directly Anon, but how weak are we assuming the spell is that all the steps we did to cast it (like.... grounding, entering trance state, raising energy, charging candles, chanting, praying, releasing energy, making offerings of thanksgiving) are literally going to be overwhelmed by randomly thinking, "awwh dang, I hope the spell ends up manifesting this certain outcome, that would be really cool if it did."

Like, if we're saying that the power of random thoughts can control, influence, and dismantle metaphysical energies with almost no effort on our part whatsoever, then what is the point of ever "casting a spell?"

Under this exact same logic, you should just be able to randomly think about what you desire coming to pass, and links will automatically be created to it to pull it towards you, and those energies of desire will have *as much power as an actual spell* to bring it to you.

I mean, if this is all true, why would anyone ever learn how to reverse a spell? All they'd have to do is think random thoughts about a prior spell to eliminate it.

None of this very much even touches on the idea that if you use a separate spellcasting paradigm, none of this is relevant at all.

Suppose you summon a spirit and pay it to carry out a task. The spirit is a real entity that exists independently of you. The spell is not a blob of your mental energy encoded towards a purpose; it's an entity who's going to act on your behalf.

Are we now saying that your random thoughts count as a clear psychic link to entities and they are watching you 100% of the time and interpreting your random thoughts as new spell instructions?

Because in my experience, once you've set those guys on a task, it actually kind of doesn't matter what you think - they're going to do what you asked unless you specifically call them back to the ritual space and ask them to do something else, which they might not even agree to do.

Or another method perhaps - devotional faith. You pray to a god and complete earnest devotional rituals in pursuit of some particular manifestation.

So, your thoughts have the power to control or dismantle that god's efforts? Or, the god watched you perform that special ritual night after night, and then is randomly like "lmao well this morning she idly wondered what the outcome might be so fuck her, I'm not doing it then"?

In the greater scheme of things, Anon, I actually think it's quite difficult to accidentally ruin spells just by pondering the outcomes that might occur, or to have personal doubt, or even to feel very anxious and worried and filled with disbelief.

And regardless of how easy or hard it is, I encourage you to avoid adopting spellcasting "rules" which by default make your own mind an unsafe space for your magic.

[bcacstuff]

The conversation Alice had with a fan and you mention that there is stong language tell more about that? Was it her who used it to the fan and was it fan who did that or talking shit about Sam?

I think you meant t write 'slip' 😉

So yes, before all kind of crazy stories start to occur, and this is actually the subject I wanted to address but as well had to think about how to do it in a correct way, as honest as I possibly can but also with integrity.

You see, it concerns DMs, and yes, meanwhile someone showed them to me and I have read them. I could surely have said no, I don't want that, but at the same time, I had 2 Anons claiming Alice had answered fans in DM. I showed you part of the Anon message:

"Alice has been replying to a fan in DM this I know 10000% saying Sam followed her and sent her DM and now she’s posted in London."

The rest was more or less calling Sam out, so i didn't like to post that part.

So I felt a bit in dubio, one side doesn't want to be secretive, the other side is thinking, those are DMs, not meant for public consumption to begin with.

Also, I need to emphasize that I was shown these DMs second hand. There is no way I can verify. I'm not saying I don't trust the person who showed them to me, I'm merely saying, I can not verify how genuine they are, is this really what this person in DM said or not. So I really would emphasize this and keep that in mind when reading the rest of this post.

I'm not literally gonna write what was in the DMs, but will try to give an objective summary of it.

I saw 2 DM convo's, by 2 fans separately and not at the same time with Alice. One DM convo was short, fan asking, she answered, th other was a little longer more a little convo. Both starting with asking her how she got Sam following her. She answered both. (which I have to say I find surprising, it is quite easy to ignore). But okay, she seemed to have answered both of them. Telling how Sam slid into her DMs, now I don't feel that is something new, that part we know (hence I feel I can tell that part). And Anon 2, i don't know when, I just know he started following her on 13 June. She went on with more personal stuff he did and said they DM-ed daily.

But she was also sort of bragging that he invited her to London. Now both DMs were before this weekend. One started on 20 June, and they ended last Wednesday. So nobody knew by then Sam was going to be in London and at the tennis match. My Anon also wrote Fridaynight, before we knew he was in London, but she wrote because Alice posted a picture tagging her hotel in London. And yeah, your question ismy question as well, why on earth did she felt the need to advertise that?

Then in both DMs she suddenly (and imo unnecessarily) said something on Sam's behalve which was not so nice. Something both fans I know felt hurt by. You could say, perhaps he told her about fans harassing women he's been connected with somehow, but from what i saw these fans were not harassing, were asking her something in a friendly way, curiosity, she could have ignored, or simply have given a short answer without all the rest. I feel it was not her place to say something like that on his behalf, whether it is true or not, it was not on her to do so.

I'm not gonna spell out what exactly was said, but it was unkind, hurtful for the (curious) fans, and unnecessary. I know some might have their thoughts about the fans contacting her, and I in no way would encourage anybody to do so (and I surely never did or will do so myself). But that is not a reason to be hurtful and say things on someone else's behalf that hurt his fans.

As said, and i emphasize again I can not verify this all, if that is really what she said. And that is also why I wish not to spell something like that out, here my integrity is at play. I just can say, the DMs didn't look fabricated/photoshopped or anything. But I just can't verify.

Anyway, whatever happened to Be Kind!?

[the-devils-library]

At Satan's Altar: A Collection of Prayers, Chants, Affirmations, Hymns, and Rituals by Marie RavenSoul

EDIT: Since the time of writing this post, the author of this book has taken down her website, her Youtube channel, and the listings for both of her books. This is due to her conversion to Christianity, verifiable by her new social media accounts, which I will not be linking here, but are not particularly difficult to find. Since her books are now out of print and were never sold as ebooks, the only way to obtain them at the current time is to find and purchase a used copy.

Title: At Satan's Altar: A Collection of Prayers, Chants, Affirmations, Hymns, and Rituals

Author: Marie RavenSoul

Publisher: ‎ In Satan's Honour Press

Publishing Date: February 28, 2018

ISBN-10‏: ‎ 1775262405

ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1775262404

Last post was a popular atheist text, so I suppose it's appropriate that now we move on to a popular theist text.

Marie RavenSoul is a modern Satanic author and youtuber, her channel can be found here. Her website, In Satan's Honour, can be found here. To my knowledge she is not affiliated with any group but her dedication in this book gives thanks to a "Brother Nero," who I believe may be the same Brother Nero who authored Satanism: A Beginner's Guide to the Religious Worship of Satan and Demons.

At Satan's Altar's subtitle is an apt summary of its content. RavenSoul is not here to provide moral counsel or wax poetic about philosophy, but to provide the tools of a theistic Satanic practice, including hymns, prayers, and rituals. The cover and interior also feature several illustrations, by artists Amanda MacNeil and Letitia Pfinder.

The book is divided into two sections, the first half being dedicated to devotional writings such as chants and prayers, and the second half being more instructional, revolving around rituals and practices the theistic Satanist might partake in. The instructional portion may prove useful to newcomers who have basic questions, such as how to pray, or how to structure a ritual. The Nine Days of Solitude Devotional may be difficult for anyone who is young or in a controlling environment, but could prove beneficial for more experienced Satanists who wish to do something more intensive than daily prayer or a one-off rite.

It is worth noting that RavenSoul calls Satan by other names, such as Lucifer and Baphomet, which some theistic Satanists may consider to be separate demons, rather than other names for Satan himself. She also refers to Satan as "father," a dynamic which may or may not ring true for other Satanists. At Satan's Altar is available through Amazon and Barnes & Noble. [DISCLAIMER: The Devil's Library is not affiliated with any of the previously mentioned groups or authors. It is an independent project by a single Satanist. Do not mistake my mentioning of an author or group as endorsement for their beliefs and practices.]

Click below for my personal thoughts on the book.

RavenSoul is a talented writer and her dedication to Satan is admirable. While her rather fatherly interpretation of Satan isn't for me personally, I'm sure those Satanists who do see our lord as a father figure would take great comfort in certain pieces of her writing.

However there is an aspect of the book which rubs me the wrong way personally, and that is the matter of cultural misappropriation. RavenSoul conflates Satan with religious figures from a couple of other faiths, namely Iblis and Tawûsî Melek (spelled Melek Ta'us in the book). While I can see why someone would compare these figures to Satan at first glance, my research tells me it is inaccurate and perhaps unwise to do so. Iblis comes from Islam, and while he is a fallen angel and the leader of devils, equating him with the Christian Satan is ignorant and potentially appropriation. More seriously, equating Tawûsî Melek, the peacock angel of the Yazidi religion, to Satan is directly racist and harmful. Yazidis have a history of persecution, and being wrongfully accused of being devil-worshipers is part of that history. Furthermore, Yazidism is very much closed to outsiders (one cannot even marry into the religion, but must be born into it), so making use of their religious figure for Satanic writings is rude and inconsiderate, at the very least. RavenSoul doesn't just make use of Tawûsî Melek's name and image, but references the Al Jilwah, a book which claims to hold authentic Yazidi scripture, but is of dubious origins.

In addition to these comparisons, RavenSoul also conflates Satan with gods like Pan and Set, and while those gods come from open religions, some may not enjoy such comparisons.

I know RavenSoul's work is popular amongst my fellow theists, and I never aim to tell my readers what to do in these review sections. These are my thoughts and only my thoughts, not instructions on where you should draw the line on which books you will or won't make use of.

[riant-draws]

You're so big brain yes yes yes moon and younger pebbles thoughts yes I'm eating up your art

First, thank you!! Sorry I took so long to respond ;-; been pretty tired lately and had to give this a lot of thought… perhaps too much… eheheh buckle up, anon, you’re in for an essay~ (also, I know you asked about Moon and younger Pebbles but this is like, 90% an analysis about Pebbles, oops-)

^ excuse me what happened here

also please keep in mind that these are just my headcanons (although some of them are very closely tied to canon, which is why I’ll be referencing some pearls) sooo uhh yeah! rambles under the cut!

To talk about Pebbles as a “kid” (in quotes because I don’t believe iterators have a childhood or developmental period that can effectively be compared to humans), I first have to talk about his construction—mostly because it was so unique.

When reading the pale green pearl (exterior) to Artificer, Pebbles mentions that his construction was very controversial among the council. And, when given to Moon, one of the white pearls reads:

“‘We, of the Five-hundred-and-ninety-second High Convocation of the True Anointed Citadel, do hereby demand, with full force of Law and Religious doctrine, an Immediate end to construction of the Apostate Superstructure Abomination. To place shadow upon the Divine Body of the True Anointed Citadel is outrageous blasphemy and cannot be tolerated, no matter the circumstances...’ Clearly this was ignored.”

As we can see in the game, Pebbles was built mostly on top of what’s now Shaded Citadel—which really pissed off the monks and religious leaders of the True Anointed Citadel, a very holy site. While talking to Artificer, he speaks casually and plainly, so you can assume that he didn’t mind their disdain for him. Granted, by the time of Arti’s campaign, all his citizens are long gone, so perhaps he just doesn’t care about their opinions anymore (if he ever did to begin with). But. When he was still brand new, he would have had to listen to so much hate directed at him, all for simply existing. While I did say earlier that I don’t think iterators have developmental stages like humans do, they definitely still mature and develop. Just because you’re created with an adult brain doesn’t mean that you’re automatically mature and experienced. Even Pebbles reflects on how he’s changed while reading the viridian pearl (garbage wastes):

“[…] much of my early work was encrypted before storage. Though my younger self has done a very poor job. […] now I can just see all of the holes in it. Created from a youthful and reticent mentality.”

So, clearly, iterators do learn and grow. But getting back on topic, I imagine that especially since Pebbles was very young when all that hate was piled on him, it would’ve been traumatic. Additionally, it’s implied (again, mainly in the pale green pearl) that he’s not exclusively hated. The pearl’s author clearly doesn’t want to piss Pebbles off, and they also state that one problematic House “[has] less than forty members on the Council, but still Tilt the spiritual Discourse with Our Iterator in a direction that most obviously Displeases him, and is hardly High Held by anyone in the Community either! We can not Risk this!”

(Of course, the pearl’s author is probably biased so who knows if they’re a reliable source of info or not, but there’s no way to verify that and hey it’s in the game after all so I’m just gonna roll with it.) This means that there are citizens (possibly even the majority) who actually like him, or at least want to remain in his good graces. With him. Y’know. Being responsible for their livelihoods and all. And you might think: great! Pebbles isn’t being universally hated! Well. The outpourings of both love and hate from his creators would create such a toxic environment and cause a lot of cognitive dissonance in him: he’s adored, even worshiped, a proud iterator revered as a godlike figure. But on the other hand, he’s despised, called horrible things like “Apostate Superstructure Abomination,” generally told he has no right to exist, etc etc. And this probably went on for years and years (or whatever the in-universe equivalent is). That would wear down anybody’s self-esteem. Which, in canon, you can see echoes of those thought patterns when the storyline takes place, who knows how long later. This stuff has affected him deeply.

All of this to say, I think his arrogance and god complex (that he displays in canon) are coping mechanisms—whether he’s aware of it or not. He tells himself that he’s “godlike in comparison” to everything that walks this forsaken world, that he’s so much better. In doing so, he runs from his mistakes and doesn’t process his emotions and traumas, generally making a bigger mess of himself. Because to admit the truth would be to admit that he’s broken, that he’s lonely, that he hates himself, I could go on but this isn’t getting any shorter aha…

Moooooving on, not to state the obvious, but it’s heavily implied throughout various pearls and bits of dialogue that Pebbles was one of the last iterators ever built. Given that he was constructed far closer (relatively speaking) to the time of public mass ascension and the fact that Moon was struggling to care for them, his creators would’ve likely been desperate (and perhaps a bit sloppy) while building him. As a result, the parts of him responsible for regulating his emotions and decision-making (his equivalent of a prefrontal cortex) are stunted, as that would’ve been one of the last things to develop. All of this just contributes to his, well, susceptibility to mental health issues/instability. Yaaaay.

side note: I also headcanon that iterator cans are more grown than built. When reading the light pink pearl (outskirts), Moon mentions that structures are infused with microbes that initiate healing cycles that gradually heal and waterproof broken structures. While she’s likely referring to structures on the ground, it would make sense that at least all parts of an iterator below the rain layer would be made in the same fashion. And if you take the bronze pearl (Metropolis), for instance, Moon tells the player that “It’s a blueprint for a type of large immobile purposed organism. This one seems to be specifically for the cities built on top of our structures. […] newer designs began to use a mass-produced cellular build called living blocks,” she’s basically saying that the buildings on top of Pebbles and other newer iterators are primarily organic. So why not grow large parts of their superstructures as well? We already know that iterators are partly biological, and also, growing them certainly would make a lot of the construction process at least semi-autonomous. And this way, the ancients wouldn’t have to risk their lives to go below the rain layer and work on his legs, underhang, etc.

Time for one of my favorite headcanons! And one that’s much more headcanon-y than the others lol, that is, Pebbles’ puppet being child-sized. Big head, big eyes, sorta stubby limbs, rounder features (except his antennae, those are triangles for some reason ffs lol idk what I’m doing) etc. First (and more boring) reason is that if Moore’s law applies in some form in-universe (not an all-important Law of Science or anything, just an observed trend meaning that as time goes on and developments improve, tech gets both smaller/more space-efficient and better), that means Pebbles shouldbe both one of the most powerful iterators and one of the smallest. But if the whole reason e was built was to provide a home to Moon’s citizens because she couldn’t care for them very well anymore (deep green pearl, Metropolis—this is Moon’s reading, but Pebbles’ is interesting, too), why would they make his can smaller? Simple: they didn’t. Instead, his can has more empty space inside it as components are smaller, and his puppet is tiny. Like. Waist-high on an ancient.

Another reason he was designed to look childlike was to try to make him look as appealing & likeable to the public as possible. With how controversial his construction was, his creators and whatever equivalent of a marketing team they employed would’ve hoped to sway the monks and everybody who strongly opposed his construction, like, “look! he’s just a little guy! look at those pink cheeks! you wouldn’t hate a ‘kid’, would you?!?” (spoiler alert: they would)

But as consequence, his image was very marketable soooooooo

yeah idk man pebbles plushie canon

On the more angsty side of things, unfortunately for Pebbles, many ancients and even other iterators (looking at you, Sig and Suns) didn’t take him very seriously since he permanently looks like a kid. This just added fuel to the fire, making him even more frustrated and feeling unheard. Just. All of it is such a bad situation.

Moon, of course, sees how he’s being treated by his citizens (who used to be hers, and she wasn’t fond of them anyway) and her own peers, she knows it’s so harmful to him, but what can she do? She may be the local group senior and his administrator, but he strikes me as having such an independent personality (yay more stuff caused by trauma) that he feels like he’s caught in her shadow, perhaps. “Looks to the Moon’s little brother.” So he probably isn’t… very receptive to her attempts to build him up, but man, she still tries. And it’s worth mentioning that he’s also a workaholic, so he always thinks that he has “better things to do” than, say, spending time with his sister.

I bet she’d still try to play games with Pebbles (and he’d probably indulge her on occasion), show him cool things, engage him in conversation, try to get him to talk about his interests, etc., all to bond with him and get to know him better. And he’s a stubborn little piece of work, sure, but he genuinely does care for her (it’s in canon and shows up in several places).

I could say more but this has gone on long enough, but I do wanna clarify that while I don’t support his decisions or actions, his motivations are understandable. my guy is a dude who was put into a horrible situation and screwed over from the beginning. sure, all the stuff he’s been through doesn’t excuse his garbage, sometimes immature behavior in canon, but it certainly explains it. (good lord, I could write an essay on how he’s changed by the time of Rivulet’s campaign alone) uh anyway he’s a fascinating character who I spend too much time thinking about thank you for reading if you made it this far lol

(also, gotta say that a lot of these apply to my fic, too, shameless plug and some of them have already been mentioned or alluded to in it—it’s a time-travel fix-it that starts waaay back in the past so if that’s your thing, hey XD)

[probably-iron-deficiency]

Victim

📌ao3 link

summary: More treasures than could fill a cave, more leisure than an oasis, more willing and able bodies than could fill a ravine, and Kalim would give it all up in a heartbeat to keep Jamil by his side. or, After Jamil's overblot, Kalim finds himself isolated in his home, reevaluating the only true friendship he's ever had. He should probably stay away from Jamil. He doesn't, and it's for the better.

✦pairing✦ JamiKali

✦CW✦ suicidal ideation, Kalim kills a guy but its for Jamil so-

✦tags✦ Introspection, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post Book 4, Pre-Slash

✦word count✦ 4k+

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄✧⋄⋆ fic below⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄

Jamil was right. Kalim was undeniably, in mind and soul, selfish. 

His knife-sharp words had dug an open wound into Kalim which hadn’t stopped bleeding since his overblot. It had been two weeks since the event, and Kalim found himself back in his own home. After hearing reports of “magical abnormalities” at Scarabia, his parents had requested that Kalim and Jamil return home until the term started again. No one knew what had happened during winter break, and in perhaps the last unspoken bond between Jamil and Kalim, they would never find out. It had been five days since they had returned home, and he hadn’t seen Jamil once. The palace was big enough to never interact without arousing any suspicion. Kalim’s room was essentially its own luxury suite- he didn’t have to leave it, so he didn’t. The space felt large and empty without another’s presence, and Kalim was left to fill the void with the things Jamil had said. 

With nearly a week of isolated thinking on it, Kalim knew that he was selfish. Maybe not in worldly things- he had enough of those to satisfy the greediest man a hundred lifetimes over. A verifiable army of people willing to flip themselves inside out just to get on the heir’s good side, allowing him to bypass any and all struggles that an average mortal might face. Of course, none of this was necessary: Kalim was nothing if not charitable, and despite the displeasure of the Asim treasurers, he was more than willing to give back where he could. 

And Kalim didn’t want any of it. 

More treasures than could fill a cave, more leisure than an oasis, more willing and able bodies than could fill a ravine, and Kalim would give it all up in a heartbeat to keep Jamil by his side. Maybe not physically- Kalim would never force Jamil to stay somewhere he hated (not that Kalim knew Jamil hated him until recently). His heart would be enough, wherever Jamil’s body was, his love would placate Kalim. Kalim wanted the one thing that wasn’t- couldn’t- be handed over to him, and despite his riches, he couldn’t let it go. 

Kalim was selfish. 

In all honesty, Kalim knew that somewhere, deep down, he knew what Jamil was doing to him before his overblot. He could’ve- should’ve- said something to Jamil, no matter how badly the conversation would’ve gone. But the idea of losing the only person that had ever only helped Kalim and never harmed, the only person that had ever stayed. Kalim, tactless, cemented excuses to his lash-line and greedily continued his blissful naivety. 

He wished for a moment more of peace, and it had nearly cost him everything.

(It had nearly cost him Jamil.)

Kalim remembered a conversation he had with Azul when they were cast into the desert. 

“He betrayed you, Kalim. Don’t you understand that? Aren’t you angry?”

Even now, weeks later, he wouldn’t call it a betrayal. It wasn’t fair to Jamil.

It would break Kalim.

Ah, perhaps he was being selfish even now. Perhaps Jamil had wanted to betray Kalim, wanted Kalim to actually boil into rage, give Jamil a decent opponent to pit his years of oppression against. Even this Kalim could not give him. 

Kalim vouching for Jamil did nothing to nullify the brutal whisperings of the Scarabia students. Some lamented Kalim’s inefficiency, his spinelessness in being controlled by Jamil in the first place and his continued failure to remove Jamil from his post. Others, less scared of the potential recoil from the vice-housewarden, spoke of Jamil as a ruthless dark magician. An insignificant, ungrateful moon that stole its light from the ever generous sun. 

Kalim had heard worse rumors about himself, and figured the students were entitled to their opinions. (He knew Jamil had heard worse about himself, too, and that he probably didn’t care about the ramblings of some third-rate underclassmen).

(No one but Jamil’s opinion mattered, anyways.)

It had been a… vaguely mutual decision to cut contact as much as possible after Jamil’s overblot. No longer bound by his facade of complacency, Jamil had made it very clear very quickly that he had no intention of looking after Kalim for the time being. Kalim didn’t mind that, really. He wanted Jamil to do what made him happy, and if seeing Kalim as little as possible made up for years of Kalim’s blindness to his feelings, then Kalim would gladly oblige. 

(Secretly, Kalim felt as though he had been ripped in two- his only lifeline to real, truthful connection severed. He barely slept, barely spoke, barely moved. Sometimes, when the moon shone clearly overhead, Kalim would sit on the balcony, legs dangling 14 stories over the Asim gardens, and wonder if it would’ve been better for Jamil if Kalim had just gone along with his plan and died. Jamil wouldn’t do anything for Kalim that he wasn’t obliged to do by familial pressure- Kalim knew that now. But Kalim would do anything for Jamil. Right now, if Jamil were to knock on his door and ask him to slit his own throat, Kalim would be dead before he hit the floor. If only Jamil would ask something of him.

Dizzily, he wondered if the scented candles Jamil used to light for his baths looked forward to being used.) 

Despite their lack of contact, Kalim still heard a knock on his door twice a day. Outside would be freshly cooked food, sealed in containers with a tamper-proof charm in place. Kalim clung to these moments like no other, even though Jamil was always gone by the time he got to the door.

Jamil wanted to be left alone; it was obvious. After spending almost 17 years of your life with someone you despised, of course you wouldn’t want to see them. When school started up again, it would be harder for Jamil to avoid Kalim- as Housewarden and Vice of Scarabia, there would be no end to the amount of time they would be forced to be together. Especially since Kalim was, admittedly, useless at his leadership duties without Jamil as his loyal advisor.

But Kalim was selfish.

5 days was the longest he had ever gone without seeing Jamil. Not a single soul had come to check on him in his near week of being home, not that Kalim blamed them for that. It was Jamil’s job to check on him, supposedly. (On the second day, Kalim realized it never should have been his job. He never should have been forced to be Kalim’s servant in body and friend in words- it was only time before he became Kalim’s enemy in mind.) 

Fleetingly, he wondered how many days it would take someone to stumble upon his body if he died here. He wondered if, in the end, it would be Jamil who found him. 

Kalim, alone in his room, was unraveling at the seams. 

He wanted to see Jamil. He needed to see Jamil, make sure he was still ok. Make sure, even if childishly, that he still existed outside of Kalim’s view. Just a glimpse of him would be enough- it was late, if Jamil’s ironclad routine still held true, he would be asleep. It would be quick.

Kalim was so, truly, selfish. 

Smooth, cool stone chilled Kalim’s bare feet as he padded lightly through the hall. The estate was built to ward off heat, and a brisk night breeze came through the paneless windows, palm leaves swaying in the wind. He shivered, pulling his arms closer to his chest. Jamil would chide him for walking around in pajamas in the middle of the night. He would have, anyway.

Luckily for him, Jamil’s room was not too far from Kalim's own. When they were around 10 years old, it was decided that Jamil would stay in suites designated for higher ranking members of the Asim family rather than the servant residences where his own family lived. Officially, the reasoning was that Jamil had been such a loyal retainer to his young master Asim that he was being rewarded with lavish living conditions. At the time, Kalim was just thrilled to be closer to his best friend- they could have sleepovers practically every night! Now though, Kalim wondered if Jamil was moved closer to his room just so he could serve him better, protect him more easily if someone were to stage an attack. Did Jamil even want to move out of his family’s home, back then? Did he cry when his parents told him he had to leave, or did he just accept it apathetically, resigned to his life sentence? Kalim wasn’t sure which was worse. 

At the expense of a 10 year old Jamil, a 17 year old Kalim easily traced the dark path between their rooms, expertly dodging open windows and lights shining from the rooms of those who had not yet gone to sleep or had just woken up. It would be better for everyone if he wasn’t seen. 

Kalim slowed as he approached the door, muscle memory guiding him directly in front of it. He paused, breathing deeply. Jamil’s senses were needle sharp after years of guarding Kalim, he would have to be exceedingly careful if he didn’t want Jamil to wake up and notice him. Somewhat ironically, Kalim’s own senses were sharp, if not sharper, than Jamil’s; attuned to hearing even the slightest changes in footsteps or the faintest smell in a freshly prepared dish. 17 years of protecting someone, no matter how you felt about them, would hone your abilities to react, defend, fight. 17 years of expecting to be murdered, even if you were known as an unbearably loud person, would allow you to nearly disappear.      

Kalim’s nose twitched, a peculiar scent drifting from the room. Sharp, almost as if someone had made sparks from sanding down metal, but capped with something more heavy. Magic. 

It would be near imperceptible to the average mage, but Kalim was on par with beastmen when it came to his uncanny ability to identify things by scent. Normally, he would expect this smell to be close to other practicing magic users, especially if they were back at Night Raven, with students laboriously practicing spells over and over until they had worn themselves out. 

But didn’t overblotting stop you from using magic normally for a few weeks? Kalim remembered Leona using his own overblot as an excuse to get out of Housewarden duties, citing his unpredictable magic as “too dangerous” to do work. Even Riddle had taken some time off after his overblot, much to the surprise of Kalim. When he asked Riddle about it a few days after he returned, Riddle explained that overblotting would leave the victim, no matter how strong they were, in a very weakened state afterwards, before he had quickly changed the subject. 

Kalim squinted. Something wasn’t adding up.

Silently, he took another step forward. The uncomfortably familiar smell of molten copper burned Kalim’s nostrils, and he clutched his hand to his face to stop himself from coughing.

No. Jamil must have cut himself on something, or maybe his wounds from the battle reopened. But then, why the thick scent of magic that clogged his sinuses the closer he moved to the door? Jamil shouldn’t be able to do magic like that right now, not without risking himself. It was 3 in the morning, what would he even be doing?

Something moved sharply in Kalim’s peripheral, and his eyes quickly followed the movement. From under Jamil’s door, lit by the moon, shadows danced mockingly at Kalim.     

Nauseous, he recalled a conversation overheard a few years prior. Kalim, looking for Jamil, had overheard him talking to someone. Not wanting to intrude, Kalim had waited behind a large stone pillar until an “appropriate” time made itself available. Accidentally, he began to eavesdrop.

“I’m lucky they only go after Kalim.”

“Jamil! Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true, Najma. It’s a good thing most of his kidnappers are as stupid as they are shortsighted.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they take Kalim, someone will just go and save him, taking them out in the process. Me? I’m not worth the manpower. The Asims would pay the ransom and wouldn’t send anyone to investigate… I’m curious to see what I’d be worth, though.”

Kalim had soundlessly fled the scene, imploring himself to forget what he had just heard. When Jamil found him in his room hours later, he either didn’t notice or didn’t care to ask about Kalim’s red-rimmed eyes and blotchy face.

Surely not. Kalim crept forward. Surely the world would not be as cruel as to force Jamil to suffer further, not after he had nearly perished for simply wanting to be free. He held his breath, hand reaching for the cool brass of the doorknob. Surely he was simply over-tired- anxious from days of solitude away from Jamil’s watchful eyes. Slowly, he turned the knob. The door was unlocked.

The world had never been particularly kind to them, had it.

A horrible portrait invaded his sight, lit like a silhouette. Jamil, looking smaller than Kalim had ever seen him, struggled fruitlessly in the grasp of a horrifically muscled man. His hair had been ripped out of its careful braids, arms bent at an unnatural angle. Blood trickled like satin down the side of him, and the smirking man held a silver, red-stained dagger at his throat. 

Time seemed to slow as two pairs of eyes locked on Kalim’s intrusion. Quickly, he realized a few things. 1) The man was unmasked, meaning his plan was to grab Jamil and leave as quickly as possible without being seen. 2) His towering physique confirmed this- assassins tended to be slimmer, more agile, needing only to slip through a window and take out their prey. This was a bruiser more commonly seen in the market’s alleyways than infiltrating the estate, Kalim was more than familiar with his type. Their goal was simply to take, not kill, by any violent means necessary. 3) Even in Jamil’s weakened, magicless state, the intruder hadn’t bothered to use any spells himself to make the job easier. He wasn’t a mage.

Kalim’s heart beat loudly in his ears, drowning out the surrounding sound. No one moved, the struggle frozen in a fragile state of shock. Kalim’s eyes flitted to Jamil’s face, taking in the sight of him. His mouth was hidden behind one of the large hands of his attacker, but his eyes met with Kalim’s. 

For the first time in 17 years, Jamil’s gaze stared back at him with fear.

“Don’t move, little rich boy, and your servant will be just fine.” The man smirked. “What’s one of these, anyways? You have hundreds, I’m sure you’ll be fine until we get our money’s worth.”

Kalim used to vomit after Jamil saved him, hands still bloody from whatever sad battle had played out. He stopped getting nauseous after the 5th time it happened. After a year, he only found himself worried about the state of Jamil, carefully checking him over for any cuts or scrapes. 

Jamil had killed for Kalim countless times, under instruction. Kalim wasn’t sure if Jamil would kill for him under different circumstances. But Kalim would do anything for Jamil.

A tidal wave of emotion battered the rocky cliffs of his mind. The ever-present naivety that had been hairline fracturing for a lifetime, held together only by the fear of nihilism was chipping, cracking. Slabs of his principles and boulders of his morals crashed into the white-capped water of his soul, forming a whirlpool that churned and pulled.

Freezing cold something pulsed through his body.

Terror. Rage. Love.

In a flash, magic poured out of him, glinting like razor blades under the light of the moon. Deadly fast, it crashed into its target. 

The man holding Jamil froze, the muscles in his arms tensing violently. Kalim cricked his neck, and the intruder fell sideways, staring at the young heir in shock. Suddenly, he coughed. And coughed, and kept coughing, hands grasping futilely at his own throat as he began to choke up water, fresh and clear. His writhing gave way to desperate pleads.

“Plea-ugh. Mer- mercy.” He gasped in between breaths. 

The tempest of Kalim’s soul sneered. Mercy? What mercy had they ever given him? What mercy had they given Jamil? There was no answer, and the ocean rose again. 

Vessels burst in the man’s face, quickly overtaken by the mounting pressure within his body. His tears flowed equal parts blood and water and his eyes bulged from his skull like an unfortunate fish drawn too quickly from the depths. 

In hindsight, it was almost too quick. 

The man let out a final wheeze, perhaps a scream if his lungs hadn’t already burst, and his bloated corpse fell uselessly to the floor.

His life, like poetry, spilled into cool stone. 

Kalim stood, fists clenched hard enough to draw blood, body thrumming with the aftershocks of his magic. It seemed fitting that the most powerful storm he ever summoned was one for Jamil alone.

Jamil.

Kalim rushed forward, gathering Jamil in his arms. The latter breathed harshly, wincing as his injured arm was moved. Kalim shut his eyes, willing the reserves of his magic to come to the surface. He muttered enchantments as he skimmed his fingers across Jamil’s skin, wounds knitting themselves slowly back together. He would still need to be tended to by a proper physician, but healing magic was instinctual, and known to grow stronger with intent… Jamil would be safely in the clear, if not a little uncomfortable.

A hush fell over them as Kalim finished his work. Normally, after Jamil had protected him from someone (killed someone for Kalim), Kalim would try to fill the silence by chatting about some inane thing. Whether or not Jamil responded was besides the point- he just wanted to let Jamil know he felt safe, even if the words he spoke fell on deaf ears.

This felt different, somehow, and Kalim for once found himself with nothing to say. Instead, he allowed himself to focus on the sound of Jamil’s steady breathing- clear airways, no major injuries, no lingering scent of poison. Kalim had learned to appreciate this single comfort: the calm after a storm, and the two of them safe on the beach. 

“Kalim.” Jamil’s voice was somewhat gravely, most likely from being choked. Kalim gripped Jamil’s shoulder tighter.

“Jamil, are you feeling alright?” 

“You made sure of that.” He huffed, and Kalim felt the contents of his stomach churn anxiously. He couldn’t think of something to say, so he didn’t.

“Kalim. That man…”

“He’s dead.”

“Ah…” Jamil coughed weakly, body shuddering against Kalim’s. Kalim watched silently as the last of Jamil’s cuts sealed themselves up. 

“Your braids came undone.”

Jamil shifted against him, and Kalim paused to see if he would turn to face him. He didn’t.

“It takes a long time to do them, right?” He nodded without responding. 

Gently, Kalim allowed his fingers to brush through the ends of Jamil’s long hair. How long had it been since he’d touched it? Since they were kids, maybe. Since Jamil was forced to lower himself to Kalim, and stopped allowing Kalim to do anything for him. 

Brushing back a section over Jamil’s shoulder, Kalim began to weave patterns into his hair, the night breeze working against his progress. 

Kalim’s hands were not shaking, and Jamil’s breath didn’t hitch, breaking the silence as he cried.

~~~~~

“Kalim, your food is getting cold.” Jamil sighed, folding up some of Kalim’s school shirts. 

“Sorry, Jamil. I’m not that hungry.” Kalim gazed out the window, halfheartedly stirring his cup of tea.

“It’ll be a waste if it goes off.”

Kalim was lost in thought, the familiarity of the situation somehow off putting. It had been one full day since Jamil’s attempted kidnapping, and one hour since Jamil had knocked on Kalim’s door, waking him up for the morning with breakfast in hand. Kalim wouldn’t lie, a part of him was absolutely thrilled to have Jamil back taking care of him. The longest week of Kalim’s life had come to a close, in theory it would be easy to simply return to their normal routine. After all, they would return to Night Raven in 2 days time- it would be better to go back to how they were. 

In the past, Kalim would gladly take this opportunity without a second glance. But now, knowing what he knew about how Jamil felt… Did he want to? Was a facade of subservience and friendship truly better than the truth? 

Kalim knew now that he didn’t have to work for most of the things in his life- they’d all been handed to him without his knowledge. He knew now that those achievements were frail and paper thin, and the happiness he had paraded was one of the fingers that had strangled Jamil’s freedom. Maybe if Kalim worked for the things he cared about just a little more, they wouldn’t disappear like an illusion in his grasp.

“Jamil?”

“What is it?” He didn’t look over, continuing to pack away Kalim’s clothes. Kalim took a breath, letting the spoon rest in his now cold tea.

“We need to talk.” Jamil halted his work.

“About?” 

Kalim stood, walking over to stand behind Jamil.

“All of…” Kalim gestured around, “This. Everything.” Us.

Jamil resumed, walking to Kalim’s closet and pulling out more of his uniforms, expertly avoiding eye contact.

“I suppose it was only a matter of time.” Kalim blinked.

“For what?”

“You know for what. Look, I’m not gonna tell you I’m sorry about what I did to you, because I’m not. School’s starting in a couple days anyways, and you’ll have forgotten all about my overblot-”

“Your overblot?”

Finally, Jamil turned to face him. 

“Obviously. Don’t worry, once we’re back at school we’ll go back to normal anyways, I’ll take care of everything.” Jamil rolled his eyes, but Kalim could tell he was hiding something. Kalim clenched his fists.

“No.”

“What?” He raised his eyebrow, looking incredulously at Kalim.

“No, I,” Kalim was overtaken by a resounding urge. Jamil, in all his genius, didn’t even know what Kalim was talking about. He had to make it clear now, no matter the consequences. 

“I don’t care about your overblot, Jamil! I mean- I care, I care about you, I care about how you were feeling so bad so quietly that you had no choice but to self destruct- but not in the way that maybe I should. I’m not- I haven’t been angry at you. I’m scared.” Kalim’s eyes welled up with tears, and he steadfastly ignored them.  

“It was bad enough to lose you as my closest friend. But the other night I almost lost you for real. All for what, because you have to protect me? Because I’m stupid and naive and all that other stuff you said? Because I’m an Asim?” Kalim’s chest heaved, and he brought his arm up to hide his face and avoid looking at Jamil’s. 

Jamil was silent, and Kalim didn’t want to imagine what sort of expression he was making. 

“What happened the other night wasn’t your fault. You know how those guys are, they could’ve gone after anyone. It’s all money to them.” Jamil’s voice was slow and steady, and Kalim tried to cling to it. 

“It was my fault, though! If people weren’t always coming after me, you would’ve been safe!” 

“You can’t help who you were born to, Kalim.” He chuckled humorlessly, “And neither can I.”

Maybe, at some point earlier in his life, Kalim would have accepted that. They were both simply filling their roles, an heir and a servant, both seemingly content with their positions. Kalim would eventually take over the family business with Jamil at his side, and maybe they could live in some sort of amicable facade with a want for nothing. But Kalim, given everything, wanted none of it.

“I would give up my name for you, Jamil. I would give up everything.” He took a step closer, forcing Jamil to look at him.

“I would give you everything.”

For once, Jamil looked at a loss for words. Silver eyes filled with an emotion that Kalim couldn’t quite read, and his lips parted as if he were going to speak. No sound came out, and Kalim looked away.

“I’m sorry.” Kalim spoke unnaturally quietly. “For everything.”

A moment passed, and Kalim began to turn away. Suddenly, Kalim felt himself pulled into a hug. Jamil brought him close, arms wound tightly around his back and waist. Kalim gasped softly, immediately relaxing with Jamil’s touch. He brought his arms around Jamil, and took the chance to listen to his heartbeat. When was the last time Jamil had hugged him, and not the other way around? Had it ever happened? Kalim didn’t know. 

“We’re not friends.” 

Kalim smiled weakly into Jamil’s chest in spite of himself.

“Ok.”

“I won't baby you anymore- you need to learn how to do things for yourself.”

“That’s fine.”

“But if what you said about us being rivals or equals or whatever is true, then you have a long way to go.”

Oh.

“You have a lot to learn if you want to even get close to catching up. I won’t hold back.” Then, quieter. “Guess I have to stick around to see if you can do it.”

Kalim smiled, and he felt more alive than he had in almost a week.

“I won’t let you down, Jamil.”

[bayoubodycount]

Something is niggling at me and I can't easily let it go.

"I couldn't pursuade him to return my affections. I couldn't force him to love me and so I broke him."

*Forcefully bites him (vampire equivalent of r*pe) Hell, Armand even says in TVL(?)something <like>("The r*pre of an equal is so delicious).

*Throws him from a height which leaves him broken for sometimes afterwards...

Admittedly, I might be dead wrong. But it sounds to me like Armand is confessing what happened between him and Lestat in Paris, THROUGH Lestat. I said it once before, but I would be exceedingly happy to learn later that Armand put his own memories of what he felt towards Lestat and did to Lestat, in his head so poor Les THINKS he really did do that to Louis. And Louis thinks it really happened too.

Also, on my rewatch I noticed something else:

As much as they used Claudia'a diaries to condemn her and Louis, I don't believe they used any diary of hers to corroborate that THE DROP ITSELF actually happened. Not once has she mentioned the fall herself. And in Dubai, she's not around and can neither question the event nor verify it. Louis was tremendously wounded from Lestat's infidelity and other abuse, absolutely. And Claudia was sick of him for her own justified reasons. But she is also no longer here, as the only other witness to relay what actually happened...and since we haven't seen those missing diary pages, in which she detailed so so so very much, you'd THINK a drop like that would have been mentioned by now.

Book Armand and Claudia got into some gruesome interactions, and it's logical to see WHY Admand said those pages mention him. But what if he's also keeping them separated because within them there's NO MENTION of a drop/fall? And that lack of entry would certainly make Louis suspicious.

It just feels sus to me!

I confess to not wanting that drop with Louis to be true and I know Sam struggled with it and the rest of the DV in that episode. But if he still trusts Rolin so much with Lestat, PERHAPS, RJ has his trust because this is a truth we'll learn later when Lestat tells his own side and learns his mind was tinkered with too. Which would drive home even further the lengths Armand will go to for his own desires.

If not, I'll 100% deal and suck it up🤷‍♀️

[jeannereames]

Do you see memes and shitposts about Alexander and his time? If yes, do you like them, you hate them? Would you change something about these memes?

I’m sorry. I’m just really curious about what a professor thinks about this. Do you perhaps have a favorite Alexander meme?

Well, for me there’s a big difference between memes and shitposts. The former can be rather entertaining, the latter are just trolling. Don’t feed the trolls. I realize I’m perhaps defining shitposting more narrowly than some, but there’s enough of the narrow sort out there I don’t want to confuse it with memes.

Meme are great. I have two favorites, although not about Alexander, ironically. I’ve shared them below. Both show up in my class Power-points, btw! Many of my colleagues also enjoy clever memes. My buddy Borja Antela was trying to collect some on Alexander last year. For a while, I followed Alexandergoatmemes on Instagram, but finally left because about 85/90% of them seemed to be about Alexander naming cities after himself. Sure, it’s funny maybe the first 20 times, but at 100+?

So memes are great. Shitposting and ignorant-posting, however, are annoying.

I’m deliberately creating that third category. Shitposters know they’re posting shit; ignorant-posters (usually) don’t. The latter put up videos, tweets, or blog entries about (in this case) Alexander that perpetuate a lie, a false quote, or an oversimplified-and-mostly-wrong factoid. Some ignorant-posters are just reposting what they heard because they don’t know any better and may receive correction well enough—especially if offered politely. Yet others get upset (sometimes disproportionately so) when their errors or distortions are pointed out.

This can be about controversial matters, such as Alexander’s putative “sexuality” or it can be something surprising. I once had a fellow fly off the handle when he posted that Alexander was left-handed and I (gently) corrected him.* You’d have thought I’d called his mother a whore. It seemed quite silly…except that left-handedness used to be considered a Very Bad Thing. So being able to claim famous people as lefties was apparently more for him than just leftie pride.

Aside from oddities, most of the ignorant-posting I’ve seen comes in three main types.

First, we have the religious/spiritual/life-coach sorts who usurp Alexander for a moral lesson—not unlike the orators of the (Roman-era) Second Sophistic, or both Muslims and Christians in some of the Alexander Romances. Alexander has ALWAYS been a malleable figure for lecturing. Ergo, he pops up in homilies/sermons as a parable, like his supposed Last Three Wishes. It is, of course, total bullshit, but there’s quite a lot of stuff like it out there. People read it, go “Aww,” and reblog without bothering to check if it’s correct. It has “the authority of hearsay.” These can be either Alexander-positive or Alexander-negative parables, btw.

See also: quotes attributed to famous celebrities that they never, in fact, said. Alexander gets these too. The ¡Inspirational! “Army of Sheep Led by a Lion” is especially egregious, as it’s a general proverb that appeared well after Alexander (no, he didn’t say it). It seems to be currently popular, along with, “There is nothing impossible to him who will try” (also not ATG). Yet these make great quotes for those damn “Inspirational Posters.” Here’s a whole page of them, lion quote right at the top, suitable for a Power-point!...with no attempt to verify their authenticity or say where they got them. But the image with the quote below is especially funny as they even put a date on their fictional quote. If it has a date, it must be true! Netflix, btw, used that bloody quote even though I told them not to; it was fake. Didn’t matter.

Second, we have the alt-right/white supremacist groups, or hangers-on who might reject the label (coyly or not) but embrace much of its Eurocentric thinking. These folks present Alexander as spreading good [white] Western values to the poor benighted East [brown people]. It’s essentially warmed-over Plutarch with a dash of Curtius and some Arrian. Their Alexander even sometimes has longish flowing (blond) locks and is oddly tall.** Like Thor. I stay the hell away from them but have occasionally stumbled over them on Tik-Tok.

Anyway, the alt-right crowd may have read some about Alexander, written by other alt-right guys who take material from a carefully curated set of “accepted” histories: Arrian and Plutarch, and not just Plutarch’s Life of Alexander, but his double-essay from the Moralia, “On the Fate or Fortune of Alexander.” They tend to be war/conquest-approving and see the Greco-Roman past as some pure Aryan utopia from which we’ve fallen into our “wretched age of iron.”*** Of late, a lot of their associated images are AI generated, btw. A couple examples below.

Last, and on the opposite end of the spectrum are the Alexander-was-Queer-AND-Wonderful, and oh, boy, some of them also don’t want a single bad thing said about their hero. They may know relatively little about his life aside from his putative gayness, but are just as resistant to/resentful of being corrected in their errors and romantic oversimplifications.

And that is what all of these categories share: oversimplification for the sake of a particular social and/or political agenda.****

Isn’t it, then, also shitposting? No. Because shitposters intend to stir the pot. They may or may not believe what they say, but they’re saying it TO get a reaction. Like the Tweet Heard Round the Alexander-verse after the Netflix thing (below). THAT was a shitpost. His entire goal was to go viral, and he succeeded.

By contrast, ignorant-posters usually aim for a particular audience and rarely expect to go viral outside their circle. Nor do they expect to be corrected. When they are, they react with surprise and anger. (Again, there are exceptions.)

I tend to observe these things, but rarely engage—although I did engage more when I was a young grad student. Now if I reply, it’s general (as here), not to the original post/tweet itself. TBH, I have books and articles to write, classes to teach, and papers to grade. 😉 I don’t have time for flamewars.

-----------------------

* Yes, I made Alexander left-handed in Dancing with the Lion, partly for the hell of it. But there’s zero evidence one way or the other—which I point out in my Author’s Note at the end of book 2, Rise.

** BTW, there’s a Whole Thing out there online about Alexander as tall, even Super Tall, claiming evidence which they don’t actually cite (correctly). Note the “many stories suggest….” Oh, really? These are? Anyway, I don’t think the author of that blog entry is alt-right—which is why I put it as a footnote—but dig the wacko AI white-haired Nordic Alexander at the top! And I’m still chuckling at a 7-foot-tall Alexander. Good Lord, how tall would that make Hephaistion?

*** Yeah, that’s a little bow to Hesiod’s theory of the Ages of Man.

**** Note that I didn’t include Greek Nationalists. While some of them also swing right (Golden Dawn, Front Line, National Reform Party, etc.), many are more moderate. Alexander is a Greek hero, and if what’s presented about him by some is also oversimplified to fit a national narrative, it doesn’t spring from ignorance so much as deliberate choice and what they learned in school/at home. Think about what the average (white) American knows about George Washington or Thomas Jefferson, or for that matter, the average native person about Tecumseh or Crazy Horse.

[sibyl-of-space]

Troubleshooting & repair of a DIFFERENT old camcorder - audio & power issues - part 1

If there is one thing about me it is that I love old camcorders.

Device: JVC GR-250U MiniDV Camcorder

Symptoms: Issues charging, "Unit in Safeguard Mode" warning, unable to rewind, audio playback cuts in & out on inner speakers/AV out (FireWire transfer fine)

Service Manual: https://elektrotanya.com/jvc_gr_d250.rar/download.html#dl

TL;DR: Power stuff mostly handled, audio stuff not handled, I hate soldering tiny micro components

Well this camcorder actually started borking it about 2 years ago and I only now could be bothered to open it up and try and figure out what's up. First things first, I focused on the power issues, because I realized there's a chance the audio issue is a result of the power issues. Power issues do all sorts of stuff. You never know.

Now that I have a multimeter the first steps I took were:

Confirmed A/C adapter is outputting the voltage it's supposed to (confirmed)

Opened it up - this was a nightmare, I might make a teardown video at some point to walk people through it because it was SO annoying even WITH the schematics PDF

Tried to confirm voltages on various parts of the board (this was difficult because the circuits are really complicated and the schematic diagrams are A Lot, but it looked to me like for the most part everything was getting the expected voltages when powered on)

At this point I kinda got stuck so I did the tried and true method of "watch some videos of people who know what the fuck they're doing troubleshooting a similar piece of technology" and found this -

First off, I am jealous about how much easier that camcorder is to tear down than mine was, but anyway. In this case, the issue was a blown fuse. I realized I hadn't even thought to check or look for fuses on my camcorder, so I did that.

And sure enough: the first fuse I saw in big yellow letters labeled on the circuit board, F6001, when I tested across it there was no continuity. Looking at the schematics sheet this fuse is like the first point of failure right off the main power before it goes to just about every other part of the device, including and especially the battery, so that would explain most of the issues I've had with powering it. It also explains why the software stuff worked fine but it would fail when it had to do something mechanically taxing like rewinding a tape - bigger power draw, I imagine.

ANYWAY, just like the guy in the video, I decided I should just try to jumper across it to make it work. I was very idealistic at this time and thought if it worked I could order a replacement fuse and then properly install that.

I had not yet learned how much of a fucking nightmare soldering this stupid thing was going to be.

After 3 hours of my life that I will never get back, I have the ugliest solder job known to man, and have melted several adjacent components, but luckily not damaged them:

Perhaps you don't have a good sense for just how infuriatingly tiny this stupid thing is. Here is my thumb for scale.

I know the picture is blurry as hell. My phone didn't want to zoom in this much because of how freaking tiny this stupid shit is. Anyway. It's fine. I did it. Somehow. Eventually. Very, very eventually.

Verifying the jump was also a pain because there are absolutely no obvious connection points immediately after the fuse on this side of the board, and I cannot emphasize enough how annoying it is to take this circuit board out and access the backside, but whatever, it's fine, I found a capacitor on the backside that worked as a point to test the connection and was able to verify on like my 3rd fucking attempt that I actually soldered across the dumb thing.

I am absolutely not replacing this with another fuse. If it gets overloaded and explodes at some point that's just the will of the gods.

ANYWAY, once that was done I put it mostly back together to test it out. And I am actually pleased to report the power issues are much better. If it's plugged into the A/C directly there are no issues, and even on battery power it seems to charge more, hold a charge better, and give me the "UNIT IN SAFEGUARD MODE" error way less frequently. I have still gotten the error, but I wonder if that will go away if I get a new battery or just do a full battery charge + drain to 0 cycle a couple times. It's much more usable now which is good.

Unfortunately this did not solve the audio issue. I am going to have to learn a lot more about reading schematic sheets to figure out the audio issue. One hint I have is that looking at the outputs from the audio chip, the outputs for the speaker and the A/V out ARE COMPLETELY SEPARATE PINS AND CIRCUITS. Which means since I am getting the same symptom on both, the issue lies somewhere between reading from the tape and getting to that audio chip, in all likelihood.

I will further troubleshoot the audio issue another day. For today I have had enough with this stupid tiny circuit board and its dumb small components.

[aishangotome]

Personal Branch (Yi Yu): #1 The Dark Secrets of Aisha Hospital (爱莎医院的黑幕) Part 6 | Beyond The World 世界之外

Part 5

♡———♡

The weather was gradually getting colder.

Persistence pays off. I finally obtained information about the dark secrets of Aisha Hospital from an informant I had developed during this time.

To my surprise, the Yi Dian Group, which was still thriving and hadn't been targeted by the Rebirth Group, was also behind Aisha Hospital.

I realized that if I wanted to successfully expose their dark secrets, I still needed an accomplice.

This day, I came to the Dawn Herald office as usual, and as soon as I entered, I pulled Li Ming aside.

Me: I've got a big case here, want to join in?

Li Ming: ......What kind of case?

Me: It's about Aisha Hospital.

Me: I got a tip from a reliable informant that Aisha Hospital has been performing illegal organ transplant surgeries for some high-ranking officials for many years.

Me: Many of those organs come from black market organ trafficking.

Li Ming licked his lips, looking a little nervous, or perhaps excited.

Me: The tip even says that Aisha Hospital itself is a black market trading hub.

Me: Not only that, but they deliberately take patients with no background and use them for tissue matching.

Me: If the matching is successful, they'll make up a fake diagnosis, perform surgery, and transplant the patient's healthy organs into their clients.

Me: To cover up the truth, they even intentionally let some patients who provided organs "die of illness"...

Perhaps influenced by the chaotic situation.

The world's military equipment and biomedical technology are more advanced in this world compared to the similar time periods of the real world.

Li Ming frowned, cautiously verifying with me.

Li Ming: Sounds like some kind of sensational conspiracy theory.

Me: Indeed, but the tip is reliable, and I've done some investigation of my own, and found that it might be true...

Li Ming: Looks like you've already decided to do this story?

Me: That's right, but you know, Aisha Hospital is a private hospital, and behind it is actually the Yi Dian Group.

Me: That's why I want you to join...

Me: That way, if something happens to me, at least someone reliable will know about it and can ensure that the information and materials I've gathered are published.

Me: Of course, this is a very risky matter, so you can choose whether or not to join...

Unlike the Yi Dian Group in the precarious situation it faced twelve years later, this Yi Dian Group is now at its peak.

Its industries and influence cover almost every important sector on four continents, and it has intricate connections with political figures from many countries and regions.

So I can understand Li Ming's concerns.

Even if he ultimately chooses not to join, I will understand.

However, this is what I came here for.

So even if I'm alone, no matter how dangerous or difficult it is, I will do it.

Li Ming met my gaze.

Li Ming: A case like this... of course I'll join.

Li Ming: Only a fool would miss such a rare big case.

.

.

.

.

.

The Dark Secrets of Aisha Hospital: Part 7

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[blackcrowing]

Book Review of 'A Guide to Ogam Divination' by Marissa Hegarty

I was thrilled when I bought this book. I was so excited to crack it open and read it, I was excited to write this post and support an independent author who is out here putting in the work and turning out well researched information for budding and experienced pagans alike. It makes me incredibly sad to not be able to do that…

I found the first part of the book, here named "Theory" overly long, convoluted and mostly outside the professed scope of the book (that scope being named as divination). This criticism comes from someone who is enamored by linguistic history and therefore should have found this section as fascinating as any other. However, for example, while I appreciate the author's apparent desire to assure the reader that ogam existed prior to the overwhelming establishment of Christianity in Ireland and therefore was almost certainly a product of a pagan thinking mind as opposed to a Christian one, this point was ultimately very simple to get to and did not require as much time and effort as the author put into it (about 35 pages, taking into account the section on ogam stones which set up the section for this point, likely 10 or so would have done just fine).

I also found myself really struggling to connect with the authors take in many aspects of this section. Few points make sense to me, perhaps in part or in whole do to the author's seemingly random use of citations. Such as one point when the ages of Auraicept na nÉces and In Lebor Ogaim might be cited (though even then it is sometimes difficult to decipher exactly WHAT point is actually being cited), while elsewhere a reference is made to what is apparently a manuscript containing the earliest complete use of Ogam, yet there is no citation for this (it is, presumably, sourced later in the text but with no mention of given either at the first introduction nor at the later account). Additionally, (while it is no fault of the author's) some aspects I could not independently verify at all because the articles/books referenced are unavailable and... apparently... not referenced anywhere else...

Moving on to the second section “practice”… there was very little information offered in this section that was new to a reader who already has read “Ogam: weaving word wisdom” by ERL and “Irealnd’s Trees: Myths, Legends and Folklore” by Niall MacCoitir…

Whats worst, in my personal opinion is that I never felt like the author ever took a stance on… well anything… each time I settled in to what the author was saying about any point at all I suddenly found them either arguing directly against that point in the very next paragraph and dismissing it wholly or after expressing a conflicting idea throwing up their hands and going "either might be true". While this is often done by writers on topics which can not have definitive answers there is a way to do it without giving your audience whiplash or living them feeling like the author themselves may not know what they're talking about and this author… unfortunately did not employ any of those methods.

I can not express enough how much I wanted to like this book and how much I wanted to support this budding author… but I found the whole experience ultimately unenjoyably and lacking any individual thought or additions…

[killer-arcade]

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