#not that u needed me to tell you

[adriles]

when we’re done with our overwhelming grief we’ll eat i guess

#book 22 #im verh drunk #hi #greatest hits #not really sure why this one resonated. are u all ok #is everyone just at the shiva #yall need to stop saying you arent gonna eat then in the tags #i love that a lot of you are getting beautiful things out of this #but some of yall need to know i wrote this while incredibly drunk #this isnt meant to be all that deep this is just shitty iliad posting #more comments like this is just judaism. surprise surprise im jewish #but again this isnt about sitting shiva #this is me drunk talking about the last 3 books of the iliad #idk what to tell u man

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

#every time someones like ''AI will replace u" im like. u will have to fucking KILL ME #there is no replacement here bc i am not filling a position. i am just writing #and the writing is what i need to be doing #writeblr #this probably doesn't make sense bc its sooo frustrating i rarely speak it the way i want to #edited for the typo wrote it and then was late to a meeting lol #i love u people who mention my typos genuinely bc i don't always catch them!!!! :) it is doing me a genuine favor!!! #my friend says i should tell you ''thank you beta editors'' but i don't know what that means #i made her promise it isn't a wolf fanfiction thing. so if it IS a wolf thing she is DEAD to me (just kidding i love her) #hey PS PS PS ??? if ur reading this thinking what it's saying is ''i am financially capable of losing this'' ur reading it wrong #i write for free. i always have. i have worked 5-7 jobs at once to make ends meet. #i did not grow up with access or money. i did not grow up with connections or like some kind of excuse #i grew up and worked my fucking ASS OFF. and i STILL!!! wrote!!! on the side!!! because i didn't know how not to!!! #i do not write for money!!!! i write because i fuckken NEED TO #i could be in the fucking desert i could be in the fuckken tundra i could be in total darkness #and i would still be writing pretentious angsty poetry about it #im not in any way saying it's a good thing. i'm not in any way implying that they're NOT tryna kill us #i'm saying. you could take away our jobs and we could go hungry and we could suffer #and from that suffering (if i know us) we'd still fuckin make art. #i would LOVE to be able to make money doing this! i never have been able to. but i don't NEED to. i will find a way to make my life work #even if it means being miserable #but i will not give up this thing. for the whole world.

[kangals]

friendly advice from vetmed: I know that when your animal has an infection that is generating a lot of discharge, you want to describe that to the veterinarian, because it’s a concerning sign. that is true. I also know that the most common word for this type of discharge is “pus,” so it’s logical that that’s the word that you’ll use when describing what’s going on. and in English, we often add a “-y” when we’re using a word as a descriptor.

but. the word. the word you are looking for. is purulent.

please stop sending in messages telling the doctor that your dog has a “pussy wound.”

#aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAA #(i know. I know what you’re trying to say! I understand how you got to this conclusion!) #but please read the things you are writing #you don’t need to say that your dog has pussy eyes. you can just say infection. or ‘eyes have pus’ #pls and thank u #uhh idk how to tag this tell me if something should be added #injury cw #unsanitary cw

[pinkcadavart]

I'm still learning the characters rn so this might not be accurate but please tell me its at least funny

#i saw that post that was like 'if you were my husband I'd poison your coffee' and 'if you were my wife id drink it' and got inspired #vil schoenheit #rook hunt #twisted wonderland #twst #rookvil #vilrook #idk what is more common a ship name for them and this isn't technically ship art but......... still #no one ask me to draw vil again I did not do him justice at all ghhhh #u can tell im tired and just needed to get this idea out as soon as physically possible before it haunted me lol #I FIXED the height difference bc I was embarrassed #i really thought Rook was taller until 2 seconds after posting and im ashamed #fanart

[withdenim]

So uh. How about that time skip huh. (Corvus composing and performing the best track in the show was so hot of him btw if you care)

#sorvus #I need Corvus backstory now you can’t just play cello on screen like that and not tell me your life story #dragon prince #the dragon prince #does he KNOW he played the best track in the show over one of the most incredible moments of the show??. I don’t think he knows #Soren writes poetry about him btw #and takes him to see that fucking hollow tree he talked about in Changing Of The Guard #go read it if u haven’t I’m literally insane #Yknow that feeling when it means a lot. to ezran. #to the king. mhm. #soren tdp #Corvus tdp #the dragon prince soren #the dragon prince Corvus

[raccoonpog]

tw // excessive self blame

Cage for a cage, day 7

#thank you to the one person who reminded me of this comic from a tag rt #I WAS LIKE “OHH YEAH OMG i need to repost this” #philza #qsmp #caineart #qsmp philza #tbh i was hesitant on reposting this bc u could tell i had some pent up experience #im okay now. but yknow. its a bit embarrassing ya

[xoalsox]

taemin doing an impression of jonghyun (x)

#taemin #jonghyun #saw this going around on twt again....might have watched it at least 20 times in a row #when i tell you that taemin is the funniest person in the world...seeing how funny he is now u might agree but let me tell u about taemin #BACK THEN...he would normally be just a quiet little guy but then he would literally do the craziest thing out of nowhere and leave everyon #in shambles (me especially. also jonghyun as you can see in the video above) #anyway his impression of jjong's manner of speaking is so funny bc it is SO ON POINT im literally tearing up watching this again now #also look at jonghyun GIGGLING . #honestly posting this for myself specifically so i can go back when i need to laugh for a bit.... #ltm a comedian first a singer dancer artist second

[redysetdare]

Oh so when repulsed ppl or non-partnering ppl bring up their experiences it's suddenly "not all aros/aces! Don't generalize the community!" But a choir of assholes crying out "Aros and aces can still date!" In response to ppl pointing out the erasure of those who don't is not generalizing and totally fine? Yeah, uh huh ok.

#text #aro #ace #aromantic #asexual #aroace #idk its interesting how these people dont have to put qualifiers on their posts #stating aros and aces can still date in response to a character that has expressed otherwise #but yeah ok repulsed and non-partnering aspecs are the problem here #and them expressing opinions on their experience needs to have a million disclaimers #to even have the chance of being viewed as valid #uh huh ok. tell me again abt how much u support aro aces #and definitely arent bias towards the ones that you can pretend are “normal allos” #romance repulsed #sex repulsed #non-partnering

[jamesdotmp3]

not star trek but um. watched the new ghostbusters today. ghost lesbians ,

#jamesdotmp3 #ghostbusters #ghostbusters fanart #ghostbusters frozen empire #phoebe spengler #melody ghostbusters #wlw #lesbian #fanart #digital art #ghost #my art #like u mean to tell me phoebe SEPARATED HER SOUL FROM HER BODY #JUST TO. ???WHAT THE FUCK THEYRE GAY #phoebe. i know what you are #and what you are. is gay #genuinely started writing fanfic the moment i stepped out of the theater #I NEED THEM TO BE HAPPY. #THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE ENDGAME.

[missmeinyourbones]

SUNA + THE FIRST TIME HE SAYS I LOVE YOU

send in a character + trope for a blurb

...

you should've been asleep. you're always asleep before him, so why would this time be any different?

suna knows the drill like the back of his hand by now. you fight off your inevitable slumber as hard as you can, trying to stay awake for no good reason until you eventually ignore his annoyances and succumb to sleep.

tonight shouldn’t have been any different.

"hey," a finger prods against your cheek, testing the waters.

when a groan bubbles from your throat but your eyes remain closed, suna knows you’re at the ‘barely hanging on to consciousness’ stage of your sleep schedule. he uses a hand to gently squeeze your cheeks together.

“stop.”

it comes out slightly muffled by your squished lips. he huffs a laugh through his nose, “what?"

you groan into the pillow, escaping his loose grasp.

"go to sleep," he whispers, and though you can’t see him, you can practically hear the menacing grin on his face through his tease.

if your eyes were open, you’d roll them. "i’m trying to."

and it’s routine, comforting to the two of you. suna waits there in the dark, like he always does, until your breathing evens out and replicates the deep inhales of when he knows you’re out for good.

he brings his finger back up to your face, but this time, instead of poking your cheek with the incentive of aggravating you, he runs it softly across your cheekbone and then down your jawline with purpose. he’s sure to notice how your eyelids don’t flicker at the sudden touch, how your breathing never hitches with his lingering fingers.

you’re asleep by his side. and just like that, vulnerability oozes from suna’s core.

so he mans up in the most pathetic way possible and presses a kiss to your head. between the space of skin and lips comes a muffled whisper that he’s been dying to say for ages now, but hasn’t quite found the courage to say clearly. 

"i love you."

it’s quiet for a moment, not a sound filling the room beside the air conditioner rattling in the window. and while suna plans to continue caressing your face, he freezes when he feels the smile growing beneath his fingertips. 

you open a single eye groggily, voice raspy when you perk up with a teasing, "what'd you say?"

"nothing," he responds quickly, trying his best to defuse the situation while simultaneously not making a big deal out of it. "you're hallucinating, go back to sleep."

"i was sleeping,” you continue to press, “but i heard something weird."

suna grimaces at your choice of vocabulary before grounding himself in your light tone. you’re not angry or upset, at least not enough for him to hear it in your voice. so he slowly eases himself back onto his pillow. 

"if you heard something, which you definitely didn't," he enunciates, "i don't think it was something weird."

"well if wasn't weird, then what was it?"

through the darkness of the bedroom, he can just barely make out your hopeful eyes, and he can imagine the giddy smile on your pretty face, so he exhales and swallows his pride.

"true," he admits, before hissing out in defeat, "and fucking embarrassing."

your laughter warms the bed and suna feels like he’s floating.

"true and embarrassing," you repeat through sleepy giggles, "just how i like 'em,"

his face is flushed as it hides in his pillow. "are you done making fun of me yet?"

he hears you shuffle in closer before he feels your breath on his arm.

"i will be if you say it again now that i'm awake," you barter.

"technically you were awake the first time i said it."

"rintaro," you whine, and when he doesn't give in so easily, you elaborate. "now that you know that i'm awake."

a bit more confident in his conviction, he brings his hand up once more to find your cheek. 

"i said i love you," he whispers, "like an idiot."

your laughter returns, and when you wrap your arms around his torso and press your nose in the crook of his neck, he can practically feel it warming his bones.

you place a kiss to his neck with a sigh of victory, "that's what i thought.”

a few minutes eventually pass in his hold, and suna would say you have to be asleep now, but he’s learned his lesson the hard way and isn’t one to make the same mistake twice.

and he’s glad because right before he drifts off himself, he feels your head rise from his chest and a gentle kiss placed on his chapped lips.

"i love you, too,” you press into his mouth like a secret, “idiot."

#using this little request game as a writing exercise #not everything needs to be edited and perfect! i can also do short and sweet! #she tries to tell herself #this is still a bit too long for my goal blurb length #but fuck it we ball #cass u really did me in with this one i hate him #suna x you #suna x reader #suna blurb #suna fluff #suna rintaro x you #suna rintaro x reader #suna haikyuu #hq suna rintaro

[inkskinned]

crows use tools and like to slide down snowy hills. today we saw a goose with a hurt foot who was kept safe by his flock - before taking off, they waited for him to catch up. there are colors only butterflies see. reindeer are matriarchical. cows have best friends and 4 stomachs and like jazz music. i watched a video recently of an octopus making himself a door out of a coconut shell.

i am a little soft, okay. but sometimes i can't talk either. the world is like fractal light to me, and passes through my skin in tendrils. i feel certain small things like a catapult; i skirt around the big things and somehow arrive in crisis without ever realizing i'm in pain.

in 5th grade we read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Night-time, which is about a young autistic boy. it is how they introduced us to empathy about neurotypes, which was well-timed: around 10 years old was when i started having my life fully ruined by symptoms. people started noticing.

i wonder if birds can tell if another bird is odd. like the phrase odd duck. i have to believe that all odd ducks are still very much loved by the other normal ducks. i have to believe that, or i will cry.

i remember my 5th grade teacher holding the curious incident up, dazzled by the language written by someone who is neurotypical. my teacher said: "sometimes i want to cut open their mind to know exactly how autistics are thinking. it's just so different! they must see the world so strangely!" later, at 22, in my education classes, we were taught to say a person with autism or a person on the spectrum or neurodivergent. i actually personally kind of like person-first language - it implies the other person is trying to protect me from myself. i know they had to teach themselves that pattern of speech, is all, and it shows they're at least trying. and i was a person first, even if i wasn't good at it.

plants learn information. they must encode data somehow, but where would they store it? when you cut open a sapling, you cannot find the how they think - if they "think" at all. they learn, but do not think. i want to paint that process - i think it would be mostly purple and blue.

the book was not about me, it was about a young boy. his life was patterned into a different set of categories. he did not cry about the tag on his shirt. i remember reading it and saying to myself: i am wrong, and broken, but it isn't in this way. something else is wrong with me instead. later, in that same person-first education class, my teacher would bring up the curious incident and mention that it is now widely panned as being inaccurate and stereotypical. she frowned and said we might not know how a person with autism thinks, but it is unlikely to be expressed in that way. this book was written with the best intentions by a special-ed teacher, but there's some debate as to if somebody who was on the spectrum would be even able to write something like this.

we might not understand it, but crows and ravens have developed their own language. this is also true of whales, dolphins, and many other species. i do not know how a crow thinks, but we do know they can problem solve. (is "thinking" equal to "problem solving"? or is "thinking" data processing? data management?) i do not know how my dog thinks, either, but we "talk" all the same - i know what he is asking for, even if he only asks once.

i am not a dolphin or reindeer or a dog in the nighttime, but i am an odd duck. in the ugly duckling, she grows up and comes home and is beautiful and finds her soulmate. all that ugliness she experienced lives in downy feathers inside of her, staining everything a muted grey. she is beautiful eventually, though, so she is loved. they do not want to cut her open to see how she thinks.

a while ago i got into an argument with a classmate about that weird sia music video about autism. my classmate said she thought it was good to raise awareness. i told her they should have just hired someone else to do it. she said it's not fair to an autistic person to expect them to be able to handle that kind of a thing.

today i saw a goose, and he was limping. i want to be loved like a flock loves a wounded creature: the phrase taken under a wing. which is to say i have always known i am not normal. desperate, mewling - i want to be loved beyond words.

loved beyond thinking.

#spilled ink #writeblr #personal #please don't ask me to talk on my experience on the spectrum lol. i hate how ppl talk to me about it #i really try not to write so specifically about it #bc inevitably someone talks to me like im a child #i think this is the first time i've ever openly identified with it but i've been hinting for years #i might delete this. feels big. #the thing is that being on the spectrum actually IS a spectrum #and if u say ur autistic #inevitably someone makes an assumption about ur needs/symptoms #please do not treat me differently than u usually would. like.... we can tell when you do #and like i mention. i do appreciate the effort. i do truly appreciate the effort. #but it still feels like... #when i was blind. sometimes people kind of did the same-ish thing. #they'd find out i was blind and start talking really loudly? #and while i KNOW they're just trying to help. it would be like. i'd be trying to find #the right way into a building (sometimes only 1 door is unlocked and i couldn't see the signs posted about where to go) #and ppl would be like ''OH UR BLIND? YES SO THIS IS A DOOR. IT OPENS INTO THE BUILDING. IT IS LOCKED NOW." #''A DOOR CAN BE FOUND IN MANY LOCATIONS.'' #and it feels like. when i admit to being autistic #someone comes screeching into my life being like THIS IS A DOOR.

[ronanlynchbf]

#rereading trc while simultaneously falling back into aftg stuff by virtue of reading tsc and thereby transporting myself back to when i #was sixteen but it's fine it's totally fine like it's whatever 😁👍 #r.txt #anyway. me when – me when i – me when i'm trying to tell my best friend that i'm gay but i'm also trying to tell him i can take stuff from #my dreams and i took my now pet raven from my dreams like from my head i'm a dreamer but also that's kind of the same thing but also it's #really not but also it is bc it's an allegory but also that's not the only thing the dreaming is an allegory for and also i'm scared to tel #him like i'm terrified actually and i don't want to tell him but also i need to tell him but also he already knows but i don't know that he #knows and also i was goinggggg to tellllllll himmmmmm arghhhhhhh #this scene is soooooooooo like. like AOUGH. ARGH OUGH AGH AOUGHHHHHH #<- sounds of a guy taking minus xp damage with every word read of this stupid scene. he literally was going to tell gansey 😕......... #trc #ronsey #like i need 2 lay down. he came out there to tell him......the timbre of his voice being described as strange&initially unrecognizable.... #i read this part like. 2 weeks ago idk. smth of the sort. and i'm STILL thinking abt it....you came out for something.....when you'd made u #ur mind to confess but ur mouth betrayed you in the end......associated with secrets and guilt......MAN.....

[beeduoo]

wonderful

#there is a ranboo that goes withthis but i didn't like how he was looking imma restart from scratch tmrw😭😭 #ctubbo #michael beloved #ctubbo fanart #Guys you have no idea what i went through today like it wa fucking crazy i need to share this #so i went to the mall after school right and im going home at like 8 on the train with my friend bc i was supposed to be picked up ay her #stop right but then im told to just go to my stop and take the bus and im like ok sure but the problem is my phone is on SEVEN PERCENT and w #hen i get to the stop my moms like u have money for the bus right and im like ueah and i check and i have NO MONEY #BUT I DIDNT TELL HER ANUTHING BC I DIDNT WANT HER TI GET MAD BC I KNEW SHE WOUDKNT WANT ME TO WALK ALL THE WAY HOME AT NIGHT (FOURTY BLOCKS #So im like ok im getting on the bus now my phone is on four percent i have to WALK HOME allll that way and there's this crazy ass upward hi #ll that's like ten blocks long ITS NOT EVEN THAT BAD but like my mom thinks im on the bus so im trying to speed walk as fast as i can and i #RAWDOGGED it too because MU PHONE WAS GOING TO IDE!!!! #I made it home at two percent U guys i was so proud of myself thank u for listening #IM SO MAD IT WOUKDVE BEEN OKAY IF I WASNT IN A RUSH And also if i had music uggghhh Whatever #I bought this really cute skirt at garage hold on let me find it #lexi pleated skort color Navy blue ITS SOOOO CUTE got some new leg warmers too yesss.... #I NEED TO DOWNLOAD THE TRANSIT APP i woukdve been able to attach my apple pay and buy the stupid ticket if my phonewasnnt #too dead to do al that... #Guys always make sure u carry cash with yiu goodbye

[lesbaurinkos]

one of the most devastating images in the world to me if im honest. super trouper by abba at top fucking volume

#TONIGHT THE SUPER TROUPER BEAMS ARE GONNA BLIND ME BUT I WONT FEEL BLUE... LIKE I ALWAYS DO.... #CAUSE SOMEWHERE IN THE CROWD. THERES YOU. IF YOU CAAAAAARED #i need a fucking cigarette. #truly at a point i cant tell if its just that IIIIM unwell so my eyes go right to phil up there or this really is so compositionally perfec #it FEELS compositionally perfect yknow! feels like u can see that big stupid red string of fate across the image here #i dont even care. its making me feel sooooo...uuuuuuuuuuuuu. super. trouper. top. volume. #im the most normal guy you have EVER MET! #dnp

[revasserium]

just: cry fly

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #kagehina #hq!! #kageyama tobio #hinata shouyou #OKAY LISTEN;;;;;;;; nothing and i MEAN NOTHING makes me cry faster than fucking chapter 400 #where all th FUCKING school banners come up behind each of the players #NOTHING. N O T H I N G #if u ever needed me to cry oN CUE just show me this picture #waterworks. lemme tell you

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for —(and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: chapter twoooo i hope you guys enjoy!! and i take this as pure reason to knuckle down and finish chapter three tehe <3 let me know what u think!! a million mwahs to @strangerstilinski for being my beta too, even tho i yelled at u sorry :/

word count: 3.5k

synopsis: Azriel trains you and is particularly unforgivable about it. Together, you tackle tonics. Azriel ponders the unmistakable pull he feels and you try your best to keep your secret under wraps. fem!reader, mulan-esque au

— CHAPTER TWO :: ALLIES

The storm had calmed come morning. The Mother's Kiss slowed, quietened to only a whisper between the trees.

With it, the ache in your forearm too. The torn skin knitted up in the night, the heat from the fire like a balm on the wound.

But right now, the ache was threatening to make a reappearance.

You glare across the clearing at Azriel from your place in the mud, where he's just knocked you down. Your lungs burn. Your chest heaves as you try to catch you breath. The last hour has been spent on the same infuriating exercise.

The sludgy dirt, still sloppy from the melted snow of last night, drips off your arms as you scramble to get to your feet. Your wings shudder, flicking off the cold dirt with a shake.

"Try again." Azriel says, his voice calm.

He has no weapons on him today with the exception of one knife, strapped high on his thigh. Its obsidian hilt glimmers under the winter sun, rays catching the decorative jewel on the end. The rest of his weapons won't be far you're willing to bet. No Illyrian warrior lets themself be so unprepared.

Or perhaps he truly only needs one blade to hold his own in a fight.

A flicker of envy. You suppose you should feel little more gratuitous of his offer to train, especially considering he's such a mighty warrior.

But between the built-in wariness that comes with having a secret such as yours and the way he keeps throwing you in the mud... it's hard to dredge up some gratitude. You must have been at this for hours now.

Besides, a little part of you can't help but be skeptical of his offer. What exactly did he stand to gain from helping you?

"Why are you helping me again?"

You're panting lightly, bent over with your hands on your knees. Your bound chest twinges in pain. You weren't out of shape by any means — you were an Illyrian warrior after all. But getting knocked down endlessly was beginning to wear you down.

"And," You huff, waving a hand behind at the mud pile he keeps dumping you in. "How does this help?"

Azriel crosses his arms across his broad chest. In the daylight, his shadows shimmer and wisp about. You had been unsurprised to find he's even more devastatingly handsome in the light of daytime.

After his final words the evening before, Azriel had disappeared out into the storm without further explanation, his shadows swirling around him like falling snow.

Come morning, you rose before the sun and stepped outside, prepared to head to training—and there he was. Posed up against a tree, the obsidian-hilt blade his hands, sharpening it in long, precise strokes.

"Lord Mylind has been spoken to regarding your training." Azriel had said, in place of a greeting. "He knows of your expected absence whilst you train under me."

You hadn't said anything; half convinced there had been something coated on Brudam's knife that made you hallucinate the whole thing.

"Though," The male before you continued, finally sheathing his dagger away into the holster on his thigh with casual precision. "He tells me that your absences during training have come to be somewhat expected."

He raises his eyebrows slightly.

"Why do you think they hate me so much?" You asked, a bitter edge to your voice. It's a non-answer.

"Because you neglect your duties as a warrior?"

"Ha. Did Lord Mylind use that word?"

"It's true, one is not considered a warrior until one passes The Blood Rite." Azriel commented, his head tilting to the side just an inch. "You're a warrior-in-training. Provided you go to training, that is."

The combined mention of The Blood Rite and your missing time during training had you tensing up. Azriel had noticed, his eyes shifting to your stiff posture. He hadn’t commented — just stalked off into the snow, wings held high and proud, not checking to see if you bothered to follow.

Now, muscles aching and skin coated in mud-slick, you briefly wonder if you were regretting following him.

"You're smaller than usual Illyrians.” Azriel says. “They rely on brute strength but someone your size is better to rely on your agility— a skill they've been neglecting. No doubt to try to discourage you."

A flush of nervousness rushes through your system at his comment on your size. There's a good reason you don't size up against Illyrian males—being that you aren't one at all.

For good measure, you wipe your face haphazardly with a muddy hand. Any pesky scents that might give you away get smothered beneath it.

"And I believe in what you're doing," Azriel continues, his hazel eyes watching you closely. "It's honourable, no matter what Brudam and his brood say."

Something akin to pride blooms deep in your chest at his approval, at his belief in your mission. Having fought on your own for so many years had taken its toll— one you weren't aware of until it eased. Just a touch.

"Could've sworn you just enjoyed knocking me on my ass."

That glimmer of amusement is back in his hazel eyes. You swear his lips twitch as if holding back a smile.

"Try again." He says, in lieu of an answer. Not a denial.

He gestures to his neck again. Tan skin that hides beneath dark, scaly armor. This has been your task for the last hour — get your hand on his throat, through hand-to-hand combat.

Considering how you'd managed to stick him with a fork just yesterday, you had assumed it was easy territory.

You had been sorely, sorely wrong.

Straightening yourself up properly, you roll your shoulders back and flare your wings out a bit. Your boots sink into the mud an inch. You assess the distance between you and Azriel, eyes narrowed, and try to put together each piece of advice he's given you in the last hours.

Plant your feet when you're striking.

Stay on your toes if you're advancing.

Use your environment to your advantage.

Punch through, not just at.

Your height is as much an advantage as it is a disadvantage.

Some of it was nothing more than a reiteration of your training in camp. And yet, when delivered from Azriel, under his focused gaze, it seems easier to absorb. It holds a different meaning.

This time as you survey your approach a thousand other details whisper in your ear.

The rustle of the trees, the whirl of the wind, the stance he sinks into like second nature.

If you can't overpower him, how can you get a hand on his neck?

Your boots sink deeper into the mud and you tense, your wings held taut and high behind you as you ready yourself to pounce.

The wind picks up, a whistle in the air, and you can see, even from afar, how the swirling of his shadows perk up — as if listening for any whispers in it.

Time to strike.

You burst forward and stay low this time, letting your knees take the brunt of your weight. Instead of trying to get past him, you need to bring his neck down to your level. A half-baked plan scrambles together.

Feigning moves against a proficient warrior like him is nearly laughable and his thick forearm moves to parry your punch as quickly as you form it. Good. It's what you're relying on.

You pivot your energy and focus it on kicking out his bent knee— and you catch him enough by surprise that he stumbles back a step. He doesn’t fall though.

You grit your teeth and know you have about half a second before he’s going to have you dodging punches and landing back in the mud. You keep pressing forward.

Skin meets leather as you land a sharp snap against his shoulder, your knuckles stinging deliciously but he deftly blocks your next blow. And the next, and the next.

Then you’re hitting more of his hands than you are anywhere else.

Frustrated, you snarl, increasing your speed and letting him focus on your incoming punches so he doesn’t see it when you send a kick into his groin.

His defense drops razor fast— both his scarred hands wrapping around your calf and capturing it between his legs, stopping it 2 inches from making contact.

Your eyes dart up to his face, nearly grinning at the incredulous look he gives you.

It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for — and something gleeful in you sings when you shoot your hand up faster than both his can move. The palm of your hand connects with the skin of his neck.

“Aha!” You shout, unable to help yourself.

You’re panting, out of breath from the fast combat and yet, still savouring the victory. A foreign glimmer of admiration and approval flashes deep in your chest. It's gone as quick as it appears.

Azriel doesn’t waste a second to sweep your feet out from beneath you.

Unprepared, you crumple and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. A groan rumbles in your chest. Mud squishes up against your cheek, sullying it.

For a moment, you just lay there and groan in pain.

You're pretty sure every single muscle in your body aches as you gather your strength and push yourself up from the mud, elbows quivering. If you thought regular training was rigorous, this has been brutal.

True, there's less hitting you while you're down which you were more than accustomed to — only once have you thought Azriel might give you a kick while you were defenseless and too tired to cover your face.

But instead, he had surprised you and offered a hand. You had hesitated before taking it.

And as you're finding out, when you're spending less time worrying about Illyrians unfairly targeting you due to your size, you're a hell of a lot better fighter.

With a much better opponent though.

You win some, you lose some.

"Anyone ever call you a prick before?" You seethe quietly; because you had done the task he wanted you to do and he'd still sent you back on your ass. You spit into the mud and wipe your mouth.

"Definitely." Azriel answers. Again, there's that hint of amusement in his voice.

You huff and push up to rest back on your heels, planting your hands on your knees and glaring up at him. The muck on your wings makes you shiver, sludgy trails of mud sliding off them unpleasantly. You're well used to the cold.

"Good." You huff. "Prick."

Azriel smiles at that, not bothering to hide it. You find yourself smiling back at him, an out-of-breath laugh making your shoulders shake and your head bow. The muscles in your stomach hurt as they move.

When you look back up at him, he's offering his hand again.

You take it, this time without hesitation.

—

The day is for training. Azriel, the mentor. You, the student.

The night is for learning. You're both students here.

The second part of his offer that you clearly hadn't expected, given your wide-eyed look when he turned up at your door on that first evening, bringing all manners of plants needed to make healing tonics. Things you hadn't been able to find or afford on your own.

It had been then, he thinks, that you realised how serious he was about helping you. That his offer extended beyond training you physically.

"Is there really a difference between cutting and slicing?" Azriel asks as he peers down at the table beneath him.

In his marred hands is a root vegetable, something that flowered prettily— nice purple skin with a golden centre. He frowns down at it, his gaze shifting slowly from the vegetable to the knife in his hand.

It’s strange, he thinks. Strange to hold a knife and have it not be for violence.

"There is a difference," Your reply floats across from the other side of the room.

Nearly a week he's been here. Azriel had been pushing you more each day he was here, brutal one-on-one training to hone your skills.

It’s working; already he can see the certainty of your stance, your increased agility, the hunter's glint in your eyes. The clumsiness of the first day of training has already been worn away. Beneath it, the Illyrian warrior emerges.

He's exhausting you, he knows. Working you twice as hard to try to fill every gap in your training that seems to be missed. Finding every weak point left by the Lords of this camp, to disadvantage you no doubt, and training it up.

But if you’re tired from it, you don’t complain.

Azriel lifts his head to look at you properly, his eyes watching your hands as you strip leaves off one of the plants he had brought with him today.

Hands, weathered and much smaller than most males, that work diligently at your task. Your focus remains strong, even as you talk over your shoulder.

"Well, slicing is cutting but a more precise form." You shift your wing back, tucking it in, as you finally turn your head back to look at him.

You're a very peculiar male.

Azriel can't say he's ever met a warrior, or even an Illyrian, like yourself before. You're small. It's the first thing he had noticed when he had slipped into your tiny home those nights ago, a sturdy shelter against the harsh wind of the mountains.

You're small but your wings are still large and beautiful, tucked up neatly behind your back. Most warriors in camp must have at least a head of height on you.

The armor you wear looks old. It's been worn down, softened against your body but even still, it sits a little too low on your hips. The shoulders hang out an extra inch.

You're small and you're hardened at every edge.

It's the way anyone who grows up here has to be. And for you to have made the cut to become a warrior, even with the impairment of your height... Azriel knows you're made of tougher stuff than most.

Within that, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to you.

Azriel hates the Illyrian mountains. Loathes the culture he comes from that festers here, their swift brutality and preferred cruelty against even their own. Invisible standards that made one Fae better than another.

The lives they taught him to take so easily.

So the last thing he had expected to find coming back here, to a place haunted with wretched memories, was... an ally.

But staring across the space to you, he can't think of any other word to describe the stirring in his chest. The drag on his heart, as if it's lurching forward.

"Look, let me show you."

You drop what's in your hands and take a couple steps to cross the space. The shelter is like you, small, just shy of cramped. The ceiling could stand to gain a few inches and the inside is as bare as Azriel would expect of a home in a war-camp.

One rickety table. A bed tucked into a corner. A fireplace with slanted, mismatched soot-covered bricks. There's the general rustle about the place that indicates someone sleeps here. Things hang off nails, bedded into the wall.

Hovering beside the table, you gesture for the knife in Azriel's hand. There's tenseness in your shoulders. You're still wary of him— or perhaps so used to your own company. He wonders which it is as he hands over the knife wordlessly.

"You just gotta—" The vegetable gets re-positioned on the board and when you bring down the knife, it's with an elegance that Azriel had been severely lacking.

You slice a long strip off, lengths-wise, and then pause, looking up at him to make sure he understands. "Slice?"

Azriel smiles despite himself.

That's the other thing.

You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful Fae he's ever seen in his life— not to mention, by far the most beautiful male he’s ever laid his eyes on.

It had taken him by surprise initially, even his shadows rearing back in shock when you had turned and sprung at him, cutlery in hand. Azriel had fumbled one of his blocks and it led to you sinking the fork into his shoulder— all because his mind had been whispering beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

It's the reason you had managed to land a hit at all— or Azriel tells himself that. Because otherwise, he had a serious reason to brush up on his own training.

He also tells himself it had nothing to do with his offer.

It hadn't swayed his reasoning in the slightest; not the way he can't take his eyes off you for some peculiar, unbidden reason. Training you and learning how to make tonics alongside you was entirely due to his belief in your mission.

Liar, one of his shadows seems to whisper in response.

Azriel was over five hundred years old — tangling with a male was not entirely foreign to him. And yet, Azriel had found it was not as to his taste as females were.

Another glance at you has him, once again, second-guessing that.

As quickly as it enters his mind, he snuffs it, his wings giving a minuscule twitch, right as you offer him back the knife.

He opts for a question instead. "How did you come to live here?"

It's one of the other unusual parts of your intriguing survival out here. Not only did you make the cut to train to become a warrior against the odds, but you also live alone. Azriel lets himself survey the shelter once more.

It's far better than some of the conditions he's been subjected to before and yet... it's not quite homey. As though you've never relaxed here, even when it's just you.

"I built it."

Azriel blinks. Then he turns his head down to look at you, perplexed.

"You...?"

You've walked back to the plant you were handling, starting to strip off the leaves again. You hum in response to his words, sparing a glance up at the ceiling.

That certainly explained why it was on the smaller side, made to your stature. Azriel can't fathom how you managed it in the blizzardly conditions of the mountains, entirely on your own.

"As I'm sure you're familiar, bastards don't get anything in these camps."

Your voice tightens with the pain of an unhealed wound.

Azriel doesn't say anything, just presses his lips together thinly. He nods.

"It was already a ruin, the fireplace and floorboards were about the only thing left." This time as you tug the leaves off the plant in your hand, it's a little meaner. "It took me years to properly finish it because the males in camp kept coming by to see if they could knock it back down."

Something roars in Azriel's ears, a familiar icy fury at the injustice that roamed so freely in these mountains. A plague amongst these people. So many Fae, so eager to kick those who are already down.

Looking up from your hands, your motions slow, and a distant look dawns on your face as though you've been whisked away into an old memory. A cold smile graces your mouth.

"So eventually when one of them came around, I showed them why they shouldn't fuck with my stuff. Or with me."

How you gained your solitary fortress out here.

It had piqued his interest on the very first evening, the sole shelter out from the cluster of cabins in the camp. That even though the drunken warriors were first to point it out when Azriel came asking who was causing trouble, none of them would go near it.

He can guess a multitude of things you did to protect it and yourself. Something akin to admiration blooms in his chest. Something heavier, deeper, lurks beneath it.

As your hands go back to work, Azriel can't help but watch you silently for a moment. His shadows pour over his shoulders, seeping down his arms the longer he looks; as though they, too, want to figure out the enigma in front of them.

You're a very peculiar male, Azriel thinks for the second time that evening.

The runt of the litter and a bastard just as him.

A natural born fighter and an Illyrian warrior against all the odds.

A Fae with long hair like Cassian's, chopped at the shoulder and scraped back — and a voice softer than most. A Fae with eyes that burn with a promise for retribution, with icy fury like his own.

Azriel picks up the knife and slices the vegetable as you had, slow and long. He steals one more glance at you — to find you're doing the same, chancing a split-second glimpse to look at him.

Azriel averts his eyes back to the table.

He feels the treacherous glow of his cheeks and is thankful you can't see his face clearly in the dim light. He slices again.

And as he mulls his thoughts, the pair of you working in tandem as the fire crackles loudly in the corner, Azriel makes a point to ignore the thundering feeling that seems to sing right out of his heart.

No matter if he's half-sure he knows just what word it's singing.

(Mate. Mate. Mate).

[next part]

—

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