#and no i cannot whittle it down

[spotinthespiral]

If Nethellnax makes me fight these guys a 5th time I am going to explode 😔

[veneralice]

art credit to @Qianbenshan on X ! all credit to the artist!

divider credit to @cafekitsune ! all credit to the original creator of the divider!

the ocean’s call / rafayel (m.)

rafayel just thought it would be funny to lead the fisher’s daughter astray by crowning her in water and blood - he’s killed so many of rafayel’s brethren, after all. if only he had known how hard it is to resist the desire of something you cannot have. (14.7k words)

content/content warnings: reader as the daughter of a fisher who hunts mermaids for their caviar (yum), reader and father’s relationship is not physically abusive but perhaps emotionally idk how to properly describe but i don’t want to leave it untagged, reader probably has some daddy issues (and i don’t mean that in the mocking way but in a the-author-has-daddy-issues-and-this-shit-is-not-funny-or-sexy kind of way), some body-horror detailing caviar harvesting, stealing star wars names for my background characters because i just finished andor and i’m not good at naming stuff, oral sex (male receiving), body worship (fem. receiving), switch!rafayel who seems submissive at first but in reality is just a crybaby dom, animalistic behavior (rafayel’s shark ass bites reader), some flesh-eating thoughts on rafayel’s behalf because you give him cuteness aggression, no actual cannibalism (wouldn’t that be funny) (i love yellowjackets), some overstimulation (both receiving) if you squint, idk . Idk i just kinda went crazy over this . who even wrote this

You were nine when your father took the joy out of the sea for you.

Perhaps you should start this off differently. You should remember the way it was a perfect summer’s day, and you had just finished your very first day of tutelage under the shrine maiden in Whalefall City. Your mother, whose rejection of that idea had been whittled down like a wooden arrow for the entire spring, had finally relented and allowed you to pursue a shrine maiden’s education. One day, it would be her daughter calling her to prayer and not the sneer-faced woman who currently held the title of ‘seasinger’. It wasn’t because your household was necessarily non-religious, or averse to the faith practiced in the city.

It’s just that your father spits on the holy city’s faith by partaking in the hunt of mermaids, just for sport, just for fun, just because he can.

Before that magical summer, you had never once been able to affix a picture to that. You knew your father was a talented fisher who was able to draw out even the most difficult of oceanic bounties, and he always made sure your family was fed. But you were a daughter, you see, a fact your father always had secretly mourned no matter how much it hurt your mother (“How I have groveled and suffered to deliver you to this earth!”), and thus you had never been taken with on the boat to hunt the mermaids littering the shores of Whalefall City.

You’ve seen them. It’s impossible not to. They dive in elegant curves, as whorling as the waves, a star-speckled shadow across the water before they disappear in its depth. The colors of the rainbow, the shimmer of the night-sky in their tails. More myth than real life. More dream than reality. Yet still here, sharing these waters with the citizens of the city. Lurking. Hiding. Surviving.

As per your own tradition, you bend down at the curve of the cliffpath you always took towards the sea and scoop up the wild-growing oceanvales. This was something you never once had told anyone about, and it was a daily routine you never neglected, feeling as though the day would remain incomplete if you didn't. This was not part of the religious teachings one received in the halls of the Dolphin's Hall, but it was a part of you, just as the ocean was. In the end, everything returns to salt. You throw the oceansvale into the waves and watch as the petals dissolve above the water's surface, as if sending a paper lantern off to carry your wishes.

In that moment, on the edge of you casting one last look at the horizon and in the turn of your heel to begin the climb back home, a blue-haired, child-like head bobs above the waves. You almost miss it, absentminded as you are, but you do see it: the small hand, barely differing to your own human one, furling around the petals and taking them with it as both hand and mermaid disappear. It makes you smile, almost making it worth it; as if this routine had finally been acknowledged for what it was. You wondered if mermaids and humans could be friends.

You couldn't have known how decisively crushing your father's answer would be.

The door is already open when you come home. An ominous sign, a warning for yet to come. The door was never left open, especially not on days where your father is supposed to take to the sea so he can partake in his favorite illegal dealing. There's no specific law condemning the prizing of roe out of a mermaid's womb, but it isn't looked upon with favor, either. The scriptures had always foretold of a deep unity between earth and sea, between moving plates and shaking waves, between mineral and salt. To turn your back on the ocean's creatures was to turn your back on the seasinger's preachings. That does not erase the hunger for their caviar, though, and the black market flourishes. And as long as the black market for caviar flourishes, your father refuses to cut into his own pockets, especially now, when the taxes in the city become more unforgiving and unforgiving with the preparations for the festival that is to be celebrated in just a moon's turn.

Your father is standing just beyond the door, in the dimly-lit hallway leading to the comfort of your mother's kitchen. His face is suffused with blood, red with anger, a fact that makes you duck your head in alarm, but is in vain. As soon as he sees you, your father's hand grips your frail shoulder and turns you toward him, his face the shadowed grimace of a man annoyed. "Did I not tell you to not go near that cliff time and time again?" he chastizes. For the moment, he holds himself back; your mother has drawn herself up in preparation of your defense, and her face mirrors the storm clouds you perceived in your father's grimace. But you can feel the need for him to shout rise steadily, like a tsunami beginning to swallow you whole. You lower your gaze to the ground, not knowing what to say. When you don't answer, your father finally shakes you and barks out, "Speak, girl! If it hadn't been for old Luthen pointing you out to me, I would have never found out about this, and then we'd be fishing out your bones out of that damned cove instead of a good piece of salmon for dinner!"

"Oh, leave it!" Your mother's hands shake off your father's threatening grip, and you allow yourself to breathe again. At your mother's chest, the world is safe. There are no scary men or scary bed-time stories about the unruly ocean. Instead, the scent of cinnamon and warm wood wraps you in its’ embrace, and you hide your face in the crook of your mother’s arm as she glares at your father. “She’s gonna be a seasinger, this girl is, and I won’t have you interfering with it. We all agreed to listen to her wishes. She’s not gonna be a fisher like you, Galen!”

“Well, I sure hope she won’t, because she does not heed a single warning I’ve ever taught her about it! Those mermaids don’t exactly gallop into my nets of their own free will, they’re dangerous!”

“You’ve made your point, now shove off.” Your mother glides her hand over the curve of your head. Protective, caring. Her presence is the calming lighthouse in the stormy seas, guiding you home, and although your father is still enraged, you believe the worst to be over. You are wrapped up in a childhood kingdom that is still entranced with the unknown, the beckoning of the deep, the ocean’s call. No one has taught you how to drown yet.

Not yet. But someone will, now.

Your father, your only father. You remember him tying knots in all ur robes, the way he made you laugh when swinging you up into the skies, up, up, and beyond. His fingers digging into the sides of your tummy to tickle the giggles out of you, claiming the sound was so joyous that all on earth and in the sea should rejoice in it. But you also remember the way his fingers dug into the soft of your flesh, yelling at your fingers bitten down to the quick, belittling you for your fear. The sneer on his face when he couldn’t fathom where your stupidity came from. The stormy eyes. This was the man who had never been taught better on how to love his family, and he won’t change for you, not for your mother or anyone else.

So when he encircles your wrist with his manacle-like fingers, you already know you’d been hoping for a reprieve and now the guillotine came swinging down to behead you. Your mother’s startled voice speaks up, but you cannot even begin to decipher the words, because your father is already shouting, “I don’t want to hear it, not from you, not when it’s your fault she’s turned out this soft and naive! If she wants to be a seasinger so badly, I’ll teach her what it means to sing into the sea!”

Her panicked voice is swallowed by the wind as your father begins to tug you down the pebbled path winding down from your house into the city, but you quickly turn off-path as your father begins to steer you towards the ocean. The salt is in your eyes and in your mouth, and you cannot be sure if the sharpness on your tongue is the rain, your tears or the taste of pure fear. As you angle up your head to look at the house one last time, your mother stands in the door, looking incredibly forlorn. You understand that look very well: that although your father is an incredibly hotheaded, temperamental man, the fact still remains that his little sport paints a target on the fishers’ backs.

It is time to stop romanticizing the mermaids now.

It’s the only thing you can think of as they claw the mermaid to ship. The words repeat over and over in your head, like the sharp stones thrown against the waves as the soft water makes them yield. They become round and pliant, your thoughts, running together in a string as you stare at the sight and try not to look. You don’t want to see. You don’t want to see. But they make you: Old Luthen (you’d spit on the name if you could) has his hands settled on your shoulders, keeping you turned towards the sight of your father and his shipmates heaving the gods’ dearest creation on deck. You try to see through the face, make yourself not acknowledge it, as if it could help if you pretend not to take note of her face. But she looks back at you, straight on. Her pearlescent eyes zero in on the way old Luthen has his fingers carved into your shoulders, the way he could crush and grind you down like brittle bones if you resist. And she understands: you are as trapped as she is. It is a terrible thing, this understanding that passes between the two of you, and you wish it hadn’t happened, wish she would have growled and screamed at you as she did at her captors.

The understanding flees her eyes pretty quickly when they begin to carve her out like a pig on a spit.

It’s terrible. The fear on your tongue turns into bile, and then you find yourself swallowing back vomit, not trusting yourself to throw up when your father was still intent on punishing you. The knife glides into the soft-scaled tail way too easily, giving way to a glittering, human-like nightmare. You’ve seen the way clams guard their precious pearls, the almost pretty membrane surrounding them to keep them safe. The translucency of it made it a beautiful wonder to behold, but there’s nothing beautiful about this, not when they’re clawing at the mermaid’s insides as if they were the bothersome strings of a spider’s web. The mermaid thrashes and screams, and then the bloodcurdling noise coming out of her mouth is unrecognizable, because they begin to serrate at the edges of her wound to drive into the hard scales surrounding her womb. To get everything, y’know, there’s people paying a pretty penny for their organs. S’pposed to have miracle healing properties. You swallow and swallow and swallow, but when they begin to tear at the flesh that was supposed to keep her roe safe, and the guts begin to speckle your feet, you find your way out of Luthen’s prison-hold and throw up right over the side of the ship. You can still hear her sobs, despite the sound of Luthen’s laughter - can’t stomach the fisher’s life, can she, your daughter? - and more deafeningly so, you can hear how loud the silence is in your ears when she finally quietens down, when she returns to the sea, the only burial the men give her. One last time, you’re looking at her as she bobs in the waves, her helpless arms streaked with wounds she suffered as she strained against the nets and knives. You think of those arms, and her ocean eyes, the way they had looked like a nightmare come true and yet the gaze they contained had been softer than any look your father had ever given you. Maternal, almost.

You close your eyes and think of your own mother. You guard that image of her, imprint it on the back of your eyes as your father settles his hand on the top of your head. Wanting to slip back into the role of the nurturing, caring father. Your fists clench and unclench at your sides. “It’s not a pretty thing, girl,” he says, and it’s supposed to sound soothing. Instead, it feels like he’s stabbing your ears with the same knife he used to gut her womb with. “They know what we’re capable of. They like us just as little as we like them. Your songs will help you nothing. It changes nothing.”

But something had changed. Irrevocably, unrepairingly, it had changed. As they paddle you back to the shore, all you can think about is the fact that this mermaid, this stranger, had viewed you more kindly than your own father had. And you carry that look with you as you grow into a woman, as unacknowledged and resented as the young daughter you had been.

From his hidden viewpoint, Rafayel can only glimpse the edges of your skirt. It’s a silver, diaphanous material, hugging the back of your legs like a seastar clings to the rocks. Expensive. Noteworthy. The garb the students of the shrine’s faith don as they perform their traditions, as if they don’t smile at the sea’s creations with one corner of their mouth and spit with the other. Disrespectful, your faith is, as disrespectful as your father’s nets and his arrogance as he takes to the sea. Rafayel’s sea. “Father, you forgot to take your hooks with you again,” your voice then rings out, freeing him from his hateful looks. It sounds too melodious. It should be as scratchy, as bothersome, as vile as humanity’s existence. But he is Lemurian at heart, and he cannot help himself from appreciating your lovely voice. A true seasinger, he begrudgingly thinks, but then he hastily corrects himself. A seasinger with the talent for it, but a liar nonetheless. Humanity can only deceive. “You should at least maintain the illusion that you’re hunting for something … legal. They’ve been cracking down on the black market’s dealings for a while now.”

“Only makes my prizes more precious, girl,” comes your father’s dry retort. He’s never once called you by your name in the entire time that Rafayel has begun to trail you, following your traces around town. He hears the gentle splash of your feet hitting the water, feels his senses prickle as he becomes aware of the way your body braves the spitting sea. “Just means I’ll get a better fetch for this stuff because of how rare it is. Alright, hand it over, before you catch a cold. Stupid attire you’ve got on there barely even protects you from the wind.”

“The sea warms me, father.”

“Pah!” The mockery comes easy to your father, he, whose entire business relies on his mockery of the Lemurian species. He can’t tell whether you’ve handed the bucket to your father, but he can tell when you retreat, the way your toes send up sandstorms all along the beach as you wade back to shore. “Spare me. If I wanted a sermon, I’d be sitting next to your mother in that overstuffed hall of yours. And I’ve told you countless times to avoid this cove!”

You ignore the latter part of his sentence. “The Dolphin’s Hall would have to be hit with a meteorite to ever move you to its sanctuary, father.”

“Ha! Haha!” His laughter seems biting, then becomes less striking as your father begins to paddle away. It creaks, heavy with his gear; the little rowing boat is just a distraction from the heavy vessel way out in the ocean his friends are waiting for him on. “It hasn’t taken your humor, at least. Alright, get back now. Go on!” He has to shout as the distance grows. “Gonna catch a cold, you will! And kiss your mother from me!”

The murmured answer you give him is lost on both your father and Rafayel, but it doesn’t sound very assenting. What isn’t lost on Rafayel is the realization that your father is the worst person in the world, but you are his favorite daughter, and that knowledge drags you down like an anchor rapidly descending. Keeping you in one places, weighing you down. Your footsteps become heavy as you walk up the beach, not as graceful as the way you had carried yourself in the sea. As he begins to follow you upstream, following the ocean’s arms deeper into the woods which border your village, he can still hear you angrily muttering to yourself.

He doesn’t know what to make of that. When he had suggested to his court that he’d revenge himself on the fisher and his entourage, his advisors had only given him a pained smile. Most of the elders still cling to the memory where their devotees on land would outstretch their hands in a blessed union, where their friendship made the moon wax and wane with happiness. They shake their heads in sadness with every murdered mermaid, as if that would fix anything. And yet, there are also those with a mind as murderous as his, still cautioning him, she’s not her father. If we take what is precious to them just because we can, what makes us better than them?

Morality. Rafayel scoffs to himself, sounding as resigned as you did in your trudge upward. As if that could help with anything. Had your father thought of morality when he had killed sweet Lyra right before her wedding night? Had he thought of morality when he desecrated her corpse for a handful of eggs, which could have been Rafayel’s nieces and nephews to dote on?

The ocean merges into a river he refuses to swim in, so Rafayel halts at the edge of the water to watch your slight frame disappear into the city. He doesn’t like to leave behind his tail in favor of awkward, human legs, but if he wants to keep an eye on you, he will need to. He’s getting pretty good at this, actually: Looking at you. Memorizing the way your lips curve into a smile, the shark teeth glint inside the grin you sport for when something makes you laugh. The way your light and deft fingers can tie the most powerful of sailor knots. The way your gentle hands hold a knife in the most reverent manner, as if this was an honor entrusted to you, not in the uncouth way your father points it at precious life.

You are not like him, uncomfortably so. It rankles Rafayel to see how much you are trying to escape your father’s taint.

The more he watches, the more he sees that taint poisoning you. You are a river current, slowing, slowing under the poison the human world dumps into you. It eats away at you, the way the rust claims the metal it swallows before it destroys the metal whole. The way you lower your head like a supplicant, shameful of the tales your fellow shrine maidens carry when your father sports another ‘treasure’ on the market. The way you paint on a smile when necessary, because you do not have the strength to face the naked truth. Your careful fingers, always touching in devotion. Moving to prayer. Guiding along to the sea’s chants. Hands of peace, not of war.

Of course, that only makes you an even more delicious offering. Even the gods know an innocent life is more precious than the forced sacrifice of a man already doomed for punishment.

As the sun sets on Whalefall City, people begin to flood the Dolphin’s Hall with eager chatter. Rafayel melts back into the shadows of the impressive dome, becomes one with the many murals depicting the ocean’s history. The hall itself is decorated in such an ornate manner that it makes Rafayel question whose devotion had turned into flesh here, bearing fruit to a worship so true that even Rafayel doesn’t dare think of blasphemy. Perhaps there was a time where humanity hadn’t been an accursed thing for him to ponder over. A long time ago, when words and actions still had meaning.

But then is not now. And now, everything has changed.

He watches as that change warps you, the shadow that passes over your face taking on the shape of his long lost Lyra. When you look up again to lead the group into prayer, your eyes have steeled over - as if through the entire room full of people, his thoughts have reached you. They hang above you like the clouds gathering before a storm as you begin the sermon, your voice crystal-clear, never wavering. Whatever doubts your father has stirred in your heart, they do not find their way here.

The last bell of prayer rings out at the same time as you bow to the masses. In acknowledgement, they murmur back their only line in the script - may the moon guide you through the storm - and then turn, flooding the exit like over-eager sardines squirming inside a can. Rafayel joins the stream of people, casting one last look back at you, but you’ve already risen again and turned your back on him. Your connection is broken now, a fact that Rafayel is secretly relieved, then aggrieved about.

Why does that matter to him, anyways?

On a full-moon night, Rafayel decides to cut you loose before you can confuse him further.

He’s been anticipating this for days now, anxiously looking up into the sky every time his head broke through the waves. As a seasinger, you are required to take part in monthly ablutions under the light of the full moon, returning to her domain of power before the wax and wane pulls at the seas. You’re supposed to take the maiden in training with you, but over the past few months, you’ve rejected her every time, gently but sternly relegating her to other tasks to be completed inside the Dolphin’s Hall. You want to be alone with your shame, alone with the fact that you seem to speak to the moon like she’s your only friend.

You’re not aware of the fact that Rafayel has been quietly listening on, every full moon night. As a Lemurian, he does not partake in a faith that revels in the worship of the sea. And yet, here he sat come every full moon, hiding himself in the rivers converging into the shallow pool in which you submerge yourself. He cannot keep hanging on to your every word. If he wants to revenge himself on the old fisherman, he has to do it now, before his too-humanoid-heart foils his plans and spares you. He thinks of Lyra and her kindly face, knowing she’d disapprove, but he makes himself go through the motions anyways.

He hadn’t been prepared for your reaction.

You don’t divest yourself of your clothes when you enter the pool, but Rafayel doesn’t have to imagine much to paint a picture of what is beneath, anyways. The satin hugs the shape of your body like a fervent lover, beginning to pool around you as you accept the water’s embrace. Lower and lower you sink, before you dive into the water to be fully submerged and rise again. He comes to a halt just a few feet away from you, on the periphery of your gaze. You do not see him yet. But he sees you. He sees the way the water falls in rivulets from your luminous lashes as they frame your clear eyes, sees the way the moonlight drinks in your irises. There’s a jealousy he cannot pinpoint inside his chest as the water begins to tear down your cheeks, framing your face so gently. You shudder slightly when the cold begins to settle in your bones, and your hands come to cover your exposed arms. As Rafayel realizes that he should not feel so enticed by the sight of a mere mortal being and his heart begins to tighten, you finally turn your face and realize that you aren’t alone here.

For a very long, heart-stoppingly awkward moment, no one says anything.

Rafayel stiffens up, waiting for your scream. He has planned this carefully, and he knows there is no way any help will reach you here, not when you’re in his domain. The moon may peer her gaze over these waters, but the water is his dominion, his kingdom. You are trapped inside the palm of his hand, and he is readying himself to swallow you whole.

But you don’t scream.

Your breath comes more shallowly, speeding as your lungs rush to fill air. He idly wonders how that feels like, the way the lungs balloon inside that easily broken chest. Despite all this, despite the circumstances, despite the fact that you are quite aware what the sight of a mermaid might mean to you, your eyes do not fill with fear. So Rafayel doesn’t move, either. He watches you and the way your chest constricts, listens how your breath stutters. And then you finally speak. “Is it you?” you whisper. “Did you hear my prayers?”

The magic of the moment is broken then, and Rafayel audibly breathes out. He almost breaks out into mocking laughter, - me, fulfilling your prayers? - but he stops himself short, not intending to waste the opportunity. If you would come willingly to meet your fate, then that would be even better. “Your prayers?” he repeats, and then, although he couldn’t make his disbelief clearer, he says, “Do you really think a being like me would bother to listen to any of your prayers? After all your kind has done to us?”

You take in his words with an austere expression. “No, I suppose not,” you murmur out, biting down on that full lower lip. No, don’t think about biting that lip for her. Don’t think about it. He chases away his own thoughts and instead begins to wonder why you’re not scared yet. Are you aware that there is nothing you can do to change this fate? “But one can hope. I couldn’t ever call myself a seasinger if I didn’t still have faith that the earth and the salt could reconcile again.”

“And whose fault is it that a reconciliation seems to be so impossible?”

You blink at him, fresh rivulets of water carding through those lashes like tears. You look like you’re crying, even though Rafayel knows you are not. “Do not take me for a hypocrite,” you tell him, sounding entirely too earnest. “I am quite aware of whose fault it is. We humans bear the sins of our fathers, after all.”

You sound bitter.

She’s not her father. If we take what is precious to them just because we can, what makes us better than them?

Rafayel hums at that. It doesn’t matter; it doesn’t change anything. He’ll kill you swiftly if he has to, give you a kind death. It’s better than anything your father’s crewmates have ever given to any mermaid they’ve stumbled upon. You won’t suffer, that he promises you, but he’s not going back on his word, not for anything. So he makes himself move closer. You still don’t scream for help as he approaches you, just muster him warily, like you’ve encountered a familiar face on the street yet cannot remember where that familiarity comes from. “And if I was your friend?” he asks, challenging your logic. “Then what? Would all be forgiven, and we’d dance in a circle throwing flowers?”

“Why don’t you find out?”

You stretch out a hand.

He should spit on it. If anything, he should claw at that hand like a man drowning and pull you into the depths. Your father does not deserve to cradle your corpse and reminisce about the day he’s held you for the first time. He deserves to suffer beyond all measure, and Rafayel intends to see to that. He schools his features into polite neutrality before he readies himself for the killing strike.

Rafayel draws in a shuddering breath. And then, like the liar he is, he takes your hand.

It is as soft as he had imagined. Too human, too weak, too frail. Every bone and sinew feels like it will give with just a squeeze, broken beyond repair. It feels like a betrayal.

He can barely make himself think a proper thought when you use the opportunity to step closer to him. He can smell you now, that distinct scent of myrrh and burnt offerings that clings to your skin. This is the scent he’s been using to track you for months. Below the too-thin garb of your seasinger attire, he can see the way your precious collarbones lift and sink in quick succession, your breath coming entirely too fast now. You’re panicking. You are deathly afraid of him. And yet you ignore that fear to squeeze his hand, as if this was just another interaction in the Dolphin’s Hall to you. In your eyes, he finds that steady faith that holds your spine rigidly straight, the look you can never give your father because of how you defer to him. “You’re much taller than I thought,” you tell him, your voice shaky. Then you give him a tentative smile. The light of your hope is reflected in that expression, and it hurts to realize that he will be responsible for diminishing that forever.

It’s okay, he tells himself. I’ll just grow closer to her so she’ll trust me, and then, when I’ve got her wrapped around my finger, I’ll kill her in front of her father’s eyes. “You look too small for a human, so I’m not certain you’re equipped to be delivering these kinds of judgements on appearances,” is all he says in response.

“Well, that is a valid observation.” You haven’t let go of his hand yet. Rafayel makes no move to free himself, either. You are locked into this situation, moved by something neither of you can understand. You let your gaze roam over the entirety of his face, the way it lingers on the sharp edges of his ears, the scales rippling down his throat. He certainly hopes you don’t see the way he squirms beneath that gaze. “But you’re my friend now, so you’ll forgive me for my deadly honesty. I fear that is just part of who I am, so you’re going to have to live with it.”

“Is that how one becomes a friend? This quickly?”

“Oh, certainly. You’ve been holding my hand for quite some time now. No,” you rush to say as he attempts to disentangle himself, fingers flashing to grip his arm. His first instinct is to strike out, to defend himself from humanity’s danger. He wrestles that instinct down until it becomes nil. He is bending at the edges, unraveling like threat inside your skilled hands. You guide him back towards you and intertwine your fingers. Your seasinger voice lulls him into a sense of security that is going to get him killed someday. She’s already bewitching you far too much for this plan to work, his inner voice cautions. The sound is growing increasingly frantic, every thought stumbling after the other until it turns into a senseless avalanche. Kill her now, before she undoes us all. Kill her now. “Will you let me prove that our friendship can work?”

No, his inner voice shouts. She’s your enemy’s daughter. SHE is your enemy. KILL HER NOW.

The warmth of your hand melts into his every bone. Sinking in like poison. “I suppose I have no choice,” he tells you, sealing his fate.

Rafayel begins to realize how fucked he is.

He was already quite aware of his awful disposition before he ever approached you, the way your mortal face charmed him the way a snake ensnares its victims. Too pretty for a human, a trap laid bare. He feels that very trap biting into his skin every time you smile at him. It draws blood every time your touch brushes him. As ridiculous as it sounded, he feels himself exploding from a second puberty, your every notion setting fire to his blood.

He struggles to maintain his murder fantasies. It’s a little bit difficult to focus on when all his dreams plague him with the image of you.

Today, you’ve asked him to accompany him to the hidden cove that he’s watched you frequent when he was still trailing you. It’s a beautiful location, the sandbank curving to accommodate the ocean’s kisses as it laps at the earth. Almost absentmindedly, your bare feet come to a halt every few meters to gather up a bundle of oceansvale, a flower you’re particularly fond of and have been ridiculed with by him. Idiot human, he had said, as if your obsession with the ocean wasn’t big enough already. You’re a seasinger, for crying out loud. Aren’t you religious enough without an obsession with the only flower that blooms near these waters?

You’d only looked at him with a steady, self-satisfied look. Are you jealous, per chance?

Yes. As if. Like he’d care what you’re obsessed with and what not. Anyways, mermaids don’t fall in love with humans. They kill them. By luring them to the sea, to be exact, so you’re halfway to the gallows already, so who’s the idiot now?

“What’s all this, then?” Rafayel wildly gesticulates around him - at the sweeping cliffs, the sand-carrying wind, the beautiful beach. The atmosphere is way more serene than he is, a calm and quiet getaway. The perfect hiding location for a forlorn daughter. “I hate using my human legs. If you were going to take me to the ocean anyways, why torture me before you do it?”

“I very much appreciate you using your human legs, Rafayel. But I am afraid the hike up to the mountain and down to this place is the point of the trip.” You give him a lopsided smile, the kind that makes him dizzy with emotions. Sickening. He clenches a hand inside the pocket of the jacket you lent him. “You know, I’m a little disappointed you don’t recognize the place. This is where I first met you. I remembered you straight away, yet you were ignorant.”

He waves away the words. “I’m a Lemurian, after all. Time passes much more differently for us than it does for your kind. What does an encounter like this mean in the grand scheme of things? ‘Tis a single star in the universe we traverse.”

The words make you frown. In fact, the frown disfigures your face entirely, your nose scrunching and your lips twitching together in an expression of dejectedness. He almost eats his words, almost hurries to tell you that of course he remembers, that he couldn’t forget the tiny human who bothered to throw the ocean flowers, even though its inhabitants were humanity’s enemies, but then you speak up again and the matter becomes irrelevant. “Then I ought to be thankful this star turned out to be brighter than it was. I’m quite thankful we got to meet again. I’ve always wanted a chance to meet a mermaid, to fight back against this enmity between our species.”

“Quite the conciliator, you are.” Rafayel follows you down unto the beach. Your feet trace a path into the sand which he follows dutifully, making sure to cover your tracks in case your father still admonishes you for coming here. “Is that what you meant when you saw me for the first time? ‘Did you hear my prayers’?”

“Yes. My mother’s always mocked me for that too, you know. She’s the only one who listens to me about this stuff, and even though she loves me a lot, she’s not above teasing me. I guess it’s kind of an inside joke in my family.”

Rafayel takes note of the way your eyes steel over. He knows you long enough now to recognize that stance. If you were a soldier, this would be the position you’d move into if you had to defend yourself against the thoughts about your father. Even when he is not present, he haunts your wellbeing. Even when it’s your mother you think about, his phantom always lurks right behind. “Your father isn’t too fond of the ocean?” he asks. The lie on his tongue tastes vile.

Like the rotting corpse of a gutted mermaid.

You shake your head. “No, he’s fond of the ocean, alright,” you correct. When you sink into the water, clothes and all, Rafayel joins you immediately. Before your eyes, his legs merge back into his trusted tail. It makes you shake with laughter. “You know, I wanted to make a joke about you being like a fish in water, but um. You are one. A fish, I mean. In water.”

“You’re too funny,” Rafayel deadpans. “Truly, I am beside myself with laughter.”

You turn away your face and laugh into the palm of your hand, as if that could hide your mirth. Not like he’s feeling every single vibration in the water that your quiet giggles send out. The sound settles in his chest, taking root there. “Note taken,” you chortle still. “I’ll work on my jokes.”

“Don’t bother. You’ll never be as funny as I am.”

“Oh yeah?” You swivel your head around to him. Whatever smart response Rafayel was cooking up dies inside his mouth, turning dry in the face of your beauty. The dimples in your cheeks make you look younger than you are, your face luminous with real happiness. This is what had been lacking from your expression inside the Dolphin’s Hall. You were living for your faith, for your duty, leaving yourself much too neglected. But you were finally growing comfortable inside your skin. Opening up to him.

Kill her, the voice still whispers. He smothers the spark of that thought before it sets his brain on fire. Rafayel swallows. “Is that all you brought me here for, then?” he sighs. “To bore me with your unfunny jokes and reminisce about the past?”

“You sure do know how to kill the moment.” The sentiment makes you snort. You finally turn your face to the horizon, and Rafayel can breathe comfortably again. Looking at you for too long makes him want to dig into you. With knifes, of course. Not with kisses. Or his fingers. Of course not. Nothing of the sort. None. “I just wanted to free my mind for a little bit. It gets incredibly loud in there, sometimes.” You tap your temples, the guardians of your thoughts. He wants to climb into that brain and see for himself how loud it is. He’d risk turning deaf to hear. “Everyone always looks to me, because I’m a seasinger, but they aren’t looking at me, not really. So I make myself entirely into that role I’ve been given. And I lose sight of who I really am. When I’m here, I don’t have to do that. I can just listen to the ocean. And she listens to me.”

You sound wishful.

In his own silent moments, when Rafayel discards his own roles, he is able to admit to himself that he wants to read your every wish from your lips and make them come true. If possible, he’d crown you in oceansvale and pearls, to show you the beauties of the watery underworld and all it has to offer. But that is something he can never allow himself to desire. So, like you, he makes himself steel over, and then asks instead: “Aren’t I listening to you?”

“Sure, but you’re just required to, aren’t you? You’re my friend.” You nudge him with your shoulder, the touch a brand of fire on his skin. You’re so, so warm. Rafayel chases that sensation as you lean away, and you let him drape himself over you, already used to his clingy behavior. You’re my friend. You’re my enemy. “The ocean doesn’t have to listen, but she does. She’s been a better parent to me than my father has. He’s always thought I wasn’t worth raising because I was of the cursed sex, anyways.”

“Does that matter? Your mother loves you.”

“But he’s my father.” And your voice breaks. As he angles another look at you, he realizes that you’ve been gazing at the sea with tears in your eyes. If you were Lemurian, you wouldn’t need him to crown you: your own pearl-teary eyes are already beginning to fill with treasure. Like tidepools, they spill over, painting your face in salt-burned tear tracks he wants to kiss until his mouth runs dry. Rafayel curls an arm around you, all thoughts of murder forgotten, and all he can think of is how to comfort you properly so you’ll never have to mourn your father again. “He’s my father,” you repeat with a muffled voice against his shoulder, as if he didn’t hear you the first time, “He should have loved me anyways. I would have become the son he wanted if he gave me the chance. But he didn’t want me. He didn’t want me.”

Rafayel doesn’t know if it’s the ocean or his blood he hears rushing in his ears. His mind has already become clouded with rage, swirling into a hurricane that tears your father apart. He rocks you back and forth, and he hopes it feels like the ocean is cradling you, carrying you far away from your sorrow.

It’s already been two full moons since Rafayel has become your ‘friend’.

Your birthday has come and gone, and you’ve scared Rafayel out of his own skin when you burst into tears as you accepted his gift. It’s just a necklace made of a shell, idiot, he had clarified, flustered. It’s not like I spent money on it or anything. It was just something I had laying around and wanted to get rid of.

Rafayel, you had said, voice shaky with teary joy. It’s everything to me.

It’s getting harder and harder to convince himself into doing what he set out to do.

Particularly today he finds himself reaching back for the memory of his bloodlust, watching you guide new devotees to the sea to be baptized, like turtles taking to water for the first time. He’s seen his fair share of baby turtles scrambling to the sea, muddling up the waves as their tiny legs fought to master them. These children are not dissimilar to the freshly born turtles. Traitors, the lot of them, he thinks to himself, but the threat feels hollow. Cursed species, they are. Liars and deceivers all. He tries to ignore the irony of that prejudice considering the nature of your relationship.

When you finally send the kids off and join him in the water, he schools his features into a childish pout he hopes will mask his hatred. “You’ve made me wait all evening,” he complains, the annoyance in his voice real. It has been quite some time since you got to unwind with him. The thought of Rafayel looking forward to seeing you again had made him panic, and he had scrambled to avoid you for a few days before his own longing drew him back to you. “I was freezing to death here.”

“As if!” Your laughter rings as jubilously as the bells inside Dolphin’s Hall call to prayer. There’s a myth as old as humanity which decrees that when the bells ring twelve times, the gates of heaven will open to flood the world entire. Only the true believers will become one with the sea, the earth finally reunited with its one true love. The planet will become a single ocean again, and it will be as if land and sea never had separated, all creatures under the moon united under one banner. “I know exactly well that wherever you live is way colder than whatever temperature these waters are. This must feel like a hot bath for you in contrast.”

Rafayel sniffles, caught in the lie. “It’s the principle that counts.”

Your smile gentles. “Rafayel,” you say. The way that name rolls of your tongue makes him want to roll his eyes back into his head: if all sermons sounded like this, he’d be the most devoted follower of the sea’s faith alive. Your voice is the single most exultant sound any living creature could create. Perhaps you were a siren in your past life. “Don’t tell me you missed me.”

I miss you all the time, he thinks. I miss you even when I fantasize about killing you. I miss you even when I should be grieving all the mermaids my brothers and sisters have lost. I miss you even more when I watch them take brides and grooms and make the kingdom of the depths a happier place in the face of adversity. You would like us, the way we cling to hope like you do. “I bet you’d like that,” he drawls out, feigning normalcy. “Any living being would want to be missed by me. I’m very beautiful, after all, and very desired.”

“Truly? Are they all vying for your attention down there?” You flick his shoulder, intending to be teasing. Even the pain is welcome. He tries to ignore the way his stomach flips. “And yet you’re here for me. What an honor, oh desirable bachelor.”

“You should be honored,” he tells you. It sounds arrogant, but why shouldn’t he be? He is beautiful after all. For once, he’s not lying. Rafayel takes pride in his appearance, and he preens at the chance of receiving a compliment from you.

You cock your head at him. It’s supposed to look threatening, but you hold all the danger of a sweet otter. “Don’t make me laugh,” you tell him, still joking, but your voice is breathy.

Maybe his looks don’t leave you as untouched as you pretend to be. Maybe he’s not the only one feigning.

Rafayel brushes his fingers over the hollow of your arms, following the veins as they reach upward. It makes you shudder. He delights in it. “I adore hearing you laugh, sweetling, but it’s not the intention I have here,” he says. He is in and out of his body at the same time. Most times, he smothers these thoughts before they reach his mouth, yet he continues to speak as if this were just another dream of you. “Go on. Say it. Tell me I’m beautiful.”

Your lips part, speechless. Behind you, the human world goes on, tickering away like a fluid mechanism. With or without you. You look like as if you realize that the ocean is beckoning. He is beckoning. If you’re not careful, he’ll drown you, bones and all. “You’re beautiful,” you whisper then, the sound of it caught up in the rushing of the waves. They cling to the sand, dragging it with the pull of the tide. He yearns to do the same.

His hand comes up to cradle your face. You fit perfectly into it, as if you were made for him. As if he was made to compliment you. Rafayel’s heart stutters in his chest, threatening to burst. “Again,” he says, his voice steady. (He doesn’t know how he does it. He feels like he’s about to explode.) “You can do better than that.”

You draw in another sharp breath, your lungs fluttering. The human body was so very fascinating. He wants to reach inside you and look at everything, feel it all. “You’re truly beautiful, Rafayel,” you try again, and this time, you pitch up your voice. Every word is clearly enunciated. You look at him straight on. “All the wonders in this world pale in comparison to you.”

Oh. Oh.

“You,” Rafayel breathes out. His fingers are shaking on your face, but they hold on. Latching on to you. If he strengthened his grip, will he be able to crush your skull? Will he be able to reach inside? His body feels heavy with desire; as he bends towards you, he finds that you’re already meeting him halfway, and this time, the soaked material of your clothes exposes the sight of your stiff nipples. He yearns to warm them up for you, to take them in his mouth and kiss you until you’re burning from the inside out. He’s always wondered what you would taste like.

You are both torn out of the fantasy at the sound of your voice in a human mouth, carried by the wind from the shore. You draw apart hastily, as if a spell had been broken, and you fumble to rearrange your clothes and fix your hair although nothing had happened. Rafayel tucks his traitorous hands behind his back.

“I,” you manage to say, your voice drowsy with the lingering desire, “I have to get back. I’ll see you?” You phrase the order like a plea, as if Rafayel wouldn’t bend over backwards for you. You miss his assenting, fervent nods as you whirl around and wade back to shore, your own hands drowning in the material of your dress as you lift it up and wring it out. The water trails behind you in his stead, leaving him behind.

He’ll totally be able to carry out his revenge, alright.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to resist you.

The more time passes, the more it feels like the sun rises and sets just for you. Your happiness is his own, your sadness his bitter grief. Every emotion you ever display resonates so deeply in his soul that he grows hazy with responsibility, wants to reshape the world in your image. Every tear you shed is carefully collected like his own well-cared for treasure, every laughter bottled in the memory palace of his mind. His mind traces each and every one in your absence, creating melodies which cannot compare to your voice. He is becoming enraptured. He is coming undone.

Even the distance is beginning to choke him. You feel so close and so far. He wishes to lap at your body like the ocean does when you perform your prayers, wants to smother you in a hug that threatens the ocean’s might when you dive down with him. In the few times where you were able to swim with him - your timetable strict, your parents suspicious - he’s allowed you to trace your hands over the scales of his tail. To you, it’s the satisfaction of a curiosity. To him, it is a so startling intimacy that he wants to weep. There is no room for justice as his heart expands to encompass you, and it grows inside his chest, breaking apart his ribcage so it can guard you from the world. There are no words. You’re in every breath, every steady push of his blood.

Although the active threat of your father’s suspicions has come between the two of you, every meeting rarer, but becoming more precious over time, it cannot erase the wish for his soul to reach for you. You doze away in your place on the stony slopes surrounding the pool you perform your ablutions in, and Rafayel is content to guard your slumber, dipping in and out of the water. He never strays away for too long. He makes sure to count every strand of those stunning lashes that had already enticed him when he first met you here, follows every vein inside your face to see where it branches into. What was hated has become dear to him now, your humanity as endearing as your very existence. He wonders what you dream about. Wonders if you dream about him, as often as he dreams about you. His brain has become very enamored with you, every fold of the thing having been etched over with memories of you.

Your father is already hounding you. Your newfound happiness hasn’t gone unnoticed. It should please Rafayel, how your friendship has changed your life for the better. You are standing up straight, opening up to the world. When you laugh, it finally sounds like your vocal cords are singing in true harmony, never again pushing for the falsity you used to employ to wave away concerns.

If anyone were to discover you were sneaking away with a mermaid, they’d be dumbfounded. Perhaps they’d mock you for it. But if your father were to discover you two, then it wouldn’t take much until Rafayel would find himself face to face with the same knife he used to kill Lyra.

I’ll have to tell her the truth, Rafayel thinks then, stricken. If I really love her, then I have to let her go. He closes his eyes, losing himself to the sharp sting of grief inside his chest. That’s what Lyra would have said, anyways. She was always so enthusiastic about fairy tales and happy endings and true love. He mourns for the way his childhood had been shaped with the loss of her, and the loss of all the mermaids that had ever died an unjust death. But it has taken on a new meaning. He looks into your face and cannot find it himself to justify the means to the end he had intended for you. There was nothing vengeful or freeing about this. If anything, he’d push himself off to his own metaphoric end, because Rafayel has reached the ends of his wits and he’s finally accepted that there is no you without me. He stretches out a hand to card his fingers through your dry hair before it can fall into the water. What a blessing it is to do at least this, to be cherished by you.

He begins to ask himself how he is supposed to leave you.

As Rafayel’s thoughts take a turn for the worse, you open your sleep-drowsy eyes. They are still blurred over with the dreams you’ve been chasing, just slowly becoming clear and taking in your surroundings. “Raf?” you whisper, and he tries not to melt at the nickname. No one’s ever thought up a nickname for him. So many things you’ve given him that he will never be able to repay you with. So much light you’ve brought into his dark, dark life. The bottom of the ocean, despite all its magic, had never been as bright as this. “I’m here,” he tells you, the sentence literal, but he means it with every ounce of his soul.

You blink away the last traces of unconsciousness, your pretty lips stretching open to release a yawn. “I was afraid you’d left,” you tell him. Also so literal. But in the way you look at him and your tone turns up with hope, he finds himself recognizing the underlying meaning, just as you had discerned his.

He’s told you so many lies already. What’s one more? “I’d never leave you,” he tells you, and he tries to mean it. In another universe, he would be able to mean it. Rafayel swims closer so he can throw an arm over your frame as you lie back down, and he angles himself up so he can cage you in-between his hands. As he arranges himself, he abandons the scales and tail in favor of his awkward human legs, caging your delicate waist inbetween his knees. He’s balancing himself on top of you now, not caring if the drops of water pearling off his skin splash on you.

You don’t look like you care, either. You stare at him as if there’s nothing else in the world, just the two of you for all eternity. The thought fills him with happiness.

Slowly, very slowly, as if asking for permission, you lay your hands on his naked chest. The tips of your fingers are even softer than the palms of your hands, a testament to your nature. Not a toiler, not a warmonger. Something more peaceful and calmful, that brings his own soul rest. “I dreamt about you,” you tell him, honest as a Lemurian. He smiles at the inadvertent way you had answered the question he’d been thinking of while you were sleeping. “What was your dream about?” he asks, anchoring his weight on one hand so he can use the other to curl around the side of your throat. He can feel the pocket inside it traveling as you swallow to gather your bravery.

“A little bit like this situation right now.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to elaborate, friend.” Rafayel’s fingers dig into the supple flesh of your shoulder as they move, then gently claw at your skin as he follows the curve of your arm. He’s always been fascinated with your human skin, the way it seems entirely different from Lemurians although they look so similar. The smallest of things could break it. Bruises bloom like flowers with the lightest force. It makes him want to cage you inside his chest, where he can keep you safe from harm and make sure no one will ever hurt you again. It’s irrational, and unnecessary. But he just can’t help himself.

You narrow your eyes at him playfully, blissfully unaware of his thoughts. “Are you enjoying this?”

Now Rafayel begins to smile as well. It is entirely genuine, and only reserved for you. He is yours, heart and soul. “Of course I am,” he confesses, feeling as exposed as a newborn babe. “You always act so unbothered by me, you know. I was beginning to worry whether I was the only one caring about this … friendship.”

Your own hands have begun to wander. You place them directly on his cheeks, directing his gaze at you, as if you weren’t already the single fixed point around which his entire existence was centered around “Rafayel,” you say. “I don’t want to be just your friend.”

His breath catches. He searches your eyes for a joke, for the mockery, but you are serious. And for once, his own mind blanks at the possibility that his feelings might be reciprocated. “Do you… mean it?” he whispers, afraid. Vulnerable. She’s human, she’s a liar, she’ll lie to you, watch. This isn’t possible. This is a trick.

“Shall I prove it to you?”

Rafayel’s heart stops.

(God, he always knew you’d be responsible for his death.)

The answering smile you give at the sight of his eagerness makes his insides melt into the same constitution as a jellyfish. There is a fire at the core of his existence, and you have come to kindle it. He feels the blood rush; in his cheeks, in his body, down his abdomen. He is alight with emotion, bursting at the seams. As you flatten your palm and curve it around the shape of his chest, he chokes out a, “Yes. Please.”

Your touch is hesitant, but your eyes are determined. “I love you, Rafayel,” you finally tell him, the magical words that crack open his chest like a volcanic crater exploding into the water. He collapses against you, crushing his lips against yours, and then he can’t tell where you start and he ends because of how you meld against him. Every inch of his body comes alive with the sensation of you against him, and you fit into every curve inside his body. Your lips carefully trace the shape of his own, moving against his tenderly, carefully. He can’t bring himself to entertain the same restraint as you do: as he digs his hand into the curls of your hair, he angles your head appropriately and then delves inside to finally taste that sinful mouth he’s been dreaming about for so long.

Your answering whimper is smothered almost immediately by his beckoning tongue. Greedily, selfishly, Rafayel kisses you as if his life depends on it; like he might die without ever getting lost on your tongue, dissolving like sugar. He groans into your mouth when you carefully tangle your tongue with his own, not used to this kind of kiss. When he tries to pull back to grant you a reprieve, your heavenly lips wrap around the tip of his tongue, sucking on it in the mock-fashion of a blowjob.

He almost comes then and there, that’s how embarrassingly obsessed he is with you. Only you.

You chase him as he disentangles himself, but Rafayel quickly busies himself with your throat, littering those veins he’d been staring at like a vampire starved with kisses. “You have no idea,” he whimpers into the skin there, speaking directly into your soul, “how you make me feel. No idea. You’re dangerous.”

You don’t mock him for once. Instead, Rafayel is gently pushed to the side. Before he can worry about being rejected, you straddle his lap and sit down like a queen crowned on her throne, and the sight makes him so breathless that Rafayel finds himself falling back against the wet ground without complaint. Your lips are kiss-swollen and smiling, a sight he mentally declares to be his favorite sight in the world. “I’ll find out soon, enough,” you promise, the words as delicious as your kisses. “For example, how does this feel?”

And you grind down, your clothed core sliding over his exposed cock in a perfect glide.

Rafayel throws his head back, cussing in Lemurian. He doesn’t even realize the crack of pain as his head hits the ground, his entire nervous system too caught up with the sensation of you rubbing against the most sensitive spot of his body. There’s a sound he doesn’t immediately recognize, a quiet giggle that shakes your entire body, and then the feeling of the weight on top of him shifting as you bend down to kiss your way down this body. “My Rafayel,” you murmur against his abdomen, lips shaping the words against his hipbones. He almost trills in happiness at the sound of that. Yours. “You’re so, so, so beautiful.”

If it was possible to dissolve in extreme happiness, Rafayel would be seafoam on the water surface right now.

He digs his fingers into the hard stone, unyielding as it is, as your lips seem to vanish off his skin right before reaching his already erect dick. He catches the look of your eyes, the slight surprise at his size - he can’t lie, it makes him want to puff up in pride - but then you begin to sport a scary smile, the kind that makes Rafayel realize that you’re going to suck the life out of him, and he’s already on the brink of death from the possibility of this happening alone. “My love…” he begins to caution, but then he chokes off as each and every one of your fingers wraps itself around the shaft of his cock, and there is no consciousness to form thoughts, no thoughts at all.

You kiss the tip of the head, tongue peaking out to catch the first beads of pre-cum. “Gonna make you feel good, I promise, Raf.”

He wants to answer, he swears he does. There is just no way he can. Rafayel’s entire body arches off the ground as you take him in your mouth, and he’s barely aware of the way you slightly choke on the size of it - his hands go to your head, are you alright, are you okay, love? - yet that doesn’t stop you; the slide of his cock on your tongue continues and continues and continues, and then he feels himself hit the back of your throat and he cries out in pleasure, feeling like a star that’s exploded.

“Fuuuuuuuck.”

You sound like you want to laugh; your mouth shakes and shudders around him, and that makes him tug at your hair, unwillingly, instinctively. He’s about to apologize, but your own tugged out moan makes him hold himself back. He hates hurting you, but you seem to enjoy it, so he tangles his fingers into your hair and gently begins to guide you up and down, up and down. He hisses at the sensation, of the clenching around his dick, the gentle swipes your tongue makes when you get to. “You’re so good to me,” he tells you, watches the way your eyes light up with the praise. He’s never even thought about how lovely and romantic sex could be. Love-making. “So good.”

You hum, and Rafayel hisses; it’s a delicious kind of vibration, both torturous and pleasing. “Please,” he pleads with you, his fingers shaking. Not aware of what he’s asking. But you seem to understand, you speak the language of his soul; you hollow your checks and suck, and then his eyes do roll back so far into his own head that he thinks he can finally see his brain and all the images of you he imprinted on it. As your fingers begin to stroke in time with your tongue, he begins to feel like he’s shaking out of existence, both here and not. Both bound and untied. The coil in his abdomen begins to tighten, his toes curling at the way you drag your tongue around the tip, suckling, teasing. Your lips pop as you remove your mouth, pumping him quicker and quicker, watching him. A predator devouring its prey. “Beautiful,” you say again. “The prettiest, my Rafayel. Look at you taking it so well.”

He keens at that, hands sliding down to claw at your arms, not sure if he wants you to stop or keep going. He’a never experienced an orgasm building up like this, a literal supernova beginning to build at the edges of his perception. “I,” he gasps out, looking for words, finding none, but you help him out of his predicament by kissing him messily, the taste of his own pre-cum lacing his tongue. Your hand, every caress growing in pressure, continues to pump his cock even when he cries out against your mouth, even as his teeth find your shoulder and latch onto it to bite it. You don’t push him away, not even when he explodes into your hand, his release beginning to pearl over your hand as you continue to fuck him through the orgasm. When he begins to sob against your collarbone, pushing at your dangerous hands, he finally understands how deadly a single human being can be.

You’ve ruined him, and he couldn’t be happier about it.

The second you remove your hand, Rafayel flips you onto your back and begins to lick your fingers clean, pleased at the way your mouth drops into that cute little shocked ‘o’. Intertwining your fingers, he drags his tongue over every inch of your palm, taking note of the way your eyes zero in on the length of it. His chest rumbles, pleased; he wants to be as desirable, as perfect to you as you are to him. You are an absolute miracle, a wonder to behold. “Your turn,” he tells you, and your eyes darken.

But you shake your head. “Raf,” you say. Your voice is deadly serious. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to explode into a thousand pieces and you’ll never see me again.”

Despite the sensuality of the situation, Rafayel finds himself bursting into laughter. Your own obscene, reddened lips curl into a matching grin, and for the moment, you are both innocent again, youthfully in love. Love-making, he thinks again. I want to make love to you for the rest of my life, for all eternity. “I love you,” he says out loud. “And I don’t want you to explode. But I want to show you how much I love you, as well. I want to worship you from head to toe.”

Your eyes widen in the most adorable way. As someone who’s always lowered herself as a supplicant, you find yourself entranced by the idea of being an object of worship. “You do?” you ask, unsure.

Rafayel raises your still sticky hand to his face, not caring about the mess. He wants to be messy with you. He wants to be part of you. “There’s nothing else in this world,” he begins, kissing the inside of your wrist, nuzzling the skin there. “I adore as much as you. I already worship you. Your hands, your face, your waist, your entire body. All of it is holy to me, holier than any faith I’ve ever believed in my entire life. And if that is a sin, then I will die the happiest sinner to have ever graced this earth.”

The way you blush at his words make him want to eat you whole. He’s never once considered partaking in human flesh, and although he isn’t too fond of what could possibly be considered cannibalism, his desire borders on the urge of devouring you entire. You are just too sweet.

“I’m going to eat you,” he actually tells you. Your answering laughter only makes his chest constrict in pure, unbridled joy.

He backs the words up with another gentle nip to your fingers, his sharp teeth only stopping short of breaking the skin; he finds himself back at your throat, lapping up the thin stream of blood and listening in to the way your laughter turns into a strangled moan. “Oh,” you yelp. “I thought that was a joke.” That makes Rafayel grin; with the taste of your salt on his tongue, he begins to kiss the space inbetween your chest, his fingers gently rolling your nipples through the thin dress you’re wearing. You sigh in please, your back arching just so slightly at the feeling of his fingers on you. “Adore this chest,” he tells you, trying to stay true to his word, but he’s already getting lost in the delicious sight of you surrendering to your pleasure. Following an urge that’s been haunting him ever since that almost-kiss on the beach, he wraps his lips around the rose-bud like nub and suckles it into his mouth, the sound of your sharp outcry like music in his ears. He groans against your chest and hopes you can hear the sound inside your heart; he wants to crawl inside and live there, reside under your skin. As he kisses the nipple with the same fervor he did your mouth, his other hand gently fondles the neglected nipple until you begin to whine for him to stop, the gentle torture not enough for you.

He abandons your chest in favor of your soft, soft stomach - he smushes his cheek against it like a cat, reveling in the way it feels. “God, I love you,” he says, hands cupping your waist. You don’t answer him, too lost in the sensation of his knees beginning to grind against your exposed core for some friction: your dress has ridden up, revealing the lack of underwear. His mouth runs dry, sparing only a moment of pondering where he asks himself whether the seasinger’s attire just doesn’t include underwear; you don’t leave him any more time to think as your fingers claw their way down his back, the pain as erotic as your lewd moans. “Please,” you beg him, grinding up your hips against his. He’s rock-hard again, straining to be inside you. “Please, I need you so bad. Fuck me, Raf.”

“You’ve got a filthy mouth,” he grits out. It’s not a reprimand, more an articulation of how crazy you drive him. Rafayel’s hands glide to the small of your back, lifting you up to receive him, readying you. You’re staring straight into his eyes, panting heavily, and he wonders whether you’re actually seeing him or staring into his soul. “I love you,” you say in response, clinging to the words like a lifeline. His heart jumps and jumps and jumps in chest, struggling to break out of its cage to join hands with yours. The head of his cock nudges against your labia, opening you up, and you fold open like a pond lily, more beautiful than even the oceansvale you adore. “I love you so much.”

“But I,” he tells you, voice strained, “love you more.”

And he pushes inside.

For a second, it feels like all kingdom come. It’s blasphemous and religious all at once; Rafayel feels whole, feels like you’ve become one person as he stretches you open. You feel so perfect around him, so, so perfect. “Oh, gods,” you whisper, the only time you take the name of your articles of faith in vain, a fact that he’s arrogantly proud of, and then Rafayel draws back and curls back inside again, the head of his dick nuzzling against something spongy that makes you wail like a woman stabbed. He almost pulls out, if not for the way you kiss him like this is the last time you ever will, your tongue inside his mouth before he can register, and then the hunger you illicit in him is too much to tolerate and Rafayel begins to fuck into you.

“Full,” you whimper, the words drawling together on your tongue as if you don’t even have the peace of mind to formulate the thoughts properly. Rafayel drags his cock back, pulling out almost entirely before he snaps it back inside; you bare your teeth at him in the same manner as he had done before he had bitten you, which would have made him smile at the way his behavior’s rubbing off on you. But there’s no space to do anything, no controls inside his mind. He’s become prisoner to your gummy walls, the way your warmth swallows his whole, every clench of your pussy around him like a shooting star frying his nervous system alive. “So perfect,” he whines, letting his instincts take over, and your fingers shakily hold on to his shoulder as he begins to piston in out of you. The slapping of flesh meeting skin is so loud it makes you screw your eyes shut in embarrassment, yet you offer up your body all the same. Your legs interlock behind his back as he continues to grind into you, in and out, in and out, in and out. “God, you take me like you were made for me. You’re a dream come true. You are. You are.”

“Rafayel,” comes your pitiful answer, but he’s not paying attention to you right now, not when his body is so hyperfixated on the way you make him feel and the way your own pleasure becomes the forefront of his mind. “S’too much. Slow down.” Your pussy flutters around him, dragging him back in every time he tries to pull out, and his solution is to pump into you quicker, harder, deeper. There is no sound, none that could be described when his cockhead begins to kiss your cervix, and now Rafayel’s chasing after your climax, desperate to get you there before he comes again. There are tears pooling at the edges of your eyes, tears which he licks up with the same delicacy he would use to gorge on you, lose himself in the taste of your cunt. His own tears blur his sight, dripping onto your face, searing into the skin there. “I can’t,” he bawls, sounding entirely too heartbroken for the way he fucks you, the way he folds your body into position to take him better, take him deeper. The bloody trails your nails leave on him don’t even make an impression on him anymore. He sobs into the curve of your throat, chasing, chasing. He ruts into you like a man possessed.

Even in your fucked out state, your shaky hands brush away the tears from his face. He hisses into the palm of your hand, swallowing his sobs, ignoring the hiccups. His own hand finds its way down your body until he’s sure he’s found your clitoris, finding the confirmation in your stuttered out “Fu-u-uck,”, and the hasty circles he draws have your thighs shaking in time with the constant snapping of his own hips, meeting him halfway as he chases your climax, pounding you into the ground. “Gonna come, gonna come, gonnacomegonnacomecomeRaf.” The last of your sentence becomes unintelligible as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, and he holds you close to his chest and continues to fuck you through it as his own begins to spill inside you, no stop to it seemingly in sight, up until the heartbreaking sob that falls out of your mouth breaks him out his trance and snaps him awake. His hips come to a stuttering halt, the picture of a stumbling drunk, then stop completely, and Rafayel slumps, still inside you. He can feel his semen dripping outside, running down his thighs, pooling on the ground. He’s dimly fascinated by the fact that he even has this much cum, but the majority of his consciousness focusses on the way you kiss his forehead, his head, everything you can reach.

“Don’t expect me to move anytime soon,” he mumbles from where his face is smushed against your boobs, and your laughter makes his head shake like the oceanvale bobs in the wind. “Well, darling. You’ve certainly showed me how much you love me.”

“Oh, I haven’t even gotten started, Raf.”

This time, it’s he who laughs. He hides his face in your chest and laughs, loud and free, in a way that he’s never been able to ever since he’s been a child. He feels your fingers comb through his blue-pink hair and feels like he’s finally home.

When you wake up from another nightmare in the night, crying for Rafayel like he’s abandoned you, he kisses every tear away until he’s positively certain you’ll never remember the way that dream felt again. You are safe in his arms, joined to his hip, bonded to his soul.

Caught up in so much luck, Rafayel forgot the looming threat.

He forgot how perfectly capable your father was of stealing away Rafayel’s happiness

The memory of Lyra drifted away from him as steadily as his craving for revenge did. She had raised him like her own in his dead mother’s stead: they’d been best friends once, and she became his only connection the mother that had labored and labored to give birth to him. Lyra had always warned him to take good care of his long hair, as it looked exactly the same as his mother’s, and she’d spent all her free time brushing the tangles out. It wasn’t Rafayel she was seeing, not really. But if she was chasing the after-image of her best friend in her son, then there really wasn’t anything he was going to do about it, not when he looked into her face and could only see his mother. They had been united in their loss, and then loss had divided them again.

It’s mother’s long hair, and Lyra’s plea for him to maintain it, that ends up being weaponized against him. Someone is tearing at his hair like a leash, pulling him from the safety of the pool. “Father, no!” You shout. You’ve never raised your voice in anger, not once. “Let go of him!”

“I’ve told you countless times!” Your father’s voice overpowers your own easily, as loud as the thunder before the lightning, as loud as the bells inside Dolphin’s Hall. Rafayel had always guessed you’d been trying to drown out the sound of your father’s shouting, the way he’d done your entire life. “They’re not to be trusted! Ask him! Ask the bastard why he’s entertaining you in the first place!”

You draw back from the accusation, the word ‘entertaining’ like a slap to the face. “He loves me,” you defend him, but your voice has become meek, small. As Rafayel thrashes in your father’s and a second man’s hold, he catches sight of your pale face, the way it’s stained with fear. For his life? Or because of an anticipated betrayal?

“Bullshit.” The unknown man spits at the ground.

“I love her,” Rafayel manages to stay. There’s a punch thrown at him that bites the taste of blood back into his mouth, foreign, not as welcome the way your blood had been. His teeth have cut into the insides of his cheek. “Which I can say with more certainty than you can, you bastard. Yes, I’ve entered her life under a guise. You murdered the woman who raised me. You’ve killed countless of my siblings. But I saw the way you starved your daughter of love and affection, and I vowed I’d never do that to her.”

“Do not play hero with me,” your father says, the hatred in his voice like the lash of a whip. Your own small hand spins out, and for a moment, Rafayel scared he’s lost you, that it’s him you’re going to strike. But your fingers wrap around your father’s wrist, as i you can do anything, as if this wasn’t the hand controlling your entire life. “Let him go, or I swear I’ll tell everyone,” you vow. The threat inside your voice is as venomous as the enmity your father’s had contained. “I’ll tell them where that caviar you so adore comes from, I swear it. Let him go or kill us both. Or maybe I’ll kill you.”

Your father halts in his shock. Rafayel can’t tell what is happening, his head still lowered to the ground by the hand pinning him there, tearing at his hair. It loosens then, and he’s kicked aside, like some stray dog that was a bother and is then forgotten. When he looks up, he sees you locked in a stare-off with your father - your father, whose looking at you as if he’s never once seen you in his entire life.

Perhaps he hasn’t.

“Walk,” is the only thing your father says then. “Walk before I forget myself.”

Rafayel struggles to sit up, to defend you as you had defended him, but you shake your head at him, the dismissal clear enough.

He watches as you leave him behind. How ironic, for you to have feared abandonment, when here he sits being abandoned now. Lost and alone.

In the following days, you don’t turn up. When Rafayel comes to search your human house, despite the fact that your father had threatened to kill him, the building is empty, stripped of all its belongings. None of the vendors in the city know about what has happened, giving only absentminded shrugs and I-do-not-cares. You’ve turned into an actual dream, a fantasy conjured by his love-sick brain, a haunting nightmare. He finds himself clenching his chest as if the heart contained inside was going to give out, broken apart like an empty shell by a mere mortal’s love.

He fears he’s going to die like this.

Alone, and unmourned, and forgotten.

When his desperation mounts in impulsiveness, he either decides to flee Whalefall City or look for you one last time. He can’t remain here, not when he looks everywhere for you, in the strange faces of this place or the gentle tosses of the waves in the harbor, in the sound of a melodious seasinger calling to prayer. It’s driving him insane. He turns up on the steps of Dolphin’s Hall, half-crazed from the loss of you.

It’s there where he witnesses the miracle of the Gods.

It’s not you, sadly; but your shrine maiden, freshly appointed as the new seasinger, hurries thorugh the throng of hall-going attendees. “It’s you!” she exclaims, a haunting echo of the very first words you addressed at him.

That makes him wary. “How do you know who I am?”

She blinks as if Rafayel was the one acting suspicious. “Well, because she’s told me, of course. And your description doesn’t really fit to any of the people here. In a city like this, it’s easy to recognize a new face.” The girl - no, woman - unfolds a letter, revealing a penmanship that he’s never seen, but which he recognizes with his heart.

Rafayel, the very first word on the paper shapes, in elegant loops, written in the soft scribbles of love.

He’s gone to meet you before the letter can hit the ground. Your successor, shaking her head, watches him go.

You’re right where you said where you would be, sitting in the surf like a mermaid would, your human legs anchored in the sand as the ocean drinks the earth. Your arms are crossed over your chest, over clothing he’s never seen before: garment from below the sea. His heart pounds inside his chest.

When you turn your head to face him, the smile on your face is entirely real.

Rafayel hurries to meet you, and then you are embracing each other like one soul being knit together; there was a physical pain in being separated from you that had strangled him for every second that you had been gone, drowning on land like a beached fish. He swipes your windswept hair out of your face, behind your ears, holding your head in his hands. You fit there, as always, like a missing puzzle piece. “I thought … you wouldn’t want to see me again,” he chokes out, the words a struggle. His tongue is heavy with sorrow, weighed down by his betrayal. “I mean, I wanted to tell you the truth. Long before I ever wanted to confess my feelings. I was going to do this properly. But I didn’t expect you.”

You snort, as if amused. “I could see that.”

His thumb strokes your cheekbone, as gentle as a clam reaches to embrace its pearl. “No, you don’t understand,” he tells you, and his chest unlocks in the same way it had when he had allowed himself to be vulnerable with you. “From the very beginning, I hadn’t expected you. I came to you with a heart heavy with hatred, blind with pain. I was so sure of myself, so sure of what was going to happen. But you reached inside me and changed everything. I’ve never even realized how painful it was to be me. Not until you administered the cure.” Rafayel leans his forehead against yours, tasting his tears. Crying, for the first time in so long. Only you. Only you. “Say something. Please.”

“Rafayel.” Your voice is wondrous. When Rafayel looks into your eyes, he only sees pure and unadulterated love, the kind of love that had drawn him off the edge of self-destruction and right into your safe arms. “Don’t you realize you’ve done the exact same thing with me? You’ve come into my life and filled it to the brim with a kind of joy I’ve never thought would be possible for me. I had resigned myself to my fate, to always be under the thumb of my father, and then you came, with all your unbridled anger and pompousness and unconditional love. If it hadn’t been for you, I might never have been able to shake off my parents’ expectations and build a life for myself with you.”

“With me?” Rafayel speaks the world gingerly. As if he can’t let himself believe it. As if he can’t let himself believe that the kinds of happy endings Lyra had always lectured him about were possible, after all.

If you witness true love, hold on to it.

Your fingers are reverent on his face, your smile so all-encompassingly loving. “How else are we going to heal this deep rift between mermaids and humans? I promised to show you, after all.”

Rafayel bursts into laughter. It’s an unexpected reaction, as unexpected as the miracle in his life that had been you, love of his life you. “That doesn’t sound too bad,” he admits, and instead of taking your hand as he had done so long ago under the secretive gaze of the moon, Rafayel finally gets to kiss you in the light of day, claiming you in front of the whole world.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

the twst pantheon au

I’ve been cooking with this one for a long ass time 🤩

A pantheon refers to “a collective of gods for a particular religion or group” or “a group that is respected, famous, or important”. In this case, the Pantheon AU is a modern day alternate universe in which all of the Twst characters are deities. They are not tied to a certain religion. Rather, they exist as forces of nature and each have dominion over + powers related to whatever concepts they govern.

The gods used to be well known and revered back in ancient times, but they’ve been whittled down to obscurity as the eons pass by. And the gods, well… let’s say that they got caught up in some trouble in their down time, leading to many of them being cast out of the Pantheon. These so-called “Fallen” gods are banished to the mortal realm and forced to walk among humans. However, because they’ve been stripped of most of their power, the Fallen are forced to take up smaller forms in order to conserve what little power they have left… which means we get cute animal forms :))

So the idea is that you/the reader/Yuu are a normal human being going about their day and they happen to run into a god in their animal form. Depending on the form, it could be a wild animal OR (the funnier option, in my opinion) the encounter could be in one of those animal cafés. Whatever the case may be, you end up adopting, fostering, or giving the animal shelter in your home.

The next day, you wake up to find a strange man in robes standing in your bedroom. He so arrogantly informs you that you are now one of his “followers” and demands that you assist him in reclaiming their lost godhood, thereby restoring him to his rightful place in the Pantheon.

As it turns out, gods gain power by gathering followers (not actual people who worship them but rather just people who selflessly love them or believe in and follow their philosophies or the importance of what they govern). Following is quantified by a mystical coin called Faith; the goal is for the Fallen to gather enough Faith to literally “buy” their way back into the Pantheon. Only problem is, it’s hard for gods to gain followers or even influence humans in their weakened state, hence why they’re teaming up with the first human to offer them Faith. (Since adopting/fostering is considered an act of selfless love, it granted the god enough strength to assume a more humanoid form.)

Gods don’t “die” but rather they can “fade”. Think of it like how a star burns for a long time, but they eventually burn through everything they have and cannot go on. Gods can fade one of two ways: 1) their time comes, or 2) there is so little Faith in what they rule over that they cannot sustain their existence anymore! The Faith currency and system is in part inspired by the Heaven Coins (from Panty and Stocking with Garterbelt) and the Tinkerbell and Pixie Hollow lore, the latter of which states that fairies die if children do not believe in them.

Depending on what the god rules over, this would shape the direction their follower (ie you/Yuu) would take to help them. For example, the god of love would benefit from having love spread. I also like to imagine that the non-Fallen gods sometimes come down to mock the Fallen or pose as obstacles since the non-Fallen could theoretically accumulate more power for themselves if there are fewer gods in the Pantheon.

And then!! Maybe at the very end, when the god has collected enough Faith, they’re faced with the daunting decision of getting the thing they started off wanting versus staying on the mortal plane with their human friend (or even lover, if you wanna go the god-human forbidden romance angle), who will entirely forget about them once they ascend. It’d sort of be like the end of Hercules but with an extra little sprinkle of angst 😇

The gods are grouped into Elder, Major, and Minor categories. Elder Gods are the oldest and are tasked with overseeing the younger gods and the governance of humanity itself. Major Gods are those who have accumulated a significant amount of influence for themselves over the years. Minor Gods are young gods and are still in training, humans that ascended to godhood, or lesser gods.

And now, the members of the Pantheon!! I’ve included some headcanons I have for them, but consider this more of a brief overview and not all the lore.

Elder Gods

Crowley — God of stories

Considered to be the ultimate authority and speaker for the Pantheon.

Decides which gods are worthy of walking in the Pantheon. Also determines what the price to return is for the Fallen.

(… Yes, Faith is literally in coins and you have to “buy” your way back in because Crowley, even as an actual GOD, is a greedy ass that accepts bribe money ✨)

Despite his high ranking, he has a whimsical and flippant manner about him, not really acting like an omnipotent being.

It is said he has a number of crow and raven companions that serve as messengers and his eyes/ears. They bring the stories they see and hear back to him.

Keys, mirrors, and coffins are common motifs for him and his shrines; they say that his mirrors are gates to new worlds and that the coffins he unlocks with his skeleton keys give birth to new life/characters to inhabit those worlds.

Be kind to ravens and crows; you never know when that visiting bird is actually Crowley in disguise, traveling the mortal world in search of something new to amuse himself with.

Obviously has a raven/crow form.

Crewel — God of medicine and healing

Looks after the gods and their standing; that kindness, like medicine, can be both a panacea and a poison. Punishes the gods, should they step out of line.

Favors dogs, particularly well-trained ones. His shrines depict Dalmatians guarding the entrances, but the dogs are not seen in the interiors, which are usually caked with incense smoke.

Healers and caretakers look to him for guidance. It used to be common for them to have a singular handkerchief in black and white animal print (a good luck charm) on their persons (or wearing something of those colors/patterns) when treating the sick or injured.

He is skilled at animal taming; it is said that he could get even a great beast to heel at his command.

His animal form is a Dalmatian.

Trein — God of history

Tasked with keeping records for the gods and humans alike. He knows every detail of their existence.

Favors felines. It’s said that, in his youth, he spirited away a cat, which now serves as his emissary.

His wife, the minor goddess of the ashes, faded due to a lack of Faith. Because of this, he perpetually worries for the younger gods meeting the same fate.

Glass is a material that recurs in his shrines and offerings; this is because Trein considers time fragile like glass.

His animal form is a long haired cat.

Vargas — God of champions and heroes

There are many stories of him training humans and demigods, who would later go on to perform impressive acts.

Also trains up-and-coming gods, preparing them to assume their duties.

He is said to have a number of feats under his belt as well, such as slaying a great beast and carrying the world on his back.

Animal pelts and deer antlers are favored offerings. Even better if you hunted and prepared them yourself.

His animal form is a buck.

Sam — God of roads/travel and prophecy

Magically produces anything that may be needed from his hat.

Able to vanish and reappear anywhere else. Never stays in one place for too long.

Seemingly all-knowing. He is said to commune with the shadows for this supernatural level of knowledge. Using his deck of enchanted cards, he can also see into the past, present, and future.

Sam allows for passage between the Pantheon and the mortal plane. He calls the route between them his “backdoor shortcut”.

Takes on a shadow form rather than an animal form.

Lilia — Ex-god of war and protection, god of family and sacrifice

Once a god wielding a frightening cleaver and dripping in blood; his presence on the battlefield marked the enemy’s doom—but if he was on your side, then he is your savior.

He ceded his title and mellowed out after he was tasked with mentoring various younger gods. Still retains a bit of his war god past, as he is willing to go to great lengths aid his charges—even at the cost of his own safety.

Spouses-to-be and expecting mothers pray to Lilia for happy marriages and safe childbirth.

Acorns are left at his shrines; by wishing Lilia a long, healthy life, he returns the favor and grants you the same.

Bats serve has his messengers. If you see one passing the moon, it’s good luck. Likewise, his animal form is a bat.

Major Gods

Riddle — God of law and order

Rules, laws, control—all of these things are under his dominion. He rewards those who obey and punishes those who disobey.

In the days of old, a statue of Riddle would adorn the courtrooms, indicating that trials would be conducted under his scrutiny.

Those seeking his favor or welcoming his spirit into their home would cultivate red and white roses, prepare dried strawberries, and/or drink black tea at designated dates and times.

Displeased with the disorder and unlawfulness of the human world; wishes to get it under control.

Fallen for going on a wrathful rampage; he injured many gods and tore apart the Pantheon in the process.

His animal form is a (smaller than average) hedgehog.

Leona — God of wisdom and destruction

The patron god of scholars. Ironically, intellectuals debate about Leona’s form, finding it difficult to believe that a divine scholar would have the physique of what is that of a pro-athlete.

He represents not only the acquisition of new information and its application, but also the ruin that can be brought about by this knowledge.

He has become bored with the world—he already has all knowledge at his fingertips, so what else is there to learn? Because of that, he is now lazy.

There was an incident in which he, a young god at the time, sanded a vast archive of human knowledge. This earned him ire from the Elder Gods and cast his reputation in a bad light.

Fallen for attempted deicide (of Malleus).

His animal form is a cat. Makes sense; there’s usually golden lion statues in his shrines. Cures meats are a common offering. Can muster a lion with sufficient energy.

Azul — God of commerce and contracts

Anything related to business, money, and deals are under him. Because of this, both swindlers and honest merchants revere Azul and usually have a small anemone plant or flower set up in shop to attract good business.

It was common for people to ask Azul to fulfill their wishes, at the cost of something valuable to themselves. His golden contracts are said to be impossible to break—though there are stories of heroes finding loopholes and triumphing over him.

Those who cross him are said to be dragged into the depths and choked by his tentacles.

Fallen for his impossible greed; he forewent consent to enter an agreement with him and stole humans’ skills and abilities en masse in a big to become the ultimate life form.

His animal form is an octopus, a form he is extremely insecure about. Tends to take on the appearance of a fish with fluttery fins instead.

Kalim — God of wealth, hospitality, and celebration

He is considered a charitable and friendly god, welcoming even humans to gatherings in his domain, serving them nectar and ambrosia. If you wish for wealth or to impress a guest, you are expected to be as kind of a host has he is.

His shrines were opulent, dripping with jewels, gold, and dried coconut flesh + coconut water offered up in his name. Kalim is said to protect people from poisonings, hence the coconut (which historically has healing properties).

He is usually depicted as the sun amid other stars or in parades/amid crowds of servants (which are primarily lesser gods). Never alone, always with people.

According to the stories, he is easy to trick and has been stolen from multiple times—yet he harbors no ill will towards thieves.

Various humans have attempted to end him and claim his vast wealth for themselves.

His animal form is a monkey—a nimble little moodmaker—but he’s capable of turning into others too. A tiger, an elephant, and a parrot, just to name a few. You can say he’s a real “party animal”.

Vil — God of beauty (aesthetics) and poison

Depicted as a mature and sexy beauty, but also sometimes as a robed hag. He is known for his beauty as much as he is known for his envy.

Worshipped in the days of old by women who did not wish for their youth to fade, although Vil was typically described as a being without the concept of the gender binary.

Fallen for an attempt to poison a fellow god (Neige) and steal their beauty to bolster his own.

His animal form is a (male) peacock. If you pluck off on of his feathers, he may curse you—but get away safely, and you can brew a beauty elixir.

Idia — God of innovation and technology

A god that tinkers away and produces new inventions in his lair. He is said to have inspired many famous human inventions or inventors, sparking industrial and technological revolutions the world over.

Has grown increasingly withdrawn, deeming that his inventions are out there doing a god’s work for him; is there a need for him to be involved?

He is said to enjoy games; it is common to find gameboards and game pieces in his shrines. In stories, Idia would use his own to illustrate locations and the heroes in those territories.

His shrines are often gloomy—dimly lit, and filled with bones (representative of the past) and candles (representative of the future, paved by new inventions).

Fallen for an attempt to destroy the current universe and to rewrite it in his own image.

His animal form is a dog, which he laments because be prefers cats.

Malleus — God of stasis and storms (ie nature)

Considered to be an unstoppable force of nature; his moods affect the weather, so people prayed to him for favorable conditions.

Known as one of the most powerful gods to have ever existed. He knows little of humans and their ways, having lived almost entirely in the Pantheon.

Fallen for forsaking the concept of time and attempting to keep the world, humans, and the gods themselves, from facing the future ever again. With his thorn cradles, he sought to force all asleep and kept content in their dreams.

His animal form is a lizard, though he is usually depicted as a fire breathing dragon in stories.

Rollo — God of obsession and judgment

Another important figure often depicted in courtrooms. While Riddle oversees rules and laws, Rollo is the one closely tied to fair judgment and rulings.

The stories depict him as a god so blindly consumed by pursuit of his purpose that he lost sight of all else.

Fallen for an attempt to rid the universe of gods altogether, freeing humans from them. Harbors a particularly strong resentment for the God of Stasis and Storms.

Should a fire occur, it is viewed as Rollo’s wrath or punishing an unjust world. There are stories of guilty criminals who successfully evade the eyes of the law but mysteriously die in house fires.

Often depicted in stained glass windows.

His favored offerings are bread, grapes, and red lilies. The correct way to give them is to toss the offerings into a fire and letting them burn to ashes.

He finds music produced by bells pleasing. Those who run shrines in his name may perform a ceremonial dance using a hand bell.

His animal form is a goat.

Skully — God of holidays and cheer

He arose from the darkness when humans celebrated their first holiday. Though he represents all holidays, his favorite is Halloween. This is why you will find jack ‘o lanterns and candy scattered at his shrines. His followers are especially active during the autumn season.

Fallen for a strange decree that he should dictate how every holiday is celebrated; this cut into other gods’ domains and caused in-fighting among humans.

A god that stole many hearts. He greets humans with a kiss on the back of the hand; these kisses would impart temporary charms.

Oddly does not have an animal form. Assumes a pumpkin form instead.

Fellow — God of vagrants and freedom

A smooth, fast talking god with little respect for restraint. Not very bright but makes up for it in showmanship. He travels wherever he wants whenever he wants and does whatever he wants, easily blending in with mortals.

If you’ve lost a few coins from your wallet, assume Fellow swiped it and considers it a charitable donation.

Fallen for dealing with an evil spirit; he intended to trade human lives to gain more divine power.

Gidel is a titleless Fledgling God that he has taken under his wing. While he does not speak, he is very expressive.

His animal form is a fox.

Minor Gods

Trey — God of temperance and the hearth

Trey encompasses everything that makes the home warm and comfortable: meals, cozy blankets, kind company, etc.

He’s also seen as a caretaker among the gods, especially to Riddle. It’s said he is able to temper his even the most extreme of emotions.

A god that finds himself in the middle of conflicts and having to resolve them; he’d rather be left untroubled by such things.

Baked goods and flowers (specifically violets) are common offerings.

His animal form is a mouse.

Cater — God of theatre and duality

A dramatic god, he lives for performances and attention. Represented by the two comedy masks; he has inspired many famous playwrights.

Typically happy, but when he “flips” to his sad alter ego/mask, his personality is completely different.

He is capable of making replicas of himself. In one story, he performed a one-man play where he was every single character.

… He’s been really into these new human inventions called the “cell phone” and “social media”, but the concepts have yet to take off in the Pantheon.

His animal form is a rabbit.

Deuce — God of passion and dedication

Once an evil spirit, he has since been reformed and become a (tentative) minor god. He dreams of rising to Major God status someday.

As an evil spirit, he was a chaotic being of wind notorious for challenging the other elements to races. (This would often result in hurricanes and other natural disasters.)

It’s said he was originally born from an alchemist’s cauldron when a spell went awry. Perhaps that is why he finds himself drawn to cauldrons.

Chickens are his favored animal; there is a story of how he cried over cracked eggs. This has led to a strange collection of items (including cauldrons and chicken statuettes) in his shrines.

He tries many things, but is seldom successful in any of them.

His animal form is a (blue) chicken. He attempted a pink flamingo form but failed.

Ace — God of fortune (luck) and mischief

A troublemaker in the Pantheon. Frequently being chastised or punished for bothering his fellow gods.

He sneaks off to the mortal realm to prank humans. To the Elder Gods’ dismay, Ace sometimes (what was the human phrase for it again??) “shoots his shot” with humans he finds cute. Might go on a date with them once, then disappear entirely from their lives, leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake.

Preserved cherries and later playing cards are common offerings. Instead of praying, devotees would stay at a shrine and play a card game with something depicting Ace (usually a statue).

His animal form is a flamingo.

Ruggie — God of thieves and the downtrodden

The god for the working class, underserved and marginalized communities, and the common man. They pray to him when they are in need of social change—tearing down a tyrannical king, redistributing the wealth, etc.

While his followers usually don’t have much to give, Ruggie isn’t picky about the gifts he receives. Even hand-me-down items and foragables are accepted at his shrines. Leave a bouquet of dandelions, herbs, used clothes, or a few coins at his altar and he will happily snatch those up.

Closely associated with Leona, often acting as his lackey in various tales.

There’s a story about how he stole the keys to Azul’s enchanted safe and released desire into the world; they say Ruggie has the ability to steal anything from anyone.

His animal form is a raccoon but he can muster a hyena with enough energy.

Jack — God of strength (both physical strength and strength of character)

Often depicted as a massive wolf—strong yet gentle. He appears before those with noble hearts to warn them of coming danger.

Protects children who get lost in the woods. He will fend off the danger and then carry the children to safety in his massive maw.

Warriors donned wolf pelts or the image of a wolf on armor or accessories. This would supposedly grant them strength on the battlefield.

Bottles of pear preserves are commonly left at his shrines.

Jade — God of lies and curiosity

One of the rare gods that frequents the mortal realm, though these excursions are typically excused on account of his identity as the god of curiosity. He returns with strange stories that his fellow gods cannot quite tell are true or not.

In the stories, he is presented as an enabler and instigator. If a mortal finds themselves at a fork in the road, Jade leans into their ear and whispers, influencing them to take the path least treaded.

It’s said that if you catch him speaking a truth, he will grant you a wish. Many mortals have met their doom from believing his web of lies.

Strangely, mushrooms have a tendency to overtake his shrines. You'll find them in the corners and crevices.

Animal form is an eel but if he is very low on energy then he’s a little fish.

Floyd — God of change and chaos

If Jade influences humans by whispering in their ear, then Floyd influences humans by throwing any obstacle imaginable at them. He is the embodiment of anything that can happen at any time.

His following is mainly people who are bored with their lives and wish for something exciting or new to happen.

His followers do not have any particular traditions, as he could react negatively to anything. Rather, the expectation is that you go about your day and not invoke his name for fear of gaining his attention.

If you're one of the foolish few who dare to ask a favor of him, candies of assorted flavors or a new pair of shoes (a luxury, in the days of old) may be a good bet to gain his favor.

Animal form is an eel but if he is very low on energy then he’s a little fish.

Jamil — God of culture and ambition

Companion to Kalim. They often appear as a duo on stories, never straying too far apart from one another.

He represents the mingling of cultures and the sharing of idea and traditions, all the connections and places he can never have for himself. Jamil considers this a great burden, one he cannot be freed from. He also represents those seeking higher goals for themselves.

His shrines are known to be covered in fine tapestries and fabrics. Incense is burned, imparting the insides with a smokey, spicy smell.

Common offerings are bottles of hair oil and ornaments. These are to care for his hair, which is said to be able to transform into living snakes, each capable of speaking in a different ancient language.

Fallen for an attempt to overthrow Kalim and claim his position (via inciting a coup).

His animal form is a snake. Although he is a bright red, he’s not venomous.

Rook — God of the hunt, the arts, and love

If you’re out in the wild and feel like you’re being watched, it’s likely Rook with his eye on you. He enjoys observing humans and the odd ways they act.

Has heightened senses, able to notice visual details from an impressive distance away.

A lover of the arts; most creatives have made at least one work of art in his honor.

His followers tend to follow his philosophy that everything is beautiful in its own way.

Lovers will ask Rook to bless their relationship; it is said that those shot with his Arrows of Love will forever be bound to the first person they see.

Rook represents not just romantic love, but also platonic love. He does not discriminate; all love is beautiful!

His animal form is a rook (bird). He can also do other birds, though mainly predators like hawks.

Epel — God of agriculture and harvest

His favored fruit is the apple. There used to be a festival in which attendees would submit their own apples for judging in his honor; the biggest, reddest, and shiniest would win and the victor would be blessed with a bountiful harvest for that year.

There are many tales of mortals and divine beings alike being deceived by his dainty appearance.

Humans pray to Epel for a good yield from their fields. Apples (at least their peels) are often incorporated into fertilizer, which they return to the earth as an offering to him.

His animal form is a rabbit which is smaller than Cater’s form.

Ortho — God of death and rebirth

Legends say he was originally a mortal that died young while attempting to play the role of a hero. Taking pity on the boy, the gods took his soul and replaced it in the mechanical body (thanks to Idia’s help).

Ortho and his blue flames are said to be the last thing you see before death, for he comes to claim all souls and ferry them to the other side.

In the days of old, it is said that people would become stars after death and watch on from the sky. It is Ortho who brings newborn stars into the sky and places them.

He is said to be close with Idia, the god who granted him his new form.

Appears like a glowing blue flame instead of an animal form; the closest he can achieve is a ghostly apparition of a dog.

Sebek — God of action, lightning, and war

A demigod, much to his dismay. Overeager to prove himself as a result.

Dismisses his mortal father in favor of his divine heritage, but Sebek finds himself visiting anyway. Insists it is out of pity.

Inherited the title of god of war from Lilia. Brags about it (though Lilia warns him to be careful with such a dangerous title). His affinity for lightning is also something he brags about, since it brings him closer to Malleus, who controls storms.

His shrines tend to be built near bodies of water; followers prepare salted salmon from lakes and such for him.

He wields a shield that can guard against anything.

His animal form is a crocodile. He is unfortunately very noticeable wherever he goes.

Silver — God of sleep/dreams, peace, and protection

A human that was adopted by Lilia after his parents were felled in war. He went on to become a hero and achieved godhood by bringing a great war to a peaceful resolution.

Inherited Lilia’s old title as god of protection. Should you gain Silver’s favor, he will shield you from the evils of the world.

Animals of all kinds are drawn to Silver and his shrines. Nuts, berries, leaves, and flowers are left at his altar.

He is usually depicted sleeping under a tree. If you see Silver in your dreams, it is a good omen and something nice will happen to you when you wake up.

He wields a sword that can cut through anything.

His animal form is a horse. In works of art, he is sometimes depicted as a silver owl which glides through dreams.

Grim — (Fledgling) God of the lost

Not fully recognized as a god yet.

Has not accumulated enough strength to assume a human form.

Is considered guardian to the lost and directionless, be it those not knowing where they came from or those not knowing where they want to go in the future.

Leave an open tuna can at his altar or in ramshackle buildings, and the contents will have mysteriously vanished the next day. Presumably, Grim has passed by and eaten the offering. (Rocks are also an acceptable offering; these will also vanish, though there is debate on whether Grim favors rocks or if he also eats them.)

Eventually Falls because he become too attached to a human and wished to prevent them from passing on so that he might be with them forever.

Neige — God of innocence and purity/chastity

If Vil is sexy and mature, then Neige is the picture of sweetness and cuteness.

He is seen as a protector and caretaker to children, especially those without parents or guardians. They say if you diligently do your chores, your home will be safe and blessed by Neige.

Also considered the patron god of virgins.

The Seven Dwarves are forest nymphs that hang around him. Each represents an emotion or state of being (uhhh, assume Timmy -> embarrassment, Grum -> angry, Shelpie -> tired??, Hop -> happy, Snick -> surprised, Toby -> confused, Dominic -> confident).

His animal form is a songbird. He can also do a deer.

Cheka — (Fledgling) God of courage and cycles

An inexperienced god; the current God of Courage and Cycles is fading and Cheka is being trained to step up into that role.

Carefree; he has little interest in his duties and would rather play around with the other gods. Sometimes even slips away from his handlers and escapes to the mortal plane to play. Causes many headaches.

Asks many questions about mortals, but nothing which would be relevant to his tasks.

Animal form is a cat (well, more like a kitten), but he can’t really shift well yet.

Chenya — God of riddles and guidance

Chenya helps the lost find their way, be it to a location, loved one, item, or some goal. However, his aid often comes with a heap of cryptic language which you must first decipher.

Has the ability to vanish from sight. It is said that if you hear giggling or feel something brush against your arm or leg, it is Chenya’s blessing.

Loves finding cakes at his shrines, although he tends to steal them right off your plate at celebrations.

Animal form is a cat.

[zarnzarn]

TW: jumping on the manwhore au but aftermath, discussion of S/A, read carefully.

Three weeks pass.

Odysseus is carried through them with ecstasy and joy, reuniting and grieving and laughing and rearranging.

But then everything settles down, and-

It was him who'd ordered it. Ordered owls to be carved into every free inch of Ithaka, coveted shipments of the secretive birds for his personal menagerie, sold trinkets in the market. Made no secret of who favoured them, when he had half the houses painted blue.

But now every step he takes in his own home haunts him.

He cannot so much as look to the side before feeling the urge to flinch away, shame growing inside of him until it chokes him up. Cannot look at any owls. Cannot look at any of his men.

("Well, if our captain can't think his way out of it, at least now we know talking filthy works just as well!" One of the men chortles, unaware of how Odysseus' blood had run cold, standing with his hand raised to knock.)

("This day, you've lost it all, consider this as my goodbye-")

("Come on, she's a beautiful, powerful lady! How bad could it really have been, Captain?")

("Captain?" Eurylochus whispers, as Odysseus wipes the blood off his mouth and reaches for his cloak. The ships are silent, even though the roar of the waves has left. Eyes stare at him from all directions, wide and-

Pitying? Horrified? Odysseus can't really tell.

"Full speed ahead," He says, voice ruined, and keeps his chin high as he hobbles back to his room.)

(When the sirens come, all he sees is Penelope. It is nice, at least, to know that he can discard the intrusive thoughts creeping in about natural reactions and forced pleasures.)

("Please- please don't do this, don't make me choose, I'll do anything-")

("Leave me the fuck alone, both of you. If Penelope does not take me back after all of this, it's her choice. But I have to get all of us off this island and it's better me than you.")

"Ody- Your Majesty!" Odysseus reaches into his robes, pulls out the whittling tool and the wood, busies himself as he walks. It's one of the younger men, the ones who'd barely been boys when they left. "Listen, we were wondering if- if you'd come join us at the festival! The- all of the men, really, we've been- heh- missing you since we now have to share you with the rest of the kingdom. We could- we could sing together? Like we used to?"

Athena's prayers.

"You go ahead," Odysseus murmurs, eyes on the carving. "Next time."

"But you didn't come for the last one either!"

"I have-" He hears his own sharp tone, stops and swallows to soften it. He was terrible to all of them, he knows, those last few days aboard the ship, rude and sharp and brutal like all the other royals, where he never was before. "I have work to do. Have a good day. I've heard the new hound stock is coming in today, you should see if you want a pet."

He ignores whatever is said in response, walking on. He wonders, darkly, what they think of him. Do they still think he enjoyed it? That it was a privilege to be had by gods?

("He won't speak to us!" One of them hiss that night, when the lad comes back sniffling and downcast, like all the others. They'd grown up with Odysseus, almost like younger brothers, and all of the younger ones were taking the sudden frigid silence hard. They all were. Somewhere they had lost their friend, left him behind without noticing, until only their king returned. "He cannot possibly think we think less of him for sacrificing so much, for- the gods are impossible to hold up against, he can't think we blame him for-"

"We don't know what he thinks," Polites says, pulling his head out of his hands and wrapping his arms around himself. "He doesn't even look at us."

The men around the fire are all silent.

"He has to know, right?" Someone whispers. "He has to.")

"What did happen on the trip back?" Penelope says, voice quiet, sitting next to him. He jolts. When did he reach their bedroom? "Something did. You have barely touched me since that first day."

Odysseus opens his mouth, but for the first time, he has nothing to say. What can he? She had known, the first second he had turned his eyes from her in shame, and yanked him back in anyway with eyes blazing like a lion, growling that she didn't care what he had to do to come back, as long as he had.

Odysseus doesn't feel like he has.

Penelope carefully takes the whittling knife away from him, as well as the spear he'd carved. "And you have not prayed, after your return."

(He had tried. Had walked right upto the temple steps when everyone was asleep, and then turned around and thrown up in a bush.)

"Have you heard the story of the high priestess Medusa?" He murmurs, staring at the wall. Watches the shadows dancing across. "Athena used to tell me about her. One of her favourite devotees. I never understood why she cursed her, when it was not her fault."

Penelope puts a hand on his shoulder. Both of them are shaking. She has seen the scars, the ones that glow beautiful and bright, left behind by each god who touched him.

"A gorgon, snake-woman, capable of turning anyone she looked upon to stone, gods and humans alike. No eyes upon her, ever again."

The breeze blows in.

"At the time, I thought it to be a curse." He whispers. Remembers the story of the way she had screamed in the temple bower for Athena's help, insane, at the feeling he knows now is violation of self and celibacy both; Athena's chosen, ripped away from one of their ways of worship by force. "Now I know it was a blessing."

"But-" Penelope swallows. "Perseus-"

"Was a mercy." He looks at the ground. "She was pregnant. She did not wish to be. Athena granted her so."

"The shield is to honor her," Penelope murmurs. "Not a trophy."

He hums.

"I-" Penelope starts, voice thick. "I remember when you asked. When we first got married. If I was fine with not being joined with you in bed often, as long as I was satisfied. Was it-?"

"Only her priestesses can have true celibacy, her devotees less, me lesser. I had a crown to continue, so Athena accepted a more lenient vow, when I became her student." He stares out at the sea, the sky. "But I had vowed. I had sworn." A half-sob escapes him, some delayed noise of grief. It feels far away now, and the scars have all healed, but he cannot move past the violation, the stares, the whispers. The shame of betrayal. "I had an oath, Penelope."

"It was not your fault," Penelope whispers, taking his hand like he will shatter like glass. "Poseidon seems to target all of Athena's people. If anything-"

"We fought," He says, turning his head to press his face to her shoulder, shuddering as he confesses it. Abandoned by his own god. "She left. Maybe this is her punishment, all the eyes, all the time. Paranoid that another Olympian will jump out of the shadows, do it again."

"Or," Penelope says after a long pause. "She does not know. Only one way to truly find out."

Odysseus considers.

"Could you," He swallows, throat clicking. "Could you get me- the things from my shrine?"

-

He does not expect her to actually arrive.

He shakes in front of her, for the first time, feeling small and foolish and broken. Wishes he could go back to being twelve, do it all over correctly. "Lady Athena," He says, as formally as he can. "I beg your forgiveness. Please- please, is there anything I can do to-"

"About time," She interrupts, bored. "Finally willing to concede that I was right?"

Odysseus feels bile rise in his throat. "Yes, goddess. I was- stupid, to ever consider otherwise."

Penelope's hand is clenched tight in his robes, kneeling with him.

"Good," Athena says, pleased. "A war well won, all things considered. Our glory will go down in the history books." A pause. "Why are you on the floor?"

"What?" He chokes out.

"You've never kneeled to me once, even when I've taken you out at the ankles, you impudent brat," She snorts. Odysseus feels his pounding heart freeze in his chest at the- fondness in her voice. Fondness. She is not furious with him, not unforgiving. "What, do you want something else-"

She knocks him on the head, flicking him on the forehead playfully- then freezes as he looks up at her. Goes completely still, and he knows she can see what they did to him.

Penelope's hand reaches out to steady him.

"Only your forgiveness, goddess," His voice breaks. "Only that."

-

After, Penelope holds him, crying silently herself as she wipes at his cheeks. Athena sits with her head in her hands, helmet removed, anger finally under control but completely silent. Just sits there at the edge of their bed, bent over, face buried in her own palms.

Finally, she straightens, inhaling. Turns to look at him. "You may not be alive to see it," She tells him, quiet and furious. "But this is their last transgression, I swear to you. I will find a way to get revenge. They will die."

"I do not-"

"They will die. And no vows have been broken." She hesitates, hand hovering over his ankle. Odysseus crumbles, nodding desperately, and nearly passes out at the relief of the familiar touch, sharp and cleansing, godly and unlike the chaos of all the others. "You need not apologise to me about that."

He sniffs, turning his face into Penelope's shoulder. It feels freeing, some latent relief that Athena finally sees him, understands, forgives. She is not the terrifying goddess so far removed, cold and cruel, that he was starting to think she truly might be; bowed over in grief and horror for him, like a friend- he just wishes this was not the reason why.

Her eyes are gold at the edges. Crying. Nauseated almost, at the fact that- her uncle. Her father.

"Would you-" Odysseus wheezes. His heart hurts still, for their fight, for what happened after, for how hard he knows she will take it. "Can you-"

"Anything, champion," She says softly, strained. Gives him a half-smile. "My friend."

"The wings-" He whispers, feeling stupid, but-

"Slow," Penelope murmurs, reaching out to steady Athena as she climbs in close. Her voice is wrecked. She does not say anything more.

Owl wings fold around him, not white or blue or pink, patterned and brown like the mud; home. Home.

"No one will see you," Athena murmurs, and her voice is wretched, but caring. "No one can see you. Peace."

"Peace," Odysseus repeats, and leans into them both, letting the darkness shroud around them like an embrace. Peace.

Home.

[createandconstruct]

I will NEVER be okay about izuku and toshinori's relationship. Like, THEY SAVED EACH OTHER. THEY LIVE FOR EACH OTHER.

THEY CANNOT BEAR TO LOSE EACH OTHER

A MAN WITH THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD ON HIS SHOULDERS. WEIGHED DOWN BY INJURY AND SELF-IMPOSED ISOLATION. WHO HAD RESOLVED TO WALK FORWARD, WHITTLING HIS BODY AWAY UNTIL HE REACHED A HORRIFIC AND LONELY DEATH. WHO FOUND A REASON TO AGAIN LIVE IN A QUIRKLESS, FRIENDLESS BOY

A BOY WHO ONLY HAD HIS MOTHER. WHO DESPERATELY NEEDED JUST ONE SINGLE PERSON TO BELIEVE IN HIM. WHO FOUND THAT PERSON IN THE HERO HE ADMIRED THE MOST. A HERO WHO SWORE ON HIS LIFE THAT HE'D RAISE IZUKU. THAT HE'D D I E FOR HIM. AND THEN, EVEN HARDER: THAT HE'D L I V E FOR HIM.

LIKE THAT'S TOSHINORI'S PRIDE AND JOY. THE REASON HE IS S T I L L HERE. BUT ALSO: VICE VERSA. WHEN IZUKU THINKS BACK ON OFA HE THINKS BACK TO THE UNCONDITIONAL BELIEF AND SUPPORT. THE "YOU CAN BE A HERO." THE ONE THING THAT LONELY 14 YO BOY NEEDED MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE.

All Might IS the father figure in Izuku's life. He IS, definitively, the most important adult in Izuku's life RIGHT NEXT TO THE BOY'S MOTHER. HE IS TO IZUKU WHAT NANA WAS TO HIM. Life flashing before his eyes, faced with death, Izuku cries out to the two of them. His PARENTS.

I can't sleep, I can't eat. I will think about these two forever. Beyond the end. All Might the hero who was shown how to be just a man by being a father. Izuku the fan, who discovered his worth through the support of his hero, who came to love & raise him as a father does a son

[shorthaltsjester]

trying to be so, so normal about thinking about a half-orc with whittled down tusks and another man’s voice without a home running into a blue tiefling seeking out adventure and a place in the world who asked him if they could “walk together a bit”. and now a half-orc who is an admiral with a home port and a family who loves a blue tiefling who helps her friends fight undead and trauma (and on occasion both) who has a godfriend she can drag through a gate spell and ask to do her a favour once a week. trying to not lose my mind about jester growing up reading about whirlwind romances and teasing fjord about them but confiding in yasha that one of the things she values most in her relationship to fjord isn’t all the things that come from her understanding though her mother and romance novels, it’s that she feels comfortable with him. and like, even decked out like the most romance novel cover versions of themselves, they are still both kinda goofy and awkward and charming about their relationship in a way that fulfils jester’s big silly romanticizing heart but also is very, very genuine to who both the characters are and how they go about the world.

like i know a lot of people talk about the laura and travis of it all a lot and it is a very sweet aspect of fjord and jester but i cannot emphasize how much jester and fjord as characters who meet and then grow around and because of each other, who see beneath one another’s masks and support each other is something that is so compelling and well done and built towards regardless of the ever present claims that it only happened because laura decided to romance travis in their dnd game.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

Ngl, the last post about Fords grief and readers' resurrection involving bill. Had me thinking, and I know it's been a few minutes to an hour, but like, what if Ford built the reader back together like with bills help. Frankenstein ykkk

Anyway, kisses to the writer💋💋💋💋

wait... i like this one !!

tw: gore, body horror, unsettling imagery

Ford is a man of science before anything else. when he can’t fix something emotionally, he turns to intellect, to mechanics, to the physical work of repairing what’s broken. and when it comes to you, someone he loved deeply, someone he lost so suddenly, he cannot accept that you are gone, Ford refuses to. that’s not how he works. problems have solutions. everything is fixable.

it always starts with a very bad deal. a deal Ford once swore he’d never make again, but grief makes fools of us all.

“oh, sixer, my old pal, u know i love a good science experiment! you and me, back in the lab, building a whole new body for your dearly departed? talk about a fun little project!”

Ford hates him, he grits his teeth and tries to keep his face calm, he hates him with every cell in his body. but he hates this emptiness more. so he doesn’t protest and doesn't argue. just tightens his jaw and listens.

because there’s a way, Bill says. there’s always a way. but a body doesn’t just come from nowhere. a body needs parts.

and Ford has never been squeamish.

a sticky, congealing blood between his long fingers, crusting beneath his dirty nails. Ford doesn’t mind, he barely notices. there is so much to do, so much work.

it starts with the bones.

you were gone too long for preservation. what was left was ruined, unfit, wrong. so Ford makes new ones. it takes weeks of scavenging, collecting and constructing. some are yours, some are not. some are carved by his own hands, whittled down into the exact shape they should be.

Ford does not let himself think about where the others came from. he doesn't want to ask Bill, because Bill talks too much and says very dumb, not funny jokes.

"y’know, i gotta hand it to ya, sixer, most people don’t literally build their dream partner! or, uh— rebuild! ahaha!"

Stanford works by lamplight, shaping the ribs with the precision of a mad sculptor, measuring the length of your femurs against the sketches he’s made in his notes. he has so many notes. . . pages and pages of you, blueprints of who you were. what makes a person? what makes a mind? how does one recreate the intangible?

“trying to make them better this time, huh? aw, don’t look so guilty, i think the new jawline is an improvement!”

muscles next, Ford knows. sinew and tendon and ligaments pulled taut, stretched over frame, sewn and stitched. his hands are always slick, stinking, reeking of blood and chemicals and whatever this is that he’s doing. but he keeps talking to you. he doesn’t even notice when he starts.

“rhis will hold. ive reinforced the fibers, should be stronger than before. . . don’t worry, dear, i’ll be careful, i won’t hurt you.” you are not there. but he speaks as though you are, because it’s easier that way. “i love you”

“c’mon, doc, ya barely even flinched that time! i’d say you’re gettin’ used to this, but,” Bill leans in. “we both know you’ve always had a knack for butchery.”

Ford does not respond.

the limbs are harder. muscle grafts, nerve splicing, making sure the hands will still be warm when they hold his own. Ford works tirelessly. he stops counting the hours.

he talks to you while he works. “you always hated the cold,” he says, securing the connective tissue in your fingers. “i’ll make sure your circulation is strong, my love.“

and the face. the face is the worst, because it has to be perfect. it has to be you, it has to be right. so when the first few attempts aren’t, when the eyes are wrong, when the skin sags, when the expression is empty, he rips it apart and starts again.

“oooh, this is beautiful,” Bill coos. “y’know, i never took you for the sentimental type, IQ! you’re really putting your heart into this one!”

Ford does not respond, his hands and gloves are covered in blood and trembling, but he does not stop. because this is what he wanted. you are here. in pieces, yes, but pieces can be put back together.

skin is the hardest part.

it took him so long to get the consistency right. synthetic materials failed. grafts failed. he had to learn. he had to practice. but the color is still wrong, waxy, veins mapping out too blue beneath the surface. Ford swears under his breath. fucking shit. he brushes his thumb over your knuckles, watches the way the flesh gives. too soft, too artificial.

Ford does not cry, not when the stitches split. not when the first attempt collapses in on itself. not when your new skin sloughs off in sickly, wet ribbons and he has to start over again

but at some point, careful becomes desperate. methodical becomes messy. you are not coming together right

Ford's hands shake, he is muttering again. something is missing, something is wrong. your skin won’t knit properly, your chest cavity won’t close, your spine— your spine won’t—

Bill floats beside him. “what’s the problem, doc? run outta parts?”

Ford’s breath is too fast, his fingers twitch, vision blurry, but whether it’s from exhaustion or the copper stink of the lab, he doesn’t know.

“i—“ he chokes on the words. “i just need more.”

“say the word, Fordsy.”

“please, Bill, please.” when Ford blinks, there is more on the table.

Bill watches and laughs. “y’know, i’ve seen a lotta desperate guys do a lotta desperate things, but this? wowza! this one takes the cake! and you didn’t even ask what the price was!”

Ford’s hands tremble as he reattaches your arm for the third time.

"you think they'll want this, sixer? think they'll wanna wake up like this?”

Ford doesn’t answer. he keeps working.

it is days before he is done, Ford doesnt know what day it is, what month, what year. time exists only in the number of stitches, the weight of the scalpel, the way your stitched, reconstructed body lies motionless on the table.

you look like you. almost. almost.

Bill is staring at you. for once, he is not laughing.

“so, you want me to fire up the ol’ brain-box or what?”

Ford swallows. his throat is raw, lips cracked from dehydration, huge dark eye bags under his tired eyes. he just nods slowly.

Bill snaps his fingers. “one mind, comin’ riiiiight up!”

Ford is too desperate so he immediately reaches for your hand, for the warmth that should be there. the proof that this was the right choice, that he did not just ruin you. your fingers curl around his, but they are too strong in their grip. your eyes are unfocused, glassy

something is wrong.

[delopsia]

Hi Delgato! I was thinking of Rhett and citygirl!reader who tries to “countrify” herself after she meets Rhett’s family for the first time. She just didn’t realize what a city slicker she was before. I’m talking like going to a clothing store in town and getting leather boots, big belt buckle and cowboy hat! She looks a little crazy but hey, that’s why Rhett loves her so much right? A little crack and a lot of fluff with soft and sweet boyfriend Rhett!

I hope you feel better! 🥺💖

Rhett and city!Reader will never not get to me, lord 🤯 As much as you're fascinated by country living, Rhett is equally intrigued by the whole city thing. There's a sort of novelty to it that keeps you both up all night just comparing different parts of your lives, like Rhett truly cannot fathom apartments. What do you mean you can sometimes hear your neighbor through the wall??? How do you manage carrying groceries?

The Abbotts have such a contagious aesthetic that it's impossible to not want to adopt their look after you meet them for the first time. Rhett's so amused by the concept that he offers to help, so long as you promise to take him with you the next time you visit the city. A deal is a deal!

Proper jeans come first on the list, and it's...definitely not because Rhett starts drooling when you try them on. You've literally got a few pairs at home, but Rhett insists you need some that can withstand the wear and tear of manual labor.

Do you need chaps? No, you've been horse riding with Rhett, but he's always been careful to steer clear of brush and anything that can scratch you. But he encourages you to try them on anyway, and immediately regrets it. Now he gets why you keep staring at his ass when he's wearing his chaps, because he can't look away.

Then comes the belt, the buckles, and the promise that you can wear any of the buckles he has at home if you so choose, and the boots!! You're busy trying to figure out if you need to size up, and Rhett's having a self-discovery moment while he watches you walk around in them.

Cowboy hats are an overwhelming thing that nearly warrants a second visit. There are so many colors, shapes, and materials to choose from. Certain lifestyles usually whittle down the options, but you're not necessarily buying out of necessity, so you've essentially got creative freedom here. Go classic brown and copy Rhett's style, or get that adorable pastel pink hat, go wild!

The outfit looks a little bit funny when it's all put together, but Rhett promises that's just because everything is brand new 😊 Some good ol' regular wear and a couple dozen rides around the Abbott ranch will fix you right up. But he miiiight insist on you wearing your pretty cowboy boots when you take him into the city 👢🌼

[tomatopers]

Childe who spends every waking moment tracking your killer, ignoring everything else to find the culprit, the one who had the audacity to think they could take you away from him and escape with their lives. He travels all across Teyvat, yet cannot bring himself to stop and see any of it though he knows you would've wanted to- hell, he can't even bring himself to sleep, instead passing out in alleys when he can no longer escape his own limits.

Childe who follows every clue, who ensures every dead end has no gaps, who finally, finally tracks down his target. They are stronger than he expected, but even without the rage boiling in his blood he could still beat them. He jumps into the fight without hesitation, fighting like a feral dog out for blood.

Childe who is sloppy with his attacks, not sloppy enough to miss but enough to leave openings for his opponent. He knows its on purpose. He wants to hurt. He fights and he fights, drawing it out, sustaining more and more injuries until, in a whirlwind of steel and anger, weapons meet their marks.

When the dust settles, your murderer lays dead on the ground. Childe stands, victorious, but the win brings him no joy. His opponent's dagger is embedded deep in his chest, and he had seen it coming. He couldn't bring himself to dodge it. This is a blatant betrayal towards you, towards your memory and your love. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "Don't be mad."

From his pocket, Childe holds a wooden fish; A trinket, the product of your first attempt at whittling. It doesn't look like a fish at all, but holding it is the closest he can get to holding you. He's so tired, and the ground looks so inviting. When he succumbs to the temptation, he can almost feel your warmth, as though you are lying beside him. "Did I do good, Angel? Are you... proud of me...?"

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Vow 6

Warnings: non/dubcon, arranged marriage, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!August Walker

Summary: your father’s murder leaves you in the hands of a dangerous man.

Part of the mob drabbles au

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The car stops as August’s hand stays buried between your legs. He pushes his fingers in until you whine and push on his chest. You teethe your lip and squirm. He slowly drags his digits free and smears your slickness along your torn panties. 

He sits up as you lay paralysed over the seat. He reaches under you and snaps the last of the laces. You whimper as he yanks down the bodice, bending the boning as he forces the rumpled fabric past your hips. You grasp the seat as he plants a foot and raises himself off the seat, hunched under the ceiling as he callously rips the skirts from around your legs and stamps them into the floor. 

You shiver as you lay in only the corseted lingerie, the shredded lace hanging off your pelvis, and your thin stockings. He snarls and reaches behind him. He swings the door open and steps out backward. He latches onto your ankle and drags you across the seat. 

You sit up as your heels drop to the ground and you dizzily pout up at him. He reaches for you. You flinch as he fixes your veil then wraps his hand behind your nape. He hauls you out onto the stonework. 

He turns you toward your father’s mansion. Now his. You falter and let out a murmur of shock. How can he bring you here? 

“Wife,” he warns as he keeps walking. You trip as you struggle to keep up with him. 

You exposed skin crawls as the shadows gather around the archways in the facade and figures stir through the night. A man like him will not be without security. You touch his wrist daintily. 

“You needn’t drag me like a dog--” 

“Hush,” he growls as pinches. You whine and nearly trip on the tails of your veil. “You said you will be good.” 

“Yes, husband, I will be--” 

You whine as he squeezes again. You tighten your clasp on his wrist and whimper. He snarls and turns you to him, swinging you to fall against him. He hooks his arm around you and locks you in his embrace. He frames your jaw and forces your face up to the slivered moonlight. 

“I will do with as I wish. I am your husband.” He sneers. “I am the king now.” 

“Yes, August, you are the king,” you whittle out. “You... are my king.” 

His eyes ravage your face and drift to your chest as he bears his teeth hungrily. He growls and his mouth slants. “If I am your king, why are you not on your knees?” 

You bat your lashes at him, “yes, husband, inside--” 

“Ah,” he twists his hand around, keeping it on your chin as he unsnares his arm from your waist. “I did not bid you inside.” 

Your lip quiver and gently touch his chest, “yes, husband. I wait for your command.” 

“I command you on your knees.” He retorts. 

Your eyes round and glisten. He means to show you, to show all you may be watching, his power. To show that he is claiming the throne and all that comes with it. And who are you to resist? He has you nearly naked upon the lawn. 

You put your other hand against his stomach as you slip the other down to parallel with it. Your legs buckle and you steady your nerves. Slowly, you lower yourself as your hands brush beneath his jacket. You grip his belt and stare up at him as he watches. 

Shadows shroud his features. You cannot see the triumph or taunting there. You are grateful for that. 

You flick your eyes to his buckle as you struggle to undo it. You shake as you loose it and fumble with his fly. You grasp the front of his pants as the slacken and ease them down his thick thighs. You trace the top of his black satin boxers and urge the fabric down his pelvis. 

You reach inside to guide his tip above the satin. You gulp. Your hand slides down his veiny length without a thought and you stare down the throbbing head. You know what he expects but you are unsure of how to do it. 

He brings his hand around to cradle the back of your skull. He pinches the base of his dick and pokes your lips. You open your mouth to him and stretch your neck to take him in. You cling to the top of his boxers as he dips into you inch by inch. 

You gag as he reaches your throat and he clucks. You dig the toes of your shoes into the stonework and gurgle. He lets you pull back, just for a moment and pushes you back on him. 

“Look at your king,” he demands. 

You blink and make yourself obey. You peer up at him with wet eyes. He shoves past your resistance and fills your throat. You spasm as he blocks out your breath. Tears wobble along the brims of your eyes. 

He purrs and drags you back again. You heave in a breath before he rocks you down his length. Your tears spill over and trace thin streams down your cheek, cutting through the tediously applied make up. He hums as his fingers swirl into your scalp and he tickles along your throat. 

He guides your motion, faster as his hips tilt into you. Your spit smears around your lips along with the layers of tint and gloss. Your tears drip off your jaw and stain your chest. You push against his lower stomach as your throat sears with each plunge. 

Then, all at once, he shoves you away from him. You catch yourself on your elbows and cough as you gape up at him in horror. You kept your teeth off of him. You quiver as he growls and stands rigid above you. You cannot make out his expression. 

“Do not think to end the night so quickly,” he grits as he cups beneath his bobbing dick. He inhales deeply and fixes his pants, hiding himself in beneath the satin and polyester. He reaches for you, his hand looming above you. “Come, my queen, and sit on your throne.” 

[sammaggs]

4x05 The Ladies’ Man | Details

due South is a show that puts a TON of time and effort into subtle details like set dec, blocking, and framing, which invites us to do close readings of particular scenes in great detail. Let’s examine this scene in Ray’s apartment from The Ladies’ Man with that in mind!

Another thing I find fascinating about this show is its continuity; how significant time can pass between episodes, and it’s up to us to use context clues provided in future episodes in order to piece together what we can about the past; the parts of Fraser’s life that we haven’t been permitted to see. This scene is crammed with context clues.

(It’s worth remembering that John Krizanc, who wrote this episode, is a playwright first and foremost. He basically invented the style of play that would go on to become Sleep No More. The way characters phrase things, where they’re standing when they say them, what they surround themselves with—these things all matter.)

So in order, we learn:

Fraser lets himself in — By this point in Season 4, he has a key to Ray’s apartment.

“You there, Ray?” “Mhm.” — Fraser comes over so often that 1) he doesn’t call ahead, and b) it doesn’t matter if Ray is home or not. Ray doesn’t even feel the need to sit up when Fraser enters, let alone answer with words. This is long-time familiarity.

The Hat - Fraser automatically tosses his hat down on a stool that’s been pulled out from the bar and remains there for this specific purpose. That’s where Fraser’s hat lives when he’s over.

Diefenbaker - The wolf is so comfortable at Ray’s place that he jumps on top of Ray to his usual spot on the couch. Reading Dief as Fraser’s Ego, he bounds into the apartment, directly onto Ray’s LAP before LICKING RAY’S FACE. Okay!

The VCR - Fraser knows how to use Ray’s VCR and his TV remote. Those of us who were alive in the ‘90s know how much practice this would have taken. (Also, hand porn, you’re welcome.)

Seating arrangements — Fraser sits right next to Ray, who sits directly in the center of the couch, between cushions. Cannot be comfortable, but their legs and arms are touching. Their usual spots? Fraser sits ON TOP OF Dief to do this.

“Bark tea?” — Ray immediately starts teasing Fraser about his flirtation with the records gal for information. It’s teasing without intent or malice; Ray knows it was just a front, like Fraser knows Ray’s barbs are just for fun.

“What, I’m a pig?” “No, no, not that.” — This is an old grievance. This is not the first time Ray’s apartment cleanliness has come up. It’s something they’ve bickered about many times before. No, no, not that, not the usual. Something else.

The Turtle - The shot lingers on the overhead here to remind us that the macguffin note is in the VHS case, but also serves to focus in on the turtle sculpture. It’s made to catch your eye, which means we are meant to infer something about it; otherwise, it’s an unimportant, out-of-place distraction from the shot’s real purpose (again, the VHS case). Given what I perceive to be the turtle's Indigenous style, I think this is clearly a gift from Fraser (maybe from the previous Christmas?). He either had it shipped down from a friend up north, or he whittled it himself, and I like to think it’s the latter. Fraser does, after all, think Ray is the world.

TL;DR Fraser is basically living there, oh my god these cops gay, good for them, good for them

[spineless-lobster]

You needn't answer if you don't want to, but do you have any random Patroclus headcanons?

🥺👉👈

OF COURSE!!!! I would never pass up the opportunity to talk about my boy!!!!

(These are iliad-adjacent hcs but the many versions of pat can mush together in my mind a bit lmao)

- I am of the full belief that patroclus whittles and he carves little trinkets for himself and achilles during his down time. Their tent is filled with little figurines, he has carved a tiny wooden version of all nine of his dogs as well as balius and xanthus

- Speaking of the horses, I like to think that after a particularly rough day he just likes to sit with them in the field/stables/wherever they keep them. Sometimes he’ll talk but he’s mainly silent. He chats on better days lol

- Pat is a heavy sleeper but he’s an early riser. When he’s out he’s out COLD, dead to the world (for a lack of better phrasing lmao) but you bet your ass he’s up as soon as the sun is peaking over the horizon

- Pat has a slight accent TO ME!!!! For no other reason than I like it and think it’s cool, idk he wasn’t raised in phthia so why would he sound like the rest of the myrmidons lol

- You tend to hear pat before seeing him only because he loves wearing jewelry and achilles is determined to shower him in every precious gem he can find

- Expanding on this, he prefers gold not silver

- Pat enjoys baking with the girls sometimes and whenever he does he makes sure to bake some extra to bring to the king’s meetings. They always tend to play nice when discussing war on a full stomach, and pat is fully aware of this

- Pat dabbles in the tambourine a bit, I don’t make the rules sorry

- He has a collection of rocks that achilles has given him over the years

- While pat is incredibly deadly with a sword or spear, he cannot shoot a bow for his life

- He is only allowed one (1) dog on the bed at a time, much to his dismay

I have many many more but I think that’s enough ajdhfkhsfkjf

[sunshinemorningstar]

Trials of Apollo animatic wip

Edit: Just realized that things would probably make a lot more sense with the script, so here it is :)

(Keep in mind, this is something I made for a drama project, so a lot of this is whittled down to be comprehensible to people who haven't read ToA- also the reason for the stage directions in the script)

(Music passage 1)

Meg: So, a god again, huh?

Apollo: Indeed, but I will not continue like before. I've learnt from my mortality, and Olympus is… 

Meg: Messed up?

Apollo: Yes, that. 

Meg: Hah, no surprises there. So, what'll you do about, y'know, your dad?

Apollo: I… don't know yet, but what he did… does to me, it isn't right, and neither is what he does to demigods, or… the rest of Olympus, and he cannot be allowed to continue

I broke free on a Saturday morning

I put the pedal to the floor

Headed north on Mills Avenue

And listened to the engine roar

(Music Passage 2)

Meg: So, you've been hanging out with your relatives, huh?

Apollo: My godly siblings, yes. We've not always been kind to one another, but I hope we can be, in the future. You understand.

Meg: Yeah, it's nice to get to know some of my siblings without Nero breathing down our necks

My broken house behind me and good things ahead

A girl named Cathy wants a little of my time

Six cylinders underneath the hood crashing and kicking

Aha! Listen to the engine whine

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me

(Music Passage 3)

Meg: So, a revolution?

Apollo: He cannot be allowed to act without recompense, I cannot chance that he will hurt my family again, not you, or my children, or Artemis or any of my divine siblings

Meg: (sits down) …Or you

Apollo: Or me. 

I played video games in a drunken haze

I was 17 years young

Hurt my knuckles punching the machines

The taste of Scotch rich on my tongue

(Music Passage 4)

Meg: (getting up, begin slowly walking off) So, what's it you wanted to talk about?

Apollo: …I got Athena on board

Meg: (stops) Oh

Apollo: We're confronting him tomorrow

Meg: Okay… Don't die, dummy

And then Cathy showed up and we hung out

Trading swigs from a bottle all bitter and clean

Locking eyes, holding hands

Twin high maintenance machines

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me

I drove home in the California dusk (Come on stage; take quiver)

I could feel the alcohol inside of me hum (Pause and emotionally prepare)

Pictured the look on my stepfather's face (Open door)

Ready for the bad things to come (Draw arrow; Zeus turns; Fire)

I downshifted as I pulled into the driveway (Lightning thrown; Dodge + Explosion; Another shot)

The motor screaming out stuck in second gear (Shot lands; Lighting thrown; Lightning blocked with arms)

The scene ends badly as you might imagine (Lightning; Lightning)

In a cavalcade of anger and fear (Reach for arrow; Realize the strike is coming, and fall to the ground at “fear”)

There will be feasting (sparks in the corner) and dancing (sparks in the corner) in Jerusalem next year (Tableau as Apollo has his anime power of friendship flashback)

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me (Get up with great difficulty; Stumble)

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me (Take arrow, step to strong beat— make + through, stab at “kills me”)

(Music Passage 5)

The aftermath; reeling from his bittersweet victory in the first half

Apollo: I… I did it… We won… (relieved, scared, tired smile)

Olympian throne room bg swirls and fades as if teleportation; Aeisthales

Apollo: (~Eye contact of understanding~) …hey Meg…

Meg: (~Pause of processing~) …You did it, you killed him

Apollo: Yeah…

Meg: So, what's next?

Apollo: I… don't know, but… there's time to find out 

[deuxcherise]

If the LADS Were Yandere… (Or Basically My Thoughts So Far)

C/w: Unhealthy behavior (by yours truly), just ranting, curse words, character appreciation, character bullying, yandere content A/n: So I admit I have a tendency to turn almost everything I write into yandere content, even if it's just borderline unhealthy behavior. It's fun. And I'm obsessed with Love and Deepspace right now. So yeah, here is my ranting. It’s kind of a brainrot, so… yeah? — Was going to post this like a month ago, but here we are with updated content. Hehe~ Masterlist

Context:

So I started in around the 1st of March of this year (which means I missed TOMORROW’S CATCH-22 and CALEB’S FIRST BANNER- WHYYY!? 😭😭😭) and its been… two months since then? I am still knee deep in the rabbit hole, which is strange considering my track record with games like these.

I just wanted to share my thoughts as of currently.

.

-🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌-

.

💫Xavier💫

First Impression:

Quiet

Boring

Typical pretty boy

Sleepy boy

Mysterious

Lemme just say, when I first met him in the game, I was like “Eh.” I mean he’s a pretty guy who’s innocent (is what I thought) and probably doesn’t know how to romance. He’s definitely has personality matching his alien mascot. I will say that his seeming clumsiness where he has trouble pulling away from the crowd until MC helps him out is cute. He’s like a cute and helpless bunny. White hair, blue eyed whittle bunny~

Current Impression:

Innocent!? INNOCENT!? LADIES, GENTLEMEN AND EVERYONE ELSE, LEMME TELL YOU-

So I was completely spoiled by the Midnight Whispers card pretty early on as a result of looking at Love and Deepspace and my impression of him changed. Yes, the one where he refuses to allow MC to like Lumiere (even though everyone knows who he is, and Mister Pouty Bunny is being a dumb bunny). I found this jealously very adorable (I am a fan of yanderes, and that includes jealousy— dark romance, anyone?)

And then I happened to see the Floof Attack card.

I…

Again, I saw this pretty early on, and by early, I mean I hadn’t even been up to Rafayel’s island trip part of the main story at the time when I was browsing through Love and Deepspace content.

Anyway, at that point, I finally understood the references. I stand corrected. He is still adorable, but by no means not innocent. I… I like handsome bunnies who know how to seduce, what can I tell you?

Type of Yandere:

If I had to label him as a type of yandere, it would be manipulative yandere. Like he’s a yandere kind of knows his behavior is not good, but who's going to stop him? He's too cute to stay angry at and he knows it while doing his stupid bunny pout. How dare you!? 👈( ｡ •̀ ᴖ •́ ｡)💢

Yes, I did pull Midnight Whispers when the rerun came around, because of that pout. And yes, the moment I saw Xaiver punching the bunny cushion, I decided after already spending 100 dollars to get the cards I actually wanted that I needed Inflorescence Imprints. Because of that pout. Damn it. I have a thing for bunnies, unfortunately.

Also, I ended up getting exposed to character analysis (I love, love, love character and lore analyses) of him and found out that he has yandere traits as well.

Now, whether or not he is canonically yandere (I think he is), we cannot ignore his moments. First of all, protectiveness? I believe he takes down people who are after MC canonically. To be fair, they do deserve it since they intended to harm MC, but-

Charlie.

The breadsticks man. I’ll have to more research about that whole ordeal but from what I gather, Xavier has beef with that guy for supposedly hitting on MC. With breadsticks.

Sidenote: I love bread. And I like men. However, if a man ever comes between me and bread, I SWEAR-

I digress. Anyway, we stan protective kings here. And not only does he protect MC, he basically stalks her through time and space to do so. Listen, we can agree to disagree on anything mention, but he looks for her reincarnation.

Is this why shooting stars appear and disappear? Is that Xavier looking for MC?

Personal Ranking:

However, he is in fifth or fourth place in my personal listings, only because the others ranked higher for me.

Also gameplay-wise, I have so many cards for him but he is my least played character out of everyone. I think it’s strange how he has as high of affection as the other love interests does. Like the only time I see him in battle would be when the main story calls for it.

.

-🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌-

.

☃️Zayne☃️

First Impression:

Quiet

Doctor

Glasses

Perfect man

Did I mention, my type?

Boring

Cold

Weakest cards?

*Deeply inhales* Okay, so listen… he is a dark-haired smart man with glasses. Who makes a lot of money. And he likes cats. MY MIND IS TELLING ME YEEEEEESSSSSS~ MY MAAAAAAAAN- OMLLOOORD

And then I met Caleb.

So, I found Zayne kind of cold. Like I kind of wished he was more emotive and less social distancing. I thought he was boring amongst the original three love interests, especially compared to Xavier and Rafayel. Like Xavier has a bunny mindset (iykyk) and Rafayel has bratty side, but Zayne? He’s kind of… a block of ice? I’ve been in relationships with emotionally unavailable people, and somehow his initial traits was reminding me of that.

Also he plays a mage, and if anyone looks at my track record when it comes to MMORPGs or just RPGs in general, I’m not the best with mages.

Current Impression:

*Deeply inhales* If there was such a thing as a PERFECT man, it would be him. OML-

I… I was wrong. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being perfect, and he is perfection. If he was real, I would love him with all of my heart. You have no idea-

So anyway, it took the Everlasting Wish card to change my mind. He is very thoughtful. I don’t know how to describe the sincerity this man brings to every date and every moment he is with MC. He is the most realistic man out of everyone in the game, and I love him for that. I will say, even before Caleb, I definitely had my heart set out for him even if he was cold at first. He’s so domestic, I can’t-

Sweets. He has a weakness for sweets. He’s sho cute! Also he likes cats. What’s not to like about him?

Gameplay-wise, I have better cards now, so he’s doing pretty well as mage. I still can’t play as a mage though. I prefer the guns over everything.

But I do love a handsome man who looks good in glasses, lemme tell you-

Type of Yandere:

Look, I don’t think he’s canonically yandere… but at the same time, there are arguments I’d like to make. First of all, he became a doctor for her. Now, whether it was his own intentions in the first place or not, he became a cardiac surgeon of all things. And not only that but he also became MC’s assigned physician.

I… question if there’s a conflict for that. Since he’s technically not considered family (I’m looking at you, Caleb), they are technically unrelated in the eyes of the health system. However, it is generally advisable for physicians to avoid treating friends or family members, due to ethical and practical considerations. I don’t know that side of the healthcare field, so I cannot say whether or not it is allowed and/or if it is enforced at all in the LADS universe.

But anyway, I dunno know. Become your love interest’s physician is definitely up there in yandere traits. Like he could definitely prescribe her certain pills is that how Caleb got his?  and drug her, but he doesn’t.

Because he’s perfect.

I mean I think it’s cute that he became her physician, because what better way to keep an eye on the girl you love than to literally watch over her and have access to all of her vitals. Do you think he asks her if she is pregnant or if she’s participating in sexual activity. I don’t think he does but… like if he did, he wouldn’t because he’d know she couldn’t be, not without him at least hahaha.

He even sabotaged his own research to protect her. If he can do that, what else has he done? Oh right, he appears in other’s content. Like Caleb’s main story content. I was so surprised seeing him there. Like… what’s he doing there? And also, come to think of it, he also appeared in the train event too!? And bought coffee for MC before they even said hello?

So I would consider him a restrained yandere, because… have… have we not seen that one card? You know? The one card where it proves a man who yearns is a man who earns? 😋 Even his other selves want MC, but don’t touch her.

He definitely holds himself back, but when he’s unleashed? I’d bet on it.

On a side note, if Caleb and Zayne were to team up as yanderes, wouldn't they be unstoppable!? One is a colonel who has access to an army and the other is a doctor who has access to all kinds of chemicals. Oh my gawd- PEAK.

Personal Ranking:

However, he isn’t Caleb, so I would either put him as second or third place, depending on my feelings. Also, he’s a doctor and doctors don’t have a lot of time for romance, so it’s kind of- (I do kind of have trauma with dating within the healthcare field, so there’s that)

.

-🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌-

.

🐡Rafayel🐡

First Impression:

The amount of hatred I have for this man

How dare you steal my fish!?

You can’t just swoop in and then just leave like that!

HOW DARES!?

WHY ARE YOU MY STRONGEST CARDS!?

So pretty early on when I first started in the game, it was during his birthday, so I ended up getting his cards when I was testing out the gacha system.

But anyway, when I first met him in the main story, I… Somehow, I’ve never met a love interest in an otome game who just literally appears and then leaves without letting MC finish. That has never happened before in my years of playing all kinds of otome games. Like I’ve met delinquent love interests, and the obviously rude ones and the cold ones, so it’s to be expected.

But Rafayel?

Oh no. Pretty boy just waltzes in, does a cool thing with the goldfish, and then MC, being the nice lady she is, gives him the fish, only for him to just… walk away? Not even a thank you!?

Am I supposed to let that go?

ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? HELL NO! WHAT IS THIS DISRESPECT!? COME BACK HERE, YOU DAMN BRAT!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣤⣤⣤⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣠⣤⣤⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⢀⣾⡟⠉⠀⠙⠻⣷⣦⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣶⠿⠋⠁⠈⠻⣿⡄⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⢠⣿⠏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣈⣻⣿⣴⣶⣶⣦⣾⣟⣁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣿⡆⠀⠀

⠀⢀⣾⡏⠀⠀⣠⣴⠾⠟⠋⠉⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠉⠙⠻⢳⣦⣄⡀⠀⠸⣿⡄⠀

⠀⢸⡿⢀⣴⠟⠋⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠙⠻⣦⡀⢻⣧⠀

⠀⣿⣷⣿⣅⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢈⣿⣮⣿⡄

⢀⣿⣿⡏⢻⣦⠀⠀⠀⣀⠀⠀⠀⡀⠀⠀⢀⡀⠀⠀⣀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣾⢻⣿⣿⡇

⣸⡿⠸⣡⠀⠹⣧⡀⠀⣿⣷⣠⡾⢻⣦⣴⠟⣷⣤⡾⣿⠀⠀⣰⡿⠁⢸⡿⢻⣧

⣿⠇⠀⠙⠷⠶⠟⠃⠀⣿⠈⠛⠀⠀⠙⠋⠀⠈⠛⠁⣿⠀⠀⠛⠷⠶⠟⠁⠘⣧

⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿

⢿⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⣏

⠘⣿⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣴⣷⣄⢠⣾⣷⡀⣴⣷⣄⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣿⠇

⠀⠘⢿⣦⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠿⠋⠀⠙⠟⠁⠈⠻⠏⠀⠙⠿⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣴⡿⠋⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠉⠻⢿⣶⣤⣄⣀⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣀⣠⣤⣶⡾⠟⠋⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠉⠉⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠋⠉⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

And not only that- NOT ONLY THAT, but of all of cards I could play during the battle sequences, his cards were the strongest cards I had at the time for a long time. Which further pissed me off because why the heck would I want to see his face. WHY!? WHY?

OH, PRETTY BOY’S AN ARTIST. AND HE’S RICH!? AND IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE “RAPHAEL”. WHO NAMED HIM!? WHAT KIND OF BROKEN-

Current Impression:

So… I knew he was a brat. And being a fellow brat, I realized that we were kindred brats, which explains why I… dislike him.

But what I didn’t realize, was how much I wanted to impregnate him.

…..

I… *ahem* Uh… I still hate him. Just not as much in the beginning.

Um… *looks at notes* He’s cute, I’ll give him that. He’s secretly an assassin. And he uses the blood of his people to cause people who buys his paintings to hallucinate. So he’s got an interesting backstory. And he’s head over heels for MC for the longest time because he gave his heart to her many, many years ago.

…..

I’m going to blame his birthday event for basically forcing to at least like him a little bit. Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. It was exposure therapy.

I mean, I’m not someone who hates people for no reason and I don’t hate people for long  (I have continued hating people even after getting over the initial reasons logically though), so it was bound to happen hahaha

Haha…

Ha…

No, I did not fall for him because of his adorable pout. Shut up.

He needs to be bullied, and I will have the pleasure of bullying him.

I stand by this statement. Everyone, stand back. I can handle this case. I need to knock him down a peg and by that, I mean I need to stuff him and make him cry. Out of pleasure.

…..

Shut up.

Type of Yandere:

So if Xavier is a manipulative yandere, what would I consider Rafayel? A cute yandere.

Yes, I admit he’s cute. And no, that doesn’t mean anything. A cutie’s a cutie. Can’t really argue with that. His lips are so cute and kissable and I want to bruise those soft cushions up.

Now canonically, technically he is bound to MC through a promise made years and years ago so he doesn’t have as much free will as the other love interests do (I’mma get to Sylus, be patient). Therefore, he can’t really be considered as obsessive as the others can be.

However, he does lie to MC so easily it’s like he’s just drinking water. He's… in my opinion, most likely the kind of yandere out of the five who would definitely kill his love to make sure they are his and his alone.

We cannot forget that the God of Tides is out to end my life- I mean MC’s life (Epic, anyone?)

I still need to do research on that actually. Out of everyone’s lore, I think I know his the least. He has so many timelines, I can’t keep up. In one, he’s a god. In another, he’s a thief. And in another, he is a pet and what I wouldn’t give to have that merman submit to me, I seriously wanna make him cry. I can’t explain why.

I think I would be arrested for how much I hate this man.

Personal Ranking:

He’s in fourth or fifth place, tying with Xavier because I rank the other ones higher.

Sometimes, and ONLY SOMETIMES, he gets third place. ONLY SOMETIMES!!!

.

-🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌-

.

🐦‍⬛Sylus🐦‍⬛

First Impression:

Oh great, here’s Mr. Mafia

Yes, I know I like writing about the Mafia

Pls, we’ve seen a dozen mafia guys

I eat manhuas like no one’s business, so I know

I drink fanfiction like there’s no tomorrow, so I know

I was a Wattpad writer once upon a time, ya know?

White hair, red eyes- BITCH PLEASE, stereotypical hot bad guy, much?

Of course, he has the sexy deep voice *rolls eyes*

The last person I’m interested in

Did I listen to more than one audio from my favorite asmr artist about scenarios withs Sylus? Yes, but only because it was from my favorite asmr artist who has a sexy voice, damn it.

I did not have to admit that, but now you know

So after I realized that Caleb was in the fourth chapter, I literally skipped over Sylus’s main story content to do so. I mean, I’ve done that before with actual books. I have indeed skipped over volumes due to availability before and I don’t really mind spoilers (if it is of my own accord) so I figured I’d come back to Sylus after finishing Caleb’s content. Meh.

Current Impression:

We… WE STAN A DOMESTIC KING OF CONSENT!? WHO IS THIS NEW GENRE OF MAFIA MAN!? WHEN THEY SAY DADDY, THEY DEFINITELY MEAN HIM!? HUH!? WAHT!?

He… When I say I’d get on my knees for this man, I’d do it for free? And the fact that I enjoy very much is that he would be ecstatic to get on his knees for the love of his life.

I… There are no words. He is not your typical- WHO WROTE THIS MAN!? GET THE WRITERS A PAY RAISE!!! I SWEAR TO THE LORD!

And he’s a dragon. I like dragons. I like dragons who are generous. And I like money.

I want his heart on a platter, because he’s just so beautiful? But like both metaphorically and literally. I can’t explain how I feel for this man? I much confusion?

When I realized who he was and how he interacted with MC through the main story and the cards, can I just say he went from bottom of the pit all the way to second place? Like Zayne was my solid second place for a while, and then Sylus, just knocked his up with his bare fists? I’m sorry, Zayne, but like you gotta fight for your place.

So can I just say I currently enjoying the Death and Rebirth era right now?

Like… did this man just lead a car chase, climbed onto the enemy’s rooftop and shoot him, and then return with a milk tea in his hand. And a straw?

MMMMMMMMMMM-

He’s the dream.

But also, where do I find this man in real life? I will have to say, this kind of man is so fictional it hurts. Does this man even exist? Could this man even exist?

He’s like everyone’s comfort character became a person. He’s the Flynn Rider of Love and Deepspace, you know what I mean? The only flaw he would have is that he isn’t cute in the way Xavier and Rafayel are, but how can we deny his Goodcat Card? Is he not adorable? Actually, no. His personality in general is adorable. He’s masculine but also so gentle. Like a giant cat. I would let him wreck my insides even with the spikes and all. IYKYK

Speaking of which, he calls MC “kitten”.

I love cats. I adore cats. Cats are everything to me. I have albums dedicated to all of my stray cats (because I don’t have space to keep cats inside). I have a shelf dedicated to cat plushies.

Listen, I could rant about cats at some point, but the current point I want to make is that he loves cats and I love him. That’s all there is to know. PERIOD.

Type of Yandere:

Um… guys?

Uh… So I think we can all agree that he does stalk her through Mephisto and potentially other means which I am not certain and will have to do more research, but uh… I don’t think he could be a yandere canonically and non-canonically.

Like, hear me out: It wouldn’t be him if we had to twist him into a yandere, you know what I’m saying?

I mean, yes, Sylus was marketed to be a big bad, stereotypical scary mafia boss man who ended up being a giant dragon cat like being that I would be happy to cuddle with all day. And yeah, he definitely presented himself as such when meeting with MC. And ;et's not forget how he constantly splurges just show off, like renting a whole boutique or letting MC overpay on those cheap protocores.

So he has all the traits of the overbearing yandere type, the kind of that like makes sure their lover can’t do anything without it coming back to him. Which… I think canonically that happens. He does end up somehow appearing near MC all of sudden, like the rest of the love interests do (I’m looking at you, Zayne).

BUT he is indeed the ultimate domestic king of consent that trusts in MC’s plans from top to bottom and basically lets her do whatever she wants so long as it doesn’t… Honestly, what doesn’t he let her do? Kill herself? That’s like normal though?

And the fact that he saves MC, but doesn’t expect anything from her except recognition? Even when she refuses, doesn’t he just pout and basically does nothing except be patient?

Honestly… that’s like… the opposite of yandere. Or least, I don’t think I’ve seen a yandere like that, if it counts. He’s so anti-yandere that is makes me question my own taste about yanderes.

I mean obviously I wouldn’t object to a fanfic about a yandere Sylus, since I like yanderes. It just… I wouldn’t think of that version of Sylus as canon Sylus, you know what I’m saying?

Now… I wouldn’t put him above begging though. He does sort of threaten to act like a child to get MC’s attention at one point though. I’d still pin that as a man who feels comfortable around his lover enough to act like a child, but I’m sure he wouldn’t pull that card every single time like typical yandere would.

Personal Ranking:

Second place. King seriously shot up my rankings quicker than a hot rod the moment I actually took the time to get to know him. I love his microexpression. Did we not see the tongue action of his. OML-

But he’s not Caleb, so he only gets second place. And occasionally, it’s between Zayne and Sylus for second place.

.

-🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌-

.

🍎Caleb🍎

First Impression:

It was love at first sight, nuff said.

Seriously.

Current Impression:

You guys. I still love him. You all already know this.

*screams all over the house, breaking furniture, tears, ripping pillows apart*

I have been looking for a yandere like him forever, did you know that?

Look, I like Toma from Amnesia. I don’t like the cage though— Like I like the idea, but I also like having the freedom to use the bathroom when I need to, more)

I like Diabolik Lovers- to a certain extent, especially Ruki, but let’s be honest, they all are too… immature really be in love. Obviously I like the idea, but if it were me, I’m not Yui-coded enough to be kept alive, you know what I’m saying?

Manhua/Webtoon yanderes— FIND ME A MAN LIKE SIHYUN BAEK!? Does that man exist? But also I like money and realistically men like that don’t have money to support my dream of becoming a cherished and spoiled housespouse? But if they did, I would glad bend on one knee and ask for their hand in marriage. After they’ve kidnapped and professed their love to me, of course.

But anyway, back to the point.

BITCH PLEASE, I AM LOYAL TO THIS MAN. THIS IS THE MAN FOR ME.

And he- *cries* he’s so loyal to MC that it makes me cry. I want him so badly.

Like if Zayne exists, yeah I’d take him. But if Caleb existed and he loved me, HELL YES.

PLEASE TAKE ME HOME AND TREAT ME LIKE A DUMMY WHO CAN’T DO ANYTHING.

Sidenote- I must confess, I am not a fan of dogs. Especially the small ones. Somehow the small ones scare me a lot more than the big ones. I think it’s because I can’t see them coming for my ankles, and also my experience with big dogs is that most of them are gentle giants.

And Caleb is a gentle giant.

And my headcanon for why he didn’t appear in the line-up for the cat butler era (that I missed 😭) besides the fact that he wasn’t available yet, is that he is so dog-coded.

I still like cats more, but for him I would make an exception.

Also guys, another confession. I’m short. Like in terms of average for men and women and everyone else, I would be considered legally short. And I’m not that flexible, so that’s a high chance this man would not only break my back but also my hips if he bent my legs over his shoulders.

But anyway, I’m sidetracking.

To bring up the elephant in the room: I’ve seen the panty-sniffering allegations.

People.

I’m into that.

…..

Okay, okay. Calm down. Cálmate!

To be more specific, I’m not into actually sniffing panties. I do like smelling fresh laundry and I like smelling scents. But if the love of my life were into sniffing my underwear, like… uh, who am I to stop him from expressing his love for me in whatever way he wants? In return, I’d like to smell his shirts and all of the other clothes he has. And build a nest and- I read omegaverse too, you guys. Maybe I should starting writing some…

Like, uh, if this man promised to love me, take care of me, and feed me, in exchange for my freedom to go outside and do whatever he wanted?

Uh, yeah? ¯\_(◉ x ◉)_/¯

Is it unhealthy to be okay with this?

Meh. Debatable, honestly. Like I said, I’m into it. If not for grocery shopping and buying cat food, I would be a complete shut-in. I would be totally happy just being supplied with books.

Also, they say that you marry the person that resembles your parents. If they’re a woman, they’d resemble your mother, and if they’re a man, they’d resemble your father.

Guys.

Caleb resembles my late father so much in personality that it is uncanny. Like Caleb, he also liked apples (guys, I’m not kidding. I am being so real right now. He also liked peaches too, but he typically ate apples— preferably the Red Delicious apples though, which I personally dislike) and he knew how to sew and also do mechanics and everything. Let me tell you, he basically did everything for my mother to the point that if she were to disappear off the face of the Earth, no one would know. He used called my mother his “Angel”. And yes, my mother was very, very happy and was basically living the dream of almost every housewife, only she continued working.

Kind of like Sylus likes vintage cars, so did my dad but like this is supposed to be about Caleb, so— And also he liked sweets as much as Zayne did, but anyway— I guess by the holy doctor, crow, and holy step-bro?

Am I reaching?

Maybe. ¯\_(◉ 3 ◉)_/¯

I mean, he wasn’t yandere like Caleb, but he also did like the summer sun a lot. He was the greatest man and my role model. Wouldn’t trade him for anyone else even if I could choose. (*˘︶˘*)

BUT DO YOU GUYS SEE WHERE I GET MY TYPE FROM!?

It’s kind of weird to mention, but I cannot forget the moment that I realized inheriting kinks was real until I heard my father call my mother a good girl and she became bashful, like sorry are you supposed to showcase liking being called that in front of your children, ma’am!? Please! I didn’t need to know that, but now I know why I like being praised!?

…..

I wanna be praised by Caleb…

Also I’d like to point out that I used to call people taller and bigger than me “Pipsqueak” because I thought it was funny. I’m not joking or pandering to the fact that I like Caleb. If you knew me outside in real life, I did actually used to throw that nickname around, so like it definitely surprised me to hear inside a game for the first time.

Nobody does like Caleb. Also that suit. I like a man who looks good in uniform. I love him.

…..

Yes, I do realize that he is technically MC’s “brother”, but like, jeez! They aren’t related. It’s fine. It’s a common thing in Asian media, which I also absolutely hate because why does everyone have to be “related” in some way. Again, they aren’t related, so it’s fine. You can’t tell me unrelated people aren’t allowed to like each other if they lived together in an orphanage, for example. Grandma Josephine just happened to take two of them home at the same time. Jeez…

(Yes, I am aware of Grandma Josephine’s role in MC’s early life.)

As long as they aren’t related, honestly, I have no qualms about it.

Type of Yandere:

If? ꉂꉂ◟(˃᷄ꇴ˂᷅๑)༡

IF!?

BITCH, PLEASE.

We all been knowing he yandere AF. There's no debate about it. That's why I stan, and I stan HARD. I simply cannot ignore such an wholehearted display of impure devotion to one’s obsession.

Anyway, long story short I'd pin as inevitable yandere if we’re still going by hypotheticals (PFF HAHA ｡ﾟ(TヮT)ﾟ｡)

Otherwise he’s just your typical overprotective yandere. By the book, honestly. As far as I know, he has been canonically a yandere since his childhood, being overprotective over MC and even “accidentally” locking her up in the attic so that the other boys wouldn't be able to find her.

Not to mention apparently has a habit of following MC to the grocery store, only to exit and follow her afterwards. You could not tell me that it hadn't happened more than once, considering MC even warned him not to. And also set up everything to alert him of anything MC does, from her scale to her doorbell.

I don’t think I have daddy issues yet, but the more parallels I make, it is seriously concerning…

To be fair, he did have a traumatic childhood and near-death experience— WHICH ALSO ADDS TO HIS YANDERENESS, I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO TELL YOU???

Locking MC up in his house? ✅️

Drugging her to protect her? ✅️

Threatening to put a leash on her, but also already having a tracker on her? ✅️

All these green checkmarks make him the reddest flag there is in this game.

And I love it. ❤️‍🔥🚩

But I applaud him for letting MC go when she put her foot down. He’s not a psycho- Or well, he’s not the type to lock… I mean… Uh… At least he let her go in the end? He does care, he just cares too much? Yeah.

Can a yandere just stay yandere, please? Why is there always a fuss about extreme characters? It is fictional, gosh darn it! Lemme have my fantasy.

Personal Ranking:

Y’all already know he’s my number one. Also his cards are my strongest cards currently because I leveled them up to get his myth. So I win everytime with his cyber angel card muahahahaha-

I’m saving for his birthday. Wish me luck!

.

-🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌-

.

End Note:

Yeah, I know right? There’s more?

Yeah.

before I end this rant, I will say that I actually laughed at his name being Caleb, because it is just the… most American name. I can’t explain why. Like Zayne would be up there too, but Caleb? Caleb? I did not know how sexy that name could be until I heard MC whining it. So there’s that.

I’m kind of scared of writing LADS content, because after last one I wrote… I experienced so much grief in the aftermath irl, it really made me afraid to write for a while.

Okay, that’s all I’ll say for now because it’s way too long. Thanks for reading!

[see-arcane]

Before the journal opened

Before it saved his life

Before Hell staked a claim

Before he swung his knife

A storm rolled in with the spring

And hope paved his long way

Through monsters and their red wants

He takes step one today.

WARNING: Contains some grisly imagery towards the end.

All free preview chapters are available on my Substack.

Harker

C.R. Kane

March to April

Spring rolled in more grey than green that week. It dribbled rain through morning and noon, pondering to itself whether it would save an encore for evening in the way of a proper storm. The songbirds and the street noise went on as best they could between showers. They made up the only true din in Jonathan Harker’s corner, not counting the hammering of the typewriter or an occasional rustle of sheets. The usual low cacophony of the firm had been whittled down immensely due to the cough that had been shared at the start of the week and sent the greater part of Peter Hawkins’ small legion home to hack and sniffle in private.

This left Jonathan somewhat abandoned, not counting Hawkins’ presence behind the office door. It was just as well. He’d been splitting his attention between the eternal tower of logistical and legal chores that ruled his desk and the shorthand notes made in preparation for his exam. Such had been his constant state for the past two months. There had been ribbing from all directions, some bemoaning the imminent loss of a load-bearing clerk, others saying now they could draw lots and boot someone else out the door, and still more wheedling about whether or not they could still drag him in place as a shield when clientele of a certain incendiary temperament came around. Please?

Jonathan had remained ominously mum. Groans and lamentations ensued.

This was a joke, of course. Young Mr. Harker was nothing if not dedicated to the task of transmuting Hawkins’ charity to a whipcord child fifteen years prior into a proper investment. Case in point, using a lull in his own workload to get things in order for those bedridden solicitors who had the nearest deadlines pending. Bentley idled through with his tea as he did and shook his head.

“Don’t know what it is that comes with your kind, Harker, but it’s a busier thing that any of us idle English have. We’re down two thirds of the building and here you are doing three-quarters of the work. Get the examination out of the way and you may as well tell the old man to retire.” A thoughtful sip came from behind the porcelain. “Must be something they teach you Gurkha sorts, eh? Some kind of discipline our doughy little English schoolboys never get knocked in their heads.”

Jonathan weighed the decision of whether or not to give Arnold Bentley his bimonthly reminder that he was, in fact, English by birth. His parents as well. But the reminder would likely fall into the same pit between the man’s ears where all the others had gone. Worse, it might risk a tally mark against him in whatever invisible score was kept by peers. The one that determined whether the combination of Jonathan’s physiognomy and disposition really were enough to pardon his status or not. He finished this measuring of scales in less than a blink. A smile was summoned.

“Not at all. Just helping where things can be helped.” He straightened a sheaf of forms back in order. “That, and I cannot go a day without productivity, or else I shall have to go home and carve my hand with the kukri knife in penance.”

Bentley paused halfway through his laugh when Jonathan held his gaze. He gawped over his cup.

“God. Really?”

“No, not really. My penmanship would suffer terribly.”

This spurred a louder guffaw from the man, likewise a rattling clap of his open palm to Jonathan’s shoulder. Then he was out like a breeze to carry on with whatever it was he had drifted from in his own territory of the building. Jonathan resumed his interrupted rhythm. Read. Check. Write. Type. Read. Check. Write. Type. So he went for another hour before his watch told him it was time to check the post.

He stepped out during a lull of rain. The thunder talked with itself in the slate-dark clouds, debating whether or not to turn the spigot on the moment the wad of envelopes was out in the open. Jonathan applauded himself on dodging the first drops of the deluge by seconds. Peeking through the window, he saw there were even a few fitful winks of lightning hopping through the sky. What few pedestrians were left went running for shops they had no interest in, restaurants they had no appetites for, and cabs that turned frustratingly scarce within the minute. Jonathan grimaced in premonition of the dash he and Mina would have to make under the umbrella once she was free of her students.

But that was for later. For now, he flipped through the day’s heap and dealt them out to the waiting desks, occupied or not. The last in the stack was a familiar packet and one of extraordinary make. It was patterned with the stamps of myriad countries with ornate flourishes in the writing. A thick crimson seal sporting a rearing dragon marked it as the second delivery from the same foreign estate that had written to Hawkins in February. A castle set in the backdrop of the Carpathians.

Jonathan had felt his heart twist the first time he’d handled a parcel from the address and it twisted doubly hard now. There had been time in the interim to start combing through Exeter’s libraries for any beginning details to have ready should Hawkins want some background to aid one of the solicitors, especially in the case of a potential trip. If the latter came to pass, it would mean a visit to London and a perusal of denser material. A fine enough excuse to wander the superior bookcases and the British Museum on its own. But the luster of the errand was already gone in his mind. The first glimpse of the prospective client’s territory in the first book he’d cracked open, wrought in illustrations and sparse photographs as it was, sent a spear of longing through Jonathan’s chest that still hadn’t left.

Why would anyone living there want to trade such a place for England?

Jonathan was not oblivious to the advantages of the country. He understood his good fortune in access to modern works, from amenities to entertainments; at least in theory. With cautious budgeting. But all his life had been spent in cramped rooms or congested streets. The presence of a park, a farmer’s field, a distant beach, or a picturesque cemetery were the nearest he would ever come to the broad and chainless beauty of places not yet stomped flat with bricks and smoke.

Imagine! Meadows and hills, valleys and forests, all topped with the great serrated crown of the mountains. Cities and villages worn smooth with generations going back through centuries.

Imagine being there with her. Seeing sunrise flood over the peaks, walking old roads and footpaths, tasting and seeing and playing and breathing in a place without its laces drawn like a noose around throat and purse. The trains alone would be enough for her, true, but we would find somewhere to stop. Somewhere in every swatch of the countryside. At some point, as she became lost in a view, in a meal, in a walk, she would see me on my knee and what I held in my hand, and the wedding could happen right there in an ancient chapel, and then…

But the fantasy turned to dust before it could finish.

The required funds were cudgel enough to smash the whole daydream to atoms. At most they might manage a trip someplace other than their usual heights of hedonism. That was, a brief trip to Piccadilly and back. Maybe a bit of theatre. Possibly a picnic. Perhaps even some further place in the Isles. Somewhere rich with quiet and history of its own, but likely not across the Channel. Never a locale so far and mythic as the place Hawkins’ new client seemed interested in abandoning. Jonathan pictured Hawkins writing back to the noble on his behalf, wailing at the stranger not to forsake his fairy tale castle for the doldrums of a Londoner’s garish crate of a manse, no matter how crusted in filigree.

Save yourself! Do not trade your mountains for an English molehill!  Turn back, turn back!

But that would be a poor way to run the firm, wouldn’t it? Resigned, he brought the packet to Hawkins’ office and knocked at the door.

“It’s open, Jonathan.”

Jonathan ducked in with his smile already nailed in place. It was an expression he now had to work at as recent months plodded on and Peter Hawkins’ complexion failed to improve. The man behind the broad desk was only half as rubicund as he’d been the year before. He had insisted to everyone who dared ask that he was merely suffering from a particularly ugly attack of gout and that he would be fine in a week or so. As it stood, Hawkins could still sit up straight and bellow thanks when Jonathan came by with his delivery. He even turned a shade ruddier upon seeing the dragon’s seal.

“Well now,” he said through a grin. He turned the packet over and pointed it at Jonathan. “Have you taken lunch?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Go on and fill up quick. If this is what I believe it is, I expect I’ll need your ear within the hour.”

So saying, Hawkins slit the packet open and began to read. Jonathan dismissed himself with his fingers crossed in his pocket. Perhaps the British Museum wasn’t too far off after all. That and the London libraries. It would be too brief a visit for anything more extravagant than what Lucy referred to as his and Mina’s ‘academic holidays,’ but it would make an interesting exercise just the same. Plotting the trip was a pleasant enough distraction to eat to.

He finished just as he heard the tell-tale grunt and shuffle that meant Hawkins was hefting himself up to trudge around his desk. Jonathan flew to the door first, only just recalling to swat his knuckles against the wood before opening it. Hawkins looked up with a shock before gratefully flopping himself back into his chair.

“You have a dog’s hearing and cat’s feet. Ought to have a bell on you to give an old man some warning.”

“Apologies.”

“Nothing to apologize for. Saved me dragging myself around unduly.” Hawkins thumped a hand on the desk as if patting a horse. “I suppose I need to throw this out and trade desks with you. I can make it past that little square of yours in no time.” He thought further on it. “Less than a minute, anyhow.” He made a face that couldn’t decide itself between a smile or a grimace. “My doctor, who only seems to tell me what I already know, declares that I am not fit for any arduous travel. In his terms, that includes going further than the street corner on foot. Even a train ride is apparently a gamble, being that I should be in bed resting and rotting like a good patient rather than hobbling my way to and from the cab to work. Already I press his orders and my luck. Which means this,” he held up an envelope, “is out of the question for me.”

Jonathan recognized the torn envelope and scarlet seal. What held him up was the recognition that it was the first of the two packets. The February delivery.

“That’s unfortunate. Who was the client?”

Hawkins grinned in earnest now, purposefully turning the envelope so that the address was hidden.

“You tell me.”

Jonathan offered half a smile back. It was an old game that had begun years ago when he was still just a bookish boy underfoot, helping around the office for whatever could be spared for a child’s wage. Even then his eyes had been hungry things.

“Count Dracula, from the castle of the same name, of Transylvania. The address is from a Bistritz postal service situated in the Carpathians.”

“True and true.” Hawkins set the envelope on the desk and tapped it with a thick finger. “Curious taste in property, this one. Likely has the cravings of a renovator. No trouble on our side but for the hunting. But the esteemed gentleman is so damnably far into the Continent that I couldn’t rightly offer myself up in the way he’s asking. I ought to say, the way he insists upon buying. The way our Count puts it, he would rather pay every fee of travel for his English solicitor to and from his keep in the mountains, and play host on top, rather than, he says, ‘Suffer bartering land through stationery.’ In short, he’s willing to ship a solicitor to his door rather than play at this back-and-forth for all his questions, all out of his own pocket. He wants someone who’s not just going to find and sell the manner of place he’s after, but someone who can play encyclopedia if he’s unsure of something.” 

“Hence him being prepared to rent out the owner of the firm for an in-person visit,” Jonathan finished. Hawkins gave a nod.

“And the owner might have been up for it a decade or so ago. But time marches and gout outweighs gold. So I fear that leaves me out of the picture.” Jonathan watched Hawkins fold his hands with a calculated laxness on the desk. “Your examination is coming up.”

Lightning flickered outside. More danced across Jonathan’s brain.

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“You have been my clerk since you were old enough to rent a flat,” Hawkins went on. “My apprentice and professional living plaster to this place well before that.”

“Yes,” Jonathan breathed more than spoke. He feared his vocabulary was leaking out both ears while his heart tried to climb his throat.

“And,” Hawkins half-leaned over the desk, “you have been holding onto her ring since last year. Haven’t you?”

Heat rushed up to Jonathan’s face as he got out, “…Yes. I have. Sir, are you—,”

Hawkins brandished the packet Jonathan brought through the door an hour ago. This he laid beside the February envelope so that the pair of them seemed like strange square eyes staring up at him.

“I need you to understand: This is not an offer as much as a prayer. If there’s no chance with you, that means Bentley is the next choice. He’s my longest running man here and is liable to set up his own firm before the decade’s out. But for all that, and for all that he is a trustworthy one to patter with most Englishmen, I would sooner trust a cat with a lame canary than Bentley to not choke on his own tongue with a foreigner. Clients of noble lineage included. The man can barely toe his way around an Irishman let alone anyone from across the Channel. And, since the door is shut and no one is around to cry nepotism, I can speak the unvarnished truth.

“You could do with one week what anyone else here could manage inside a month and have it done better. That is not me being rosy about the past or present, that is me having eyes that work and a basis of comparison between how things ran before you began working here and after. The after is smooth as silk compared to the pre-Harker gravel. Stable gravel, I allow, but not nearly as easy a burden as things became once you were attacking the paperwork. And the footwork.” Hawkins raised a caterpillar brow at him. “Any good finds in the local bookshelves?”

“Not as many as I hoped,” Jonathan thought he heard himself say. It was hard to tell as he seemed to have relocated to some remote island in his skull and could only register what was happening as if from across an ocean. “I wanted to stop by the options in London if I had the chance. Just to gather some background on the client’s location if it was needed.”

“I’d say it is,” Hawkins hummed. “Supposing you can tell me you have your schedule open for some traveling come May.”

Jonathan told him it was. Hawkins told him to go to the corner cabinet and move the bust of Alexander off the high shelf. Then to bring down the bottle and two tumblers. There were toasts and there was talk and there was a laughing chide from the older man as he shooed Jonathan’s pocket notebook back from whence it came. No notes today, young man. At least not right now. Actually, perhaps one for later. Did he have time open to visit a tailor? There was a travel budget that was about to go unused if the Count was to have his way. It may as well go toward a good cause. Hawkins could hardly send his best solicitor to a noble’s door without looking his best, and it was for the firm’s image, really, so it could hardly be helped, and the doctor couldn’t grudge him such paltry exercise as going to harangue a suit seller…

Jonathan’s eyes burned and his face ached with smiling. He was mortified to find himself close to a sob before turning the sound into a coughing laugh. Hawkins told him to drink, not inhale. That turned the next sound into a true chuckle. He couldn’t tell whether it was an effect of the liquor or his own imagination that made it seem as if the thunder was laughing too.

“Transylvania,” Mina said for the dozenth time.

“Transylvania,” Jonathan echoed. He turned to face her rather than cling to the charade that either of them were focused enough to continue their mutual study. His pile included the texts that had come to haunt his subconscious with its rules and rites of property law, now with the hypnotic temptation of the library books waiting just an arm’s length away. Mina, who Jonathan knew was as much or more a pillar of solid focus than himself, had not a mote of attention to spare for the papers taken from the realm of educational etiquette or her personal project of mirroring and translating his shorthand. The latter made a certain gleeful anticipation turn over in his stomach. It left him floundering between elation and anxiety with equal force until he thought he might lose his last meal on the floorboards.

Which would be a shame, as he and Mina had combined their efforts into a delightful result in Jonathan’s narrow kitchen. Jonathan had only half-jokingly implied that they were making a child’s ideal feast because he was, in fact, giddy as a boy who’d just shaken hands with Father Christmas. Mina had declared this was nonsense.

“A supper made of breakfast is an entirely sound culinary decision.”

“Yes, Miss Murray,” in his best schoolboy tone. “Did you want crêpes or toast?”

“Crêpes. Extra cream.”

They had giggled like children over their respective plates. Just as they did over the rapidly ignored chores they had planned for themselves after. It was the frightful intoxication of feeling the future unrolling into a new smiling mystery before them. One that whispered, yes, yes, this is real, this is coming true. A future that might include…

Jonathan gulped down a heavy lump of air as his gaze flicked again to the sheet of shorthand messages he had scribbled out for her to translate. She had stopped halfway through. Close, close, close. But he didn’t let his stare linger. Instead he found her face again, still glowing. Jonathan was forever surprised that he had not dreamt her up as a boy and continued dreaming her until now. It surprised him more that he had managed to earn her love and dumbfounded him entirely to think that she regarded herself in the same terms. More, that she insisted she was the luckier half of their equation. He did not follow her meaning then, nor did he think he ever would.

“Mina, anyone with a sliver of sense in their head would feel the same for you,” he had insisted more than once. Each time she had smiled and shaken her head. Her eyes forever bright with a sweet-somber knowledge he couldn’t decipher.

“There is plenty of sense to spare. Loving hearts as well. But there is a different lens that women see the world through and it shows things men shall never have to see. It shows so much to watch for. To be wary of, or to hope for, or to know not to expect because life has made it clear that so much of what’s dreamt of only exists for a few, while the rest make do with storybooks and stage plays.” Her hand had held tight in his. “You were not meant to exist outside the borders of a fairy tale, Jonathan Harker. That you cannot see as much for yourself makes me wonder if someone really did peel you off a page and if you will vanish back to a fair princess somewhere when I wake up.”

“That implies I am either a prince or some clever farmhand. I’m cut out for neither. I am a squire at best. Though I would not settle for a mere princess either way, however fair.” He had dared a grin at her. “Or have you already forgotten Mrs. Westenra’s unique stance on the matter?”

Memory had nettled Mina out of her glumness with a sputter that tried and failed not to turn into shamefaced laughter. She had improved somewhat in the years since the incident itself, back when the whole ring of persons involved had flamed with embarrassment over the misunderstanding of Jonathan’s presence when spotted with Miss Lucille Westenra and her companion Miss Mina Murray now that all of them had stretched out of childhood and into the far end of adolescence. Followed by the ensuing inquiry as to why Mr. Harker had been baffled at the very concept of seeking to gain Miss Westenra’s affection as anything more than a friend.

Jonathan remembered sitting in one of the gilded rooms of the Westenra estate, sat across from Lucy’s increasingly rose-faced mother as she came to the belated realization that Mina Murray’s young man was not trying to court anyone other than Mina Murray. Worse, it had been left on his shoulders to steer the conversation out of potential wreckage by thanking his hostess for clearly being concerned on Mina’s own behalf, as there were too many people in the world who took the notion of seeking out a secret paramour behind another’s back as a matter of course. He was heartened to know that Mrs. Westenra cared enough to be mindful should an actual cad come into the orbit of her daughter or her friends.

Still flushed, Mrs. Westenra had chased agreement in this, poured on apologies for the mistake and had thankfully never brushed the topic since. Though Lucy had words enough to spare on the matter for months afterward. She had languished at them in the garden about it, the image of woe in peach blossom tailoring.

“Jonathan, I fear we must become enemies,” she’d intoned gravely. “You must walk with a cane in hand and I must brandish my parasol so that we keep our distance and never risk breathing the same air. We cannot even deafen poor Mina’s ears with the Bard or eavesdroppers will take us knowing the lines of Hamlet and Ophelia as proof of a tryst. Perhaps we should go around with our hats pulled down over our eyes, lest we give into temptation and acknowledge each other’s existence while being the opposite sex. It is our only chance of salvation.”

“Miss Lindon again?” from Mina, her smile placid. Jonathan knew she wore the same callused shell he did when it came to the patter that trickled down from higher tiers than theirs. Those tiers were many and their squabbles almost alien in what they deemed worth sniping about behind their fans and cigars. The infamous Miss Lindon was apparently a thorn too serrated even for Lucy’s compassion to withstand.

“Very much Miss Lindon again. ‘He would just do for you, Lucy.’ As though she thought I would be doing a charity by going behind my friend’s back and she were doing a charity by her sneering compliment. At least nature was kind enough to spare me having to think of a similarly charitable rebuttal, as a beetle helpfully flew into her hair a moment later and she went running. One must take silver linings when they come. Unrelatedly, Jonathan, when you do become a solicitor in full, should Miss Lindon and her future beau ever approach you for a house..?”

“I shall do what I can to find them a lovely estate,” Jonathan assured. “In Northumberland.”

“Next door to an entomologist?” Mina asked over her cup.

“Of course.”

Jonathan blinked the recollection away, wondering whether it was the dizziness of the day or the ticking of the clock between Mina and the final line of shorthand that was making his mind slosh. Perhaps it was simply the subconscious’ effort to dodge the weight of the evening and what it might promise. His thoughts were fleeing to hide from hope and worry. But Mina knew him too well. She caught him with her eyes before pulling him back into the headiness of the present.

“You will do fantastically, Jonathan. Tell me you know it as well as I do.”

“I will not say I know it. Too much confidence risks laziness. I will only say that I shall give all of myself to the task. It must be done so it will be done. If I think any further than that simple fact, my head will burst.”

“If you do, I promise to sweep you up and put your pieces back in order.” Her smile softened an increment as her hand settled in his. “I mean it.” She squeezed. He squeezed back.

“The same goes for you. We are neither of us allowed to hold ourselves together with string and brittle smiles once the door is between us and,” Jonathan flapped his free hand at the rain-streaked window, “all of that. No acting when it’s us alone.” He flashed her a decidedly less-than-brittle smile. “I promise not to tattle to your girls.”

“You were bad enough today, Mr. Harker. Half the classes were watching.” Her voice tutted, but the grin showed in her eyes. Jonathan had arrived at the school with the umbrella in one hand and a bouquet in the other. A bundle of her beloved lilies that he’d used as a screen behind which to steal a kiss and drop the announcement of Hawkins’ assignment in her ear. Forgetting her audience, Mina had kissed him back, forgetting to mask herself behind the petals. They had absconded to the cab to the sound of a dozen girls cooing their farewells, Miss Murray, see you tomorrow, Miss Murray, has he got a brother, Miss Murray?

“Hardly a terrible thing. If you are one of their examples, mustn’t they have something to look forward to at the end of all their practice?” He assumed a pose of scheming innocence, lashes batting. “I could be especially nefarious come Valentine’s Day. Take a holiday from Hawkins and show up toting chocolates and train tickets and a florist’s worth of flowers.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“I can hire an orchestra to follow us around. Have them play waltzes the whole day.”

“Jonathan.”

“No, of course, an orchestra would be too cumbersome. A singer and a violin, perhaps. I can hire a paperboy to throw rose petals after us. Or else I could send them up to the classroom to follow you in procession out of the building…”

The typewriter hammered back to life. Its keys were struck with more force than they needed.

“Sorry,” Mina sang above the din, “no hearing you over this. You will have to be a foul minion of Eros a little louder.” Jonathan bit his tongue against a reply. Yes, she was typing again. Yes, she was reading the last of the shorthand. Tap-tap-tap, clack-clack-clack. So far it was all the lines of a love note—a common enough surprise, if one that fished more than the usual dimpled grin out of her tonight—and she had not caught on yet to the conclusion. “How long will the client need you over there?”

“Between the travel to the estate, the stay, and the return trip, the whole thing should be over within early May. I shall have time to hoard you a while before you and Lucy have your summer escape to the coast. Was it Whitby?”

“Yes, quite near the landmark Abbey. I mean to harass the townspeople with demands for any ghost stories they might spare about the place. Perhaps Marmion is but a single drop in a sea of waiting legends.”

Tap-tap-tap.

“Then I shall try to collect what I can abroad in turn,” Jonathan said from behind a fan of notes. He kept only the corner of his eye pinned on the swimming lines. “There should be spirits in abundance along the route.” 

Clack-clack-clack.

“I would think so. But don’t settle for ghosts alone! I shall happily adopt any devils or revenants or folkloric fiends the locals can share—,”

Her voice died mid-key.

Jonathan looked over the top of his pages. Mina sat frozen as a sculpture. Her hands still hovered at the typewriter, lax and immobile. But her eyes were in motion. Flicking back, forward, and back again between Jonathan’s shorthand and the five words they had translated to in plain ink.

Will you marry me, Wilhelmina?

By the time she finally turned her head back to face him, he was already on the floor, swift and silent at her hip. The box sat open in his hand. Set inside was a petite gold band whose stone gleamed like a fleck of starlight.

Mina looked from the ring to its holder with eyes that were already spilling.

“Yes,” Jonathan heard a dozen, a hundred times in the ensuing night. Yes, yes, yes, a thousand, a million times, yes. Between kisses, between tastes, between touches and takings that skirted the furthest edge of propriety between unmarried bodies. Yes.

“We are engaged. We must prepare for the wedding night as one must study ahead of an examination. Isn’t that right, Miss Murray?”

“It is, Mr. Harker.” Then, furtive despite her position over him, she grew a smile both shy and sly. A lure surrounded by the hanging curtain of her hair, “…Can you say it? For practice’s sake.” He did not have to ask her meaning.

“Mina Harker.”

Her teeth bared in a white moon.

“I didn’t quite hear you. Say again?” As she asked, her hand moved. He gasped in the trap of it.

“My pronunciation must be off. How is this?” His own hand moved. Her eyes went wide and dark. “Mina Harker. Mina Harker. Mina Harker.”

More practice unspooled. Harker, husband, wife, I do, I will. Around and around again until their tongues ran dry and they were left folded into the tangle of each other, their last fig leaf still reserved for the nuptial night itself. As midnight rolled past, the storm slipped off with it and left the moon to throw its rays through the edges of the curtains. Mina’s ring trapped its glow on her knuckle. He almost wept to look at it.

Real. This is real. I am awake and this is real. God, God. Thank you.

“Thank you,” he murmured into the top of her head. Her hair massed into a perfect curling cloud under his chin. The cloud tickled there as she lifted her gaze to him.

“For what?”

“You know.”

“If I must say, ‘You’re welcome,’ so must you.” Jonathan held his tongue. “Exactly.” Her hand cupped his cheek as she went on, “I feel much the same. Like a lottery was won and the prize is an unfair gift by dint of how precious it is compared to the recipient. By how that prize refuses to acknowledge their own value. But there is time yet to filter that all down into something better. We will have our vows to smother each other with and neither of us will be able to shush and insist, no, no, I am the luckier one. All while the pews roll their eyes. For tonight I ask that we have a truce. No deprecation, no hoisting onto pedestals. Just for now, we will pretend we each feel equal to the blessing of the other. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Good.” Mina lifted herself high enough to find his lips with hers. “I love you, Jonathan.”

“I love you, Mina.” He mouthed the words to himself long after she had fallen asleep atop his heart. I love you, Mina. I love you, Mina Murray. I love you, Mina Harker. I love you. Thank you.

Jonathan faced the covered window and the sliver of pane visible at the cloth’s edge. He spotted the moon hovering in a split among the breaking rainclouds. As sleep finally found him, he could not shake an unpleasant certainty that he was looking at a great glowing eye. And that it was staring back. 

Jonathan discovered Carfax Abbey on a clear blue day. His immediate impressions of the place ran in quick succession. First, that the location was so precise in its accommodation of Count Dracula’s specifications that it might have been commissioned. Second, that it looked like a place meant only to exist after dark on a sinister moor. This remained true despite the brilliance of spring stubbornly budding along the edge of its high stone fence.

He sent back a late thanks to himself as he’d been that morning, when he had tossed a coin on whether or not to bring the Kodak with him for the day’s hunt. Though the cab would be trusted to take him to the general area, it would be down to more literal footwork to inspect the properties he hoped to survey as far as he could without increasing the fare. Which would not bother him too much if he were going light. He did have a fondness for a run when it could be gotten away with sans pedestrians. But there would be no jogging with the camera to mind. Only a steady trudge.

Yet even that predicted march was trimmed down to a mere amble by dint of the cabman’s suggestion. He had heard out Jonathan’s description of his ideal quarry and first assumed him to be a tourist who’d gotten lost in a search for haunted houses.

“The area hasn’t much in that way, lad. Only place that comes close is old Carfax. Used to be an abbey, but looks more like a hideaway for the Dark Ages’ ghouls.”

“Do you know if it’s for sale?” This had earned him an odd look before the cabman admitted he had seen a sign staked out front that might have claimed the place was available. Supposing one cleared away the accumulated grime.

“I have to wonder if your buyer will bother with such a place. Ghosts can be dealt with, but it has more unsavory living neighbors to deal with.”

“Who are they?”

“Can’t say I know them personally, thank God, but I know for certain they’re perfectly mad.”

“Really?”

“Well, they’d not be in a private madhouse otherwise.”

The cab passed said lunatic asylum en route to the site. Jonathan was happy to note that it was at least a stately building, clearly a former domestic estate that had been expanded into suitable proportions for the inmates and staff. Better still, it was so far from Carfax as to be invisible through the facility’s wall of tended trees even when standing outside the latter’s stonework border.

Seeing the composition of said fence’s rough stones had plucked at Jonathan’s boyhood itch for play. If it were not for the cabman as a witness, he might have clambered his way up and walked along the edge as he’d done around his aunt’s home before he was declared too old for such nonsense. Still musing, Jonathan thanked the man again for the find and paid for the ride, promising another fare if he would return in an hour’s time. The cabman hesitated even after he had taken the first half of the pay.

“You’re certain you’d rather not go up the whole road first? There aren’t many houses, but they’re each of them empty and all far less a stain on the eye than that evil heap of rocks.”

“Do any of the rest have a chapel attached?”

“Don’t believe so. But if your buyer’s so keen on his prayers he ought to make do with a trip to church like the rest of us.”

“I imagine he means to refurbish it for that very purpose.” Jonathan offered a smile. “I’m certain whatever spirits might be lurking will have to clear out once he’s put the place in order.”

“Or torn the bloody thing down,” the cabman muttered not quite under his breath. He huffed and checked his watch. “An hour, you said? Just to wander around the place?”

“To wander here and across the neighboring grounds. I need to take note of the full landscape as well as the estate.” The cabman snorted at this in time with his horse.

“I hope your buyer is paying what you’re worth, lad. Any more on his list and he’d have you mapping out all of Purfleet to be sure it suits his fancy.” When the cab pulled away Jonathan began the photography. As much as he could manage from outside the fence. But then, because there were no witnesses, and because there was no way of opening the gate without ruining the rusted lock, and because it really wouldn’t be a thorough survey of the property without a glimpse of things on the inside of the towering stone walls, Jonathan shouldered his bag and scaled the rock as blithely as a spider.

He landed in the shade under one of the sundry trees that crowded the interior grounds. Jonathan marveled at how the trees’ shadows and that of the hulking abbey combined to hold a permanent dusk in place. So much so that it was a challenge to find any well-lit spots in which to take pictures without losing details. Up close the chapel was no less imposing than the abbey. It stood apart in its overgrown gothic solitude while the abbey puffed itself out with late additions to the structure. Jonathan made a note to reserve some pictures for Mina once he’d set aside an album for the Count. Sadly there was no letting himself indoors without becoming a full intruder, and so he satisfied himself with touring the rest of the land. A tour he was happy to make at a run.

The camera and his bag were set carefully aside with the chapel to manage this—for he must manage it, seeing as the grounds seemed to cover no less than twenty acres—and sent another belated thanks to his morning self for donning more active shoes than his workplace pair. While the place was no forest, it was an easy enough copse to imagine as such. A private patch of woodlands in which he had no one to be mindful of on a trail or blush over as they gawked at him, wondering what his hurry was. Here the exercise even bore fruit in the form of revealing a pond set at the estate’s southern end. A pool clear with spring water and trickling a faint stream through a grate into denser growth beyond the rear gates. Another run and a returning walk ensured this too got its photograph.

It was as he took these pictures that he saw the place even had some refreshment in the way of brambleberries snarling their way along the masonry. They were still some months away from being in season, but the desire to steal a piece of their thorny nest to plant his own shrub gnawed. At least until he reminded himself it would be hopeless with his current lodging. A mint tin of a flat slotted wall-to-wall with the rest of the street. Mina’s was worse still, he knew. When they married, they would pool their funds to find somewhere with a little girdle of a garden around it. Or else they would have window-boxes to grow things for the kitchen. Or both. Just a wedge of greenery to tame and taste for themselves.

 For now, he satisfied himself with adding it to the marital itinerary and took out his notebook to jot the impressions of Carfax Abbey as he had for half a dozen other estates, all of them falling short on one preference or another. Too new, too near to the hub of a city, too compact, too bright, and, most damning, not a single chapel to spare among them. At least, none that were not in use by the general public. He would likely run around for another couple weeks to check on other prospective options, but he held little hope for a finer match than Carfax.

Carfax, Carfax. I wonder…

The notebook was tucked away in exchange first for his watch, which showed he’d somehow burned only twenty minutes, and then a compass. A minor note from the Count had mentioned a desire to have, ‘an open sky with which to see all the night and day, the dusks and dawns, without men’s brick and smoke in their way.’ Jonathan could not fault such a wish and so had brought the compass to see if he might happen upon a house with the view clear for the east’s sunrise and the west’s sunset. The compass revealed he had done even better with the abbey.

‘Carfax.’ Quatre Face. A four-sided house with its walls facing the four cardinal directions. All clear of any rooftops and their belching chimneys. I’m sure it will please you, Count.

The thought sank his joy like a stone. Jonathan looked again at the abbey. Haunted and a relic of dead centuries, true, but a place of dignity and grand dimensions all the same. A voice rose up in him with smiling malice as he stared at it.

You will never have such space. You will never have a home so broad that Mina can have rooms all for herself and more for the daydream of children. You will live close to all the fruits of a metropolis, as near as the gutters themselves, and only ever know what it is to skim them, to borrow them, to daydream without laying your lesser hands on them except to use them for another. You will have neither the sprawling beauty of nature or the boons of modernity. Not for your entire life, Jonathan Harker.

And, because he could not stop the flow once it was running:

She should have found someone better. Someone with more than your scraps to offer.

He ground the heel of his palm against each eye until they dried.

“What would she say?”

Something kind you do not deserve.

Jonathan shook his head and marveled at the paradox that still found its way to nettle him even with the ring on her finger. Perhaps because of it. It was the miserable uncertainty of the hours preceding his examination turned up a hundredfold. Time, experience and evidence all stood in favor of him passing his tests on the professional and romantic fronts, yes, yes, he knew it…

…But what if he didn’t? What if he had somehow fooled himself and Mina and Hawkins and peers and the world itself into thinking he was more than what he was? What if?

What if you stop wallowing and get out before the cab returns?

Jonathan stopped long enough to skip a stone across the pond before following his route back to where he’d clambered over the wall. With half an hour to spare, he began walking at a healthy gait across the spread of land between the abbey and the asylum. If only to say he knew how many paces it was between the properties. One, two, three, four, five…

The pacing turned irregular once he had to cross through the border of trees that stood for a property line between Carfax and its company. Jonathan was stunned to discover there was no proper fence hidden behind the picturesque rows. Only a walled and gated section at the rear of the asylum that suggested an area for outdoor excursion or perhaps a private kitchen garden. He hoped it was the former. Even the insane needed leave to stretch their legs beyond the borders of a cell. As he mulled this, he heard a shout. It sounded like it held the weight of every expletive known to the English tongue and several more beyond it.

Following this was the same livid voice grating seemingly out of thin air, “Idiot! Fool! One damned page and you do this?” Jonathan heard a clatter of hollow things against a wall. “Imbecile!” He stepped fully beyond the wall of trees and saw the voice’s owner pacing back and forth inside a barred window set at the foot of the asylum’s wall.

“Sir? Are you alright?” Jonathan was almost as surprised as the man in the window to realize he had not only spoken, but come closer. There was an instant in which the man tensed. The picture of one who’s realized someone of influence has caught them in a bad moment. Yet upon actually seeing Jonathan and recognizing his lack of import, he relaxed enough to smile. Albeit sourly.

“Apart from this most inconvenient stint of homemaking, courtesy of concerned friend and kin, I am quite fine, young man. Ebullient, ecstatic, elated.” The polite rictus hardened. Jonathan thought queasily of wild dogs. “Apart from the fact that I have lost the last of my stationery to an overfilled glass. My cup runneth over. My cup ruins days of work and turns the remaining space to so much waste. Just look!”

The man thrust something up to the gaps in the bars, stopping just short of throwing the spoiled pinch of paper out onto the grass. For it was spoiled. Jonathan saw the stationery was really little more than a large cut of butcher paper folded and refolded until it made a sort of accordion-book. The whole thing was so waterlogged that Jonathan could barely tell tally marks from letters as the crayon bled together and the pages sagged.

“Ruined,” the man punctuated with what was either a sneer or a sulk. “At best I can try to mash and dry the thing out as a new sheet. But the stuff was already muddy enough to write on and I shall have to reduce myself to the penmanship of an infant with the bluntest marks just to make anything legible. And I had just started to make progress.” He cocked his gaze more fully at Jonathan. His look was one accustomed to giving brisk appraisal. “If you are a journalist, you are quite tardy with your pen. You’ve not even set up your camera’s tripod to record the travesty.”

“I am no journalist, unfortunately,” Jonathan admitted as he unearthed his notebook. “But at least that leaves some of this to work with, if you’re amenable.” Covering the shorthand of the last full page, he showed the man in the window the remaining blank sheets. Not a great many pages left, and certainly not of impressive size considering it was a pocketbook, but it would be a fair amount of writing space for a careful script. The man’s expression did not change, but his eyes brightened.

“I may be. Supposing I know the price at the other end of such a trade.”

“No price, sir. You would do me a kindness in taking it as I shall have to start a fresh one for another project soon. The predecessor would be left unfinished and forgotten in the meantime.”

“Ah, a worse fate than a journalist. An author. How many poor diaries have you left abandoned in their pretty bindings for the sake of a new volume?” The man clicked his tongue through a grin. “I jest, of course. You do not seem the sort to waste what he has.” The grin, still genuine, flattened an increment. Bloodshot eyes gleamed. “I fear I wasted a great deal of what I once thought mine on the other side of these delightful accommodations. Never make such a mistake as mine, young man. Do not doubt for an instant that what you trust today cannot turn on you tomorrow.”

“I won’t, sir.” Jonathan thought of adding that he had lived under that knowledge since the day he attended the funerals which ended his childhood. He swallowed it back. “May I..?” He held the notebook up, his shorthand sheets pinched between thumb and forefinger.

“I would be most grateful.”

Jonathan tore his filled pages neatly out. The remaining clean pages were barely thicker than a pamphlet, but clung sturdily to the little spine. Jonathan knelt low enough to lay it within reach on the grass. He noticed a small dusting of white powder at the window’s edge. A crowd of ants whittled away at the mound.

“Ants,” the man scoffed as he followed Jonathan’s line of sight. “Pitiful company. I had hoped the thaw would bring in something heartier. Flies, ladybugs, perhaps some early butterflies. But the real trouble is keeping them around. Ah, apologies, might you bring it a little closer?” The man raised his forearms into view. “I haven’t the best angle from where I stand.” Jonathan scooped up the notebook and brought it an inch nearer.

The man’s hands were abruptly out through the bars and clapped around Jonathan’s. Tight. Short of hurting, short of breaking, but locked as firmly as a vise. Jonathan tensed without pulling back. Again he thought of wild dogs. Of things that only seemed to be dogs until they closed in. Creatures that chased once they saw something run.

Jonathan was still. The man was still. Grasping Jonathan’s hand and the notebook in a pantomime prayer.

It’s my left hand. Smart enough for that, at least. I can still do my paperwork with the right intact and the other broken. Will the fingers heal in time for Mina to slip the band on? How mortifying to have to explain it all to her. I wonder if the asylum would make up a cast without charging for it…

“There is no need to shake upon it, sir,” Jonathan heard himself say. “The book is yours.” The man regarded him with less of a smile now. His lip still curled, but it seemed only to hold on by sheer will. It dropped entirely with the gust of a sigh.

“The book and a lack of tact, I fear. Even if I were not mad, I would still be a churl.” The hands relaxed and a set of fingers drummed once on the back of Jonathan’s wrist. “Though I suspect you are a soul used to them. I would tell you to be more wary on your way, but it is only a simpleton of a preacher who would bother teaching his flock wariness in a world where they must interact each day with wolves. Though I will advise that it is rather foolish to go around making conversation with confirmed lunatics up close. I am confirmed, you know. The facts are printed and signed all over by professionals. I saw the document myself.” The man’s look floated away from Jonathan and into a distance he couldn’t guess at. “Printed on far finer paper than what we settle for.”

One of the gripping hands came away, leaving only the one folded over the notebook and Jonathan’s palm. They shook. The notebook was collected in the same gesture.

“My thanks,” from the window.

“Quite welcome,” as Jonathan righted himself. He surprised himself with his own steadiness. The rote pitch of the office and a life’s worth of reflex steered his tongue while mind, heart, and stomach rattled where they hid. Because he had to do something with his freed hand rather than clasp it in its brother, he fished out his watch. Only now did a ripple of worry manage to rise to his face.

“Some trouble?”

“I fear I may have lost my ride.”

“You came from the by-road, yes? It hardly sees traffic. If your driver’s gone on without you, go around the front here and see if you cannot bribe our beloved head doctor into lending out the wagon. Just say you have managed to wring a whole quarter of an hour’s worth of nattering from his friend R.M.”

“R.M.?”

“Short for Mr. Rig R. Mortis.” The man chuckled at Jonathan’s look. “Pseudonym, young man. Can hardly have the family being shamed under my real title. He will know who you mean. Though I do hope you manage your ride instead.” With that, the man ducked back from the window and was gone. Jonathan had made it three strides away when the voice called behind him, “Here!” Something small struck the back of Jonathan’s heel. He turned and saw gold winking up at him. A sovereign. “It is not payment. You are merely ensuring the attendant who lost it when I had my last room search never gets it back.”

“Sir—,”

But the window was already abandoned. Jonathan picked the coin up. It was partially obliterated on one end, erasing part of Victoria’s face and the rider on the reverse. This was because the edge had been ground to a sharp edge that nicked his thumb open as he turned it over. Blood smeared Saint George, his steed, and the dragon hissing up at the sword and hooves.

Cold fingers seemed to walk up his spine as he examined it. Shaking the chill away, he tucked the coin in his pocket alongside the notebook’s harvested pages and dashed back the way he’d come. He made it to the waiting cab just as it was pulling up to the gate.

“Well, lad? Is it what your buyer’s after?”

“I believe so.” Jonathan smiled as he said it and held the expression admirably until the cabman turned his gaze back to the road. He gloved his hands despite the balmy weather, sheathing his thumb as it traced the thin impression of the cargo sitting against his breast.

“If you keep up with that you shall tear the whole cheek off,” she said at his shoulder. “You are awake, I promise.”

Jonathan stopped pinching at himself and split his attention between Mina’s face and the clock’s. The magic circle of Roman numbers seemed to shake a phantom head. No, it said, not yet. But soon.

“This is happening, then?” he asked as he turned fully to Mina. Mina, here at the last moment together until mid-May. Mina, wearing the ring he had saved a year for on her finger. Mina, who had clasped and kissed and kept him from collapsing outright in stupefied relief upon the announcement that he had passed his examination, her fiancé now a solicitor. Mina, who held his hand and kept him from floating off through the ceiling and into the sky. “This is really happening? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” Jonathan’s eye traveled to her neck and the glimpse of a cord peeking from her shirt collar. She caught him and spared her free hand to tuck it out of sight. “Just as I am sure you will not fly off with my treasure, you magpie.”

The treasure being Jonathan’s own plain gold band now worn as a necklace. He had been the one to slip it over her head the night before, mesmerized by the soft shine as it landed over her heart. It was done by mostly mutual agreement. Mina wished to hold a scrap of tradition close and leave his hand bare until they reached the chapel. And, though Jonathan suspected this was mere theatre, she said she wished to hold onto it as proof to herself that she was awake and that the engagement was a reality. Besides, it was practical! If he were wearing the cord on his trip, what if he should lose it in any number of countries as he traveled? It was one thing to risk forgetting it at the office or leaving it at home. Quite another to imagine losing it in a hotel in another nation. Even with all this logic at her disposal, Jonathan donned his best moue. Mina covered it with her hand.

“That is unfair.”

“I am not above unscrupulous tactics, Mrs. Harker.”

“Like trying to break me by calling me Mrs. Harker?”

“Possibly.”

“Well, you are foiled. My will is too great.” She brought her hand away to brush a strand of hair from his brow. “There is no need to scheme anyway. You shall have the thing back soon enough.”

Jonathan pretended not to hear the slight tremor at the word ‘soon.’ Yes, it was only a few weeks’ separation. A month at most if there were delays in train or coach. But even in this zenith of excitement, knowing unequivocally that this was where their future began—a future where they were taking their first steps up rather that walking the same flat circle in the dust—it felt strangely like waiting to leap into a chasm. A gorge that required endless paperwork to keep track of, plus what was required for the travel itself. Documentation, letter of credit, passport, polyglot dictionary, and, carefully packed, the first new suit he’d had in three years.

Mina had insisted on his modeling it before packing it away. After, she declared she must send a letter of gratitude to not only Mr. Hawkins, but to the tailor. They would have to see him again about the suit for the wedding. Lucy had already written back in response to Mina’s last letter with the announcement, erupting with insistence that, while she was not the sort of girl to live and die by fashion plates, she wanted to know the very instant she began hunting for a dress.

In the present, however, the only new attire was the coat Jonathan wore. A companion piece Hawkins had insisted join the suit before Jonathan could escape the tape measure. Jonathan’s hand drifted up to one of its pockets now and found it unexpectedly light. Worry spiked for a moment before his mind caught up to what it was he’d been feeling for. He almost laughed. Mina canted her head at him, searching. She never missed even the most minute shift behind his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Only I’ve realized I was so adamant about packing everything for the needs of the trip and the client that I forgot the one item I meant to bring solely for me.”

“Your books?”

“No, the law texts are there. A bit of Dumas as well. But I have forgotten my book.” He offered a bashful smile. “Ours, I mean. For your assignment.”

Her brow furrowed a moment before she recalled, “The journal?”

“Yes. I meant to grab one of the spare pocketbooks from my desk, but it’s not in its place. Maybe I bundled it in the case without thinking.” If not, he could shave out a little of his emergency budget for something en route to the castle. But Mina was beaming at him.

“An ordinary pocketbook might suffice for a clerk, but not a solicitor. Especially not when I’ve held onto this since you turned your back to peruse the dictionaries two months back.” She brought out her reticule as she spoke. From the reticule came a slim leatherbound volume with supple pages made to resist the traitorous smudges and tears of its precursor’s flimsy leaves. The whole thing was tied with a white ribbon that pinned a matching pen to its cover. “All shorthand. Promise?”

“Promise,” Jonathan nodded as he took the book gingerly from her hand. It fit so perfectly in the coat that it failed to even dent cloth. “Though I don’t believe the same applies to the recipes. Which I shall collect in abundance and inflict upon us both once I return. Is there anything specific you want me to bring back?”

“You know my tastes already.”

“Other than the cuisine, I mean.”

“Nothing comes immediately to mind. A good story or two would be nice, but,” again her hand found his face, cupped against the angle of his cheek, “as long as you come back, I will be satisfied.”

“I suppose that can be managed.”

The clock tolled and the call went out to the station. All aboard, come along. Mina’s eyes flicked with brief wonder to the train itself. Locomotives and their railways had been one of her chief interests for as long as Jonathan had known her. She regarded her copy of Bradshaw’s Guide with the same reverence as some did their Bible, to say nothing of the clipped articles she had collected concerning new routes and models being laid out within various countries. In sum, Mina loved the practicality and potential of trains. To her they were proof that their world was not limited by whether or not they could hail a hansom or how far it was willing to take them. But now her smile dimmed.

“It had better bring you back on time,” she said as they walked arm and arm up to his car. “I shall be standing in this very spot with my watch out.”

“I’ll warn the conductor.” Because they were among strangers, she had allowed him to hold her arm rather than the reverse. He gave a gentle squeeze first to her arm, then her hand. The lump of the stone stood out under her glove. “If it runs late, I will simply run ahead.” Her laugh did little to hide the dew in her eyes. It matched the mist in his. Their hands held tight.

In that moment, an absurd impulse leapt up in him. An animal-twitch of fear that went deeper than mere anxiety, deeper than love, deeper than concern of career or separation or wandering in unknown lands. It was the needling of a sense he had no name for. A thing that smelled or heard or tasted some imperceptible sign that bodily and mental awareness refused to acknowledge. It whispered:

Do not go. Do not do this. Go home. Go now. Before it’s too late.

The whisper froze him. Mina appeared to freeze with him. Her eyes reflected a feverish glimmer of his own disquiet. They stood locked in that second like a hart and doe with their ears pricked toward a huntsman’s tread in the wood.

But then they blinked. Mina’s gaze lightened and the uncanny sensation left Jonathan as quickly as it came. Only a shudder of nerves disguised as a portent. Really, he could hardly bow to it even if it had meant anything beyond a hiccough of his own fretting. Fact outweighed fear and the fact was he had a job to do. A job that began here, now, with the release of Mina’s hand so he might grab his other bag from her.

Thus unburdened, Mina abruptly trapped his face between her palms. Jonathan bent down until his mouth met hers. Here was the plush press of her lips on his, feeling so much like a reverie he thought once again that he must be asleep. He would wake any moment and the fantasy would fall away into foam. Now. Now.

“Now, I don’t mean to intrude, but there is a train waiting. I’m afraid you must save the rest of the young man for his return trip.” They both snapped up at once to see the uniformed man at Jonathan’s back. He was eyeing them with a look that spoke of a career forever encumbered with similar scenes. The man peered at Jonathan over his spectacles. “You are boarding?”

“Yes, sir. Apologies.” But an apology not even fractionally meant. He turned back to Mina who now steamed from the neck up as she avoided the gawking of an older couple taking in the show. The wife gestured at the sight of them, muttering something in a tone of mingled mirth and query in her husband’s ear, to which the husband rolled his eyes. Jonathan spared them only a mote of attention. “Mina.” She looked to him. “I love you. I’ll be back soon.”

“I love you, Jonathan. I’ll be right here.”

He found his seat at the window and did not turn his head away from the glass. Not while the train idled. Not while it pulled away in its hiss and puff of turning wheels. Not while Mina stood there waving after him, her feet tugging her forward a few unconscious steps so that she might see his window longer while he craned his head to keep her in view. Only when the station itself was a speck in the distance did he turn back around. Off to the future to lay an invisible track for them both. To collect countries as keepsakes and bring them home on paper like pressed flowers.

Jonathan tried to imagine what he might cross on his travel to and from the castle that would be a worthwhile souvenir. Images of books and baubles were conjured as he traced the edges of his journal. So he went on musing until excitement burned out to exhaustion and the first doze of his trip dragged him down into sleep.

A dream came and went.

He was still on the train, still at his window, but the seat facing his was no longer empty. A face he knew was there. One harvested from the far end of his school days and the nascent career as a clerk. So he believed.

It was a familiar countenance in the way that the sight of a stranger always seen in the same place amounted to vague acquaintance. Known enough to nod at in passing. Jonathan had nodded at this one and been given a nod back in student years. He’d thought of introducing himself once or twice, only for the young man to flush and hurry off like a frightened stray. Jonathan had never quite understood it.

Now here was his anonymous acquaintance again, finally sedate in his seat and hidden in his newspaper. While he was not Jonathan’s senior by more than a year, he looked to be in a more professional state of dress. Pressed and tailored and relaxed in that way men can be when they know they have a wardrobe full of similarly fine ensembles waiting at home. But it was his choice of accessory that gave him away as being on a similar pilgrimage to Jonathan’s. The unoccupied portion of his seat was taken up by the paperwork of a sale, carefully weighted by a discarded hat. His companion spared it no attention, having his gaze pinned on the newspaper open in his hands. It blocked the view of him from the whiskers down. Jonathan was still wondering whether to announce himself when a voice came from behind the newsprint:

“My way goes through Munich. Yours as well?”

“Yes,” Jonathan said. “Though I fear there will be no real stop there. At least, the Count did not pencil a hotel stay in the route.”

“Hm,” his companion nodded. “I suppose he would not gamble it twice. Even if he did set it right the first go around.” The newspaper rustled and the young man’s eyes finally lifted above the print to find Jonathan’s. They were bottle glass-bright. “What all have you packed?”

“Necessities, mainly. Everything for the sale, some changes for the overnight stays and—,”

“And what haven’t you packed?”

“I…” His hand traveled again to his chest. “Mina saved me at the station. I forgot a notebook, but she had one ready. I should be fine.”

“No. You are still missing something. Rather, I expect you will be missing it quite soon.” There was a sigh behind the paper. “All that practice and you go and leave the damned thing under your bed.”

Jonathan straightened in his seat. His right hand clamped reflexively, as if palm and fingers were dreaming of a hardwood handle. 

“I’m not going to the jungle.”

“There are worse things than animals to worry about. If you cannot cut them down, what will be left to you?” Another page turned. The bottle glass eyes slid to look out the window. Jonathan followed his gaze and saw that the world had gone black and white under a skull-faced moon. “But then, you might make do without the steel. You handled the worst of our schoolmates well enough back then without even raising your voice. Whatever you may lack as a full-blooded Englishman you make up for in softer stuff. Enough that one or two of the lads confessed over drinks that they wished you were a girl. I was not one of them. You gave me trouble enough as a boy. 

“All that said, you have skills that will help. Appealing attributes. Ones I could have used myself.” The unblinking eyes slid back to Jonathan. It was a greyer stare now. Almost filmy. “I had nothing to sell. Neither in English property or my personal wares, so to speak. I could not even muster charm enough to be worth an extra hour’s chat.” Jonathan watched his companion’s hands crumple the paper in two fists. He saw for the first time that those hands were red. They left dry maroon stains across the gazette. “Who is waiting for you, Jonathan Harker? Who at home? Your Mina, old Hawkins, and who else? Any names come to mind?

“Of those friends, are there any who will know to worry when it goes wrong? Anyone to ask questions? To watch the calendar and the post and wonder how you are? Because I thought I did. I even knew the difference between friends and amiable acquaintances, unlike you. Fellows in and out of my firm. Even a girl who understood my needs and was willing to play her part. They all said they expected letters from me. Said they’d be on watch if I was not back within half a month. That was a year ago. And still they do not know where I am. Nor have they cared enough to look.

“But you would have, I think. If I had ever gotten over my cowardice. If I hadn’t wasted boyhood cringing, so afraid I would give myself away. If I had not made a ghost of myself rather than a friend. I was so proud of myself for not daring at the time—I fear I would have made a wretched scene when I first realized you and the pretty schoolmistress were serious. Instead I took my wine and my pain in silence. Told myself how wise I had been not to try. Ha.” Jonathan watched pallid lips peel open on a smile glazed pink with bleeding. Red rivulets trailed out between the young man’s teeth and into the trimmed beard. “Not that it would have mattered in the end. If we had been friends, if we had been more, if we had been anything at all, there wouldn’t have been much for you to find.”

Jonathan leaned forward. It took an effort. A growing stench was starting to waft from the opposite seat. The stink of copper and rot.

“Please, just tell me what this is. Tell me how to help. What’s happened?”

His companion’s grisly smile wilted. The bottle glass eyes ran like his mouth.

“What’s happened is you have climbed onto the same train I took. You will ride on plenty more. The same coaches too. Perhaps that will help. They never caught on to the truth of things when it was me. After all, he does have work to do, being what he is. People must have made it to and from that place before in official capacity. They must have thought it would be the same for imported goods. Hopefully they will know better now. But then, so will he. Soon all you will have to rely on is yourself. Use what you have. All that you have. Play the game as best you can. As long as you can.” Red tears and dribble flowed in a thickening cascade. “I could not last a week and so lost everything. Or nearly so. I am restless, true, but it could have been worse. Much worse.”

“I don’t understand,” Jonathan almost rasped. Fear choked him like a noose.

“I know. And I am very, very sorry to say that you will.” His companion sighed, releasing a crimson haze of spittle into the air. “Well. This is all I can manage as I am. I suppose I shall not need this anymore. Here.” The newspaper was shut and held out for Jonathan to take. “Somewhat out of date, but well worth the read.”

 Jonathan spared barely a mote of attention for it. There was no headline or story that he could make out. Only a flash of what looked like the stanzas of a poem, though he couldn’t say for certain. He was too gripped by the sight of the young man below the neck. Seeing the fullness of it hooked something in Jonathan’s stomach and drew it up to the very edge of his teeth. He wasn’t sure if it was his breakfast or a scream.

That was when the hand fell on his shoulder.

Cold. Just as cold as the lips now pressed at the side of his neck.

Whatever sound he might have made was cut off as something sharp drove into his throat and the train went as dark as the world beyond it.

“Sir?” Jonathan fell against his seat as if thrown. The uniformed man started back himself, taking his hand away from Jonathan’s shoulder as he did. “We’re coming to the station soon. Can’t have you sleeping through your stop.”

“No. No, of course. Thank you. Sorry.” The man glanced at Jonathan’s lap with a look possessed by every father who has ever known better than his progeny.

“You could pick lighter reading to nod off on. You’re only setting yourself up for sour dreaming if that’s what you skim beforehand.” He didn’t loiter long enough to explain what he meant. Jonathan looked down.

He had picked a gazette to stuff into his things before he and Mina reached the platform. He’d had an idea that he was reserving his books for the far end of his travel and so would make do with some final updates from his native soil. At some point he had turned all the way to the obituaries. His hand rested on one describing the tragic loss of a young man at sea. A sailor fallen overboard in a storm, presumed dead.

They could be wrong, Jonathan thought with sudden desperation. Perhaps he lived. He made it safely to an island or some distant beach. They could find him alive and well. Couldn’t they?

The newspaper was shut, folded over twice, and tucked back in his luggage. Jonathan did not touch it again until he left the final station that spat him out by the shore, feeding it to the first wastebin he saw. He almost laughed to himself when it came time to board the ship. It would be May by the time he cracked open the journal and wrote anything of interest.

“I shall do better on the return trip,” he promised the naked pages. “I’ll record a view of the sunrise on the water, I swear.” And he meant it. But for this first voyage across the water, Jonathan stayed shut in his room. If he dreamt of a black tide coming up to swallow him, he was happy to wake without recalling it. 

[catbatart]

CW: Pet death

Phoebus took a dramatic turn for the worse the past two days. He cannot keep food down even with the anti-nausea meds, which is a sign that the lymphoma has gotten really bad. He's lost a significant amount of weight and is clearly in immense discomfort. We're making the gut-wrenching decision to say goodbye to him today. We're working with Lap of Love to do at-home Euthanasia in about 5 hours, and we've both been crying all morning and all last night. Even then, he chose to cuddle on the bed with us rather than hide.

Grief is exhausting. It's been whittling away at me since last December when he was first diagnosed, but it's really coming to a head. I haven't slept more than a couple hours in the past 3 days and my head is pounding from how hard I've been sobbing. To the folks who have bought stuff off my etsy this past week- you have been so helpful. I wish the funds could go to getting him tasty treats, but they will still be put to amazingly good use in helping us cover his after-life care. We'll be getting him cremated so we can keep his ashes in our family room where he can hang out with people.

Phoebus has always been a little celebrity everywhere he goes. When we got him neutered as a kitten, the nurses were all over him. Even this year, his whole oncology department at the vet knows him and adores him.

The world is going to be a little less bright without him in it.