𝐄𝐈𝐃 𝐌𝐔𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐊 to all who celebrate ♡
[cheerfully] i've been in self-made hells worse than this
That […] mixture of sensuality and cruelty which has always seemed to me to be the real “witches’ brew.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche, The Medusa Reader, transl by Walter Kaufmann, (2013)
something ive noticed while reading dantes inferno is that there seems to be a lot of italians in hell
[ standing over a body ] " oops. "
the silence in the room was thick, clinging like smoke after a spell gone wrong. emilia stood a few feet away from the body, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the slowly spreading pool of blood with an expression that wasn’t quite surprise. she’d seen worse. she’d caused worse. but that didn’t mean she approved of this. not by a long shot.
yelena stood nearby, a smear of something dark on her cheek, chin lifted like she was daring the world to flinch first. ❝ oops, ❞ she said. emilia blinked once. ❝ oops, ❞ she echoed, voice flat. ❝ that’s what you’re going with? ❞ she took a few slow steps forward, her boots silent against the tile. the scent of blood mixed with gunpowder and bad decisions. she didn’t crouch, didn’t touch the body — just looked down at it with the weariness of someone who had cleaned up too many messes that didn’t need to happen in the first place. ❝ you could’ve walked away, ❞ she said. ❝ you could’ve handled it with a threat, or a promise, or even just silence. instead … ❞ she gestured loosely to the body with one hand. ❝ now there’s a corpse in the hallway and we both get to deal with the fallout. ❞ yelena didn’t say anything. she didn’t have to. emilia could read her like a spellbook left out in the rain — a little warped, but still legible. she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, more tired than angry. ❝ i know what it’s like to be angry. i know what it feels like when the world treats you like a mistake. but if you let that anger decide for you, you’re just doing their work for them. ❞ her voice softened, but the edge remained. ❝ you want a place at the table? fine. but you don’t get there by being reckless. you get there by surviving. ❞ emilia looked at her, really looked at her — at the hard line of her jaw, the heat behind her eyes, the tension in her hands. ❝ you’re not stupid, yelena. sᴏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴀᴄᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ. ❞ then, after a beat, she turned toward the door. ❝ come on, ❞ she said over her shoulder. ❝ we need to move the body before someone sees. and next time? try not to make me regret standing beside you. ❞
[ annoyed Kami ] " you're getting blood on the my carpet. "
❝ I thought a little red might add to the … charm. ❞ her voice was smooth ᵘⁿᵗᵒᵘᶜʰᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ʳᵉᵐᵒʳˢᵉ but amusement flickered in her eyes as they finally met Kami’s.
❝ but if it bothers you that much … ❞ emilia tilted her head, studying kami. there was something about her — something in the way she stood, unimpressed and unshaken, that made the witch want to push just a little further. ❝ I suppose I could make it up to you. any preference? wine? a séance? a less ... dramatic entrance next time? ❞ a smirk ghosted across her lips, equal parts amusement and challenge.
❝ or ... ❞ her voice dipped lower, softer, like the start of a secret. ❝ you could just tell me what the spirits are saying about me. I'm sure they're pʎᴉuƃ to weigh in. ❞
apron on. a swirl of olive oil. the aroma of garlic. candlelit evening in. plump, red tomatoes. sea salt pasta water on boil. fusilli in. basil from the plant. jazz tunes on. creating in the kitchen is such a dream.
you better not have used my single use orb